The world narrows to sensation and sound and her.
My muscles lock, head thrown back as the release tears through me, blinding and explosive as I come in her mouth. Her hands anchor my thighs.
Her throat takes everything I have left.
Then I go limp, body trembling. “Holy ...”
I can’t even finish the sentence.
Annabelle looks up at me, that same wicked spark in her eyes that she had when she was blowing me, satisfied with the wreckage she’s left me in: a pile of useless flesh.
I reach for her, needing her close. “Get up here.”
She crawls into my lap, smug and soft and warm, and kisses me like she’s sealing a secret between us.
“Having a wife is so cool.”
Chapter 23
Annabelle
Steam curls from the bathroom as I towel dry my hair, the apartment blessedly quiet now that Maverick has gone to meet with his agent.
Lucy is still unavailable, and it’s been impossible coordinating even the slightest meet-up with her. Coffee, tea. Lunch. It’s been frustrating, to say the least, but hey, I get it; she’s essentially in the same situation I’m in, minus the wedding part, blissfully spending every waking minute with Harris before she has to hop on a plane home.
I have Maverick’s place to myself, which means: no rush to get dressed after my shower, no rush to do my hair and get cute, no rush to do anything. I can walk around in a robe if I want to and not get dressed. Three slices of avocado toast?
Don’t mind if I do!
The TV hums in the background above the living room fireplace—a sports highlight reel I’m only vaguely paying attention to as I bite down into my toast, savoring the salt and sweet and the sound of the crunchy, crusty crust. I take it along with me and pad barefoot to the sink for water when a sentence about us stops me short:
“—NFL linebacker Maverick McBride was spotted earlier this week leaving a Scottsdale brunch spot with his rumored wife—”
I freeze, one hand still on the cabinet handle.
Rumored wife.
Yup, that’s me.
The screen flashes a photo—me, in Maverick’s Arizona hoodie, Birks, my favorite sunglasses, walking next to him as he shields my body with his to avoid candids like this.
It’s blurry, and, honestly?
We look ... good. Like we belong together.
Like a real couple.
We do not look like two people who recently met and accidentally drunk tied the knot during someone else’s wedding reception, with Cousin Pastor Dan as the officiant.
Phew, that was a mouthful.
I would laugh, but suddenly it doesn’t seem so funny.
Water glass clutched in my hand, my eyes stay glued to the TV.
“—though no legal records have surfaced confirming a marriage license, sources close to McBride say the two are ‘exploring their relationship privately.’”
“Sources?” I ask the television. “What sources say we’re exploring?” Exploring.Hmpf.“Guess that’s one word for it.”
