“Bryce Winters! From Sigma Chi? The creep who made out with one of his brothers’ girlfriends at formal and then tried to say it was a ‘fraternal misunderstanding’?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about—obviously—and it shows.
Maverick jumps in to save me with a bark of laughter. “Chelsea dumped him so fuckin’ fast his head spun.”
“Bryce was the absolute worst!”
The woman beams. “IknewI remembered you! God, Ilovethat you’re here. You have to do a shot with me. It’s tradition!”
Evy drags me to the bar and orders three tequila shots. I try to subtly remind my liver that it’s on vacation. Then I down the shot and smile like someone who isn’t actively making life choices they’ll regret tomorrow.
We dance. Hard.
Turns out, Evy is a wild flailer—arms everywhere, hair flying out of its once perfect chignon, heels be damned. She grabs other relatives into our makeshift circle until we’re surrounded by aunts, uncles, and one groomsman, who keeps yelling “Woooooo!” at the top of his lungs.
At some point, I lose track of the beat. Lose track of how many shots we’ve had (hint: too many). Lose track of how many times I’ve laughed so hard my cheeks hurt.
The music slows. A classic wedding slow-dance ballad begins—and Maverick? He’s in front of me, champagne glass now empty, top buttons on his shirt undone. Hair slightly damp from dancing. A lazy, satisfied grin on his face.
“C’mere,” he says, curling two fingers and crooking them in my direction.
“You want to slow dance?”
“I want to do more than slow dance,” he says lazily.
His words land like a punch to the gut when he puts his hand on my arms and pulls me in, sliding his big, rough hand around my waist.
“Oh really?” I ask, heart beating out of my chest. “Like what?”
You know what he means, Annabelle ...
Maverick dips his head, lips brushing the tip of my ear. “I’ve been thinkin’ about how easy it would be to slide the straps of that dress down. About backing you into the nearest dark corner and making you moan my name.”
My breath catches in my throat. He keeps going, slower now, the words silky and wicked and so damn quiet only I can hear.
Like a dirty secret.
“Wondering if you’re still wearing those tiny little shorts you had on last night or if I could slip my hand under your dress right now and feel how wet you are for me.”
My knees wobble. He tightens his grip just enough to keep me upright, swaying us gently to the beat.
“And if I led you out of here—disappeared with you back to the cottage—how long would it take before you were up against the wall, legs around my waist,beggingme to fuck you.”
Oh Lord . . .
Well then.
“Ye kenI could make ye come from my mouth on yer neck?”
Oh.Oh.
I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat and groan, “Stop.”
“Why?” he murmurs. “Ye love it when I talk like this, don’t ye,mo chridhe?”
My heart slams against my ribs. I have no idea whatmo chridhemeans, but I’m certain it’s sweet. Which is bad.
Bad, bad, bad!
