“Your hair is longer,” I say, nuzzling in closer to him.
He stretches his arms overhead before swiftly pulling me up to straddle him. “It’s been a busy few days. I haven’t had a chance to go get it cut.”
“What do you mean ‘go get it cut?’”
“The place I go to is over in Holly, and it’s only like fifteen minutes, but like I said—” He runs his large palms up the sides of my legs until his thumbs land on my hip bones. “I’ve been busy.” He looks at where I’m sitting on his lap, positioning himself and rolling my hips over his growing erection.
“Mav!” I swat at his arm, climbing off of him and he sits up, following me. “You mean to tell me you go somewhere to get your hair cut?”
“Yes?” His brows pinch together in the middle.
“You shave your head!” I throw an arm out and he runs his hand over the top of his hair.
“Come on,” I say, reaching for him. “I’ll cut your hair.”
I barely get a grip on his arm before he tugs me back, and Ifall on top of him again. A laugh bursts from me as I try to push up but his lips are already on my skin. He places a kiss along my jaw, down my neck, and on my collarbone. His fingers slip into my hair, tugging gently at the nape of my neck, and the giggle dies in my throat. Replaced by a shiver that racks my entire body.
He pauses just long enough to grin and take in my reaction, but I just swat at his chest with a playful roll of my eyes.
After hunting down clippers from Silas, I drag Maverick to his bathroom, which just like the rest of him and his room—is impeccable. The counters and mirrors are spotless, his stand-up shower is wiped down, fresh towels hang from the metal hooks on the wall, and there’s even a dark green fluffy rug beside the vanity. The perfect place for him to kneel.
“Get on your knees,” I say.
“Yes, baby.”
Clippers in one hand, I reach for his shoulder with the other, but there’s no need to guide him. He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he lowers himself to the floor.
His thick fingers trail along the length of my calf, barley there, but it’s enough to make my nipples pebble. The shirt he gave me last night hangs loose, brushing my mid thigh as his touch moves higher, slipping up beneath the hem, until he finds the round globes of my ass. He groans softly, pressing his forehead to my stomach, all while never letting go of me.
I inhale, letting the weight of the clippers in my hand remind me what we’re doing here in the first place.
He stays where he is, hands still wrapped around my legs, and eyes trained on mine as I lift the clippers. The razor hums to life and I guide it carefully over his head. Hairs so small they’re almost invisible fall away, scattering on his bare shoulders and the tiled floor. I go to lift the clippers for another pass but stop.
The way he’s looking at me is overwhelming. It’s as if I can feel the trust in his gaze, the quiet adoration, like there'ssomething solid between us. If I thought waking up in bed with him felt domestic, this feels intimate in a way that makes my knees week. This no longer feels like just a hair cut, but something else entirely, and whatever worries I woke up with feel like a distant memory.
When I’m done, he turns on the shower, checking the temperature before stepping in. I lean against the counter, watching him slide off what little clothes he was wearing and step in.
“You coming?” His mouth turns up into a cocky grin, and I squeeze my legs together at the double entendre.
“Not yet,” I say, stepping closer. “But I hope to be soon.”
I don’t even have time to lift my shirt over my head before his hand reaches out, tugging me into the shower with him. Warm water sprays over us as his mouth roams my body, and he doesn’t stop until we’re both panting against the wall, needing to rinse off again.
He grabs a towel and wraps it around me before guiding us back to his bedroom. I follow him barefoot to his dresser when he opens the drawer and pulls out a T-shirt, but I don’t take it.
Instead, my breath stutters as my mouth falls open, and I lean forward, fingers reaching for the small slip of paper on the dresser.
Everything on the dresser is just as meticulous as his room. His single bottle of cologne, his fancy black watch laid perfectly straight, the polaroid photo Savannah took of the two of us while camping, and laid perfectly flat, as if it had been pressed in a book…a fortune cookie slip.
My finger trails it, and when I look up, Maverick scratches his fingers along the back of his neck.
“I thought you didn’t believe in fortune cookies?” I ask, picking the paper up.
He leans his back against the dresser, eyes never leaving mine. “I didn’t believe in a lot of things before you.”
I let out a quiet breath. “You said the day you were jealous of Nathan would be the day you believed in them.”
“I am.”
