A sexy guy with a fashionable mullet and hand tattoos calls out a question, but Maverick is starting to rub up against me, and there’s a sense of urgency about him.
“You okay?” I ask, low enough so only he can hear.
“You ever get horny after a really dangerous situation on the force?”
I stifle a grin. “Sometimes.”
“So, the fact that I want you to fuck me into my mattress?” he whispers back, pivoting us back toward the foyer. “Totally normal?”
I look over my shoulder at the cousins, who seem confused, but go with it. He leads us to a long hallway off to the right of the elevators. It looks like a high-end hotel, with expensive-looking wood floors and a series of gorgeous, plush rugs. Half a dozen doorways dot the walls, each slightly inset with ornate framework. Each door feels like it leads into a distinct space.
“Darling,” I answer, kissing the side of his head, “I don’t care if it’s normal. If that’s what you want, that’s what I’m going to do.”
Footsteps follow us into the hallway, but Maverick continues down to the last door on the left. He opens it, pausing to send me a worried look.
“Shit. Everything just changed for you, didn’t it?” He brings his hands to his eyes, shaking his head. “Tell me we didn’t ruin your entire life.”
I hold up my hands. “I can’t think about it right now. I just… I need you.”
“Maverick? Are you really not going to talk to us?” Maya asks, a much, much larger cousin looming behind her.
I also vaguely remember him from summer camp. I think he’s named after a tree, maybe.
Oakley.
Maverick opens the door and ushers me in before turning to her. “Doesn’t feel great when the shoe is on the other foot, does it?” he asks lightly.
If we weren’t both horny as fuck, I’d probably recommend he stop and listen to what she has to say. But now that I’ve gotten to know the man better, I know he needs to process, and the conversation with his family needs to happen…after.
Maverick softly closes the door and turns to face me. I can’t help but smile.
“In the middle of everything, you’re smiling at me?”
Moving his hair out of the way, I lean in, speaking low into his ear. “I need you to clean your ass out for me. I plan on living up there for the next several hours.”
Gesturing awkwardly, he points to his bathroom, and I dip my chin.
The cousins aren’t the only ones who are due a conversation, and we’ll get there, but not right now.
Pulling back his hair, he makes his way into the bathroom with a little bounce in his step. He spends a little more time here than he did in my apartment, and it gives me a chance to take in the room.
Maverick is a maximalist and a genius. Or a mad scientist.
He’s definitely an artist. I don’t know how many ways in which this man can blow me away with his talents, but this is a new one.
While it is one big room, there are several distinct microclimates. His bed is against the far wall on a platform, surrounded by twinkle lights, the effect like a mini loft. His bedding is a cacophony of quilts and pillows, many of which look like they’re made from repurposed sari material.
His color theory is stunning. The walls, or at least the visible parts, are a deep peacock blue, and the couch in his sitting area is a deep golden, almost mustard, color, reflected in several elements around the room, the two main colors gorgeously complementary.
He’s got a big, angled desk mostly lit by the oversized windows, perfect for the dozens of projects he has somewhat neatly stacked in the floor-to-ceiling built-ins. It reminds me of the time there was a theft of an art piece at the Blanton Museum,and I was allowed behind the scenes, where all the art that isn’t currently on display is stored.
For Maverick, the act of storing art is in itself an art, and my curiosity gets the better of me. Each built-in cubby is a wonder of color and technique. It’s not just that he works with a wide range of materials. It’s that he works with every kind of material. Multimedia doesn’t begin to cover it. More like omni media.
Paints, charcoal, crayons, butcher paper in every color of the rainbow, brushes, scissors, yarn, more of that sari-type material that covers his bedding, various looms and frames that I can’t even begin to identify.
While it’s tempting to call this a cacophony, there’s a mad sort of flow to it. Next to this stunning wall of materials is a filing system for some of his larger unfinished works. Careful, I thumb through them, and every project deepens my respect and understanding of him.
I can’t wait to make art with him.
