Page 97 of Boss of Me

As he releases the spoon from his mouth, my eyes slip downward to the broad expanse of his chest, then further down to the silky fabric of his pants stretched across his thick thighs. My mouth goes dry and I swallow hard.

When he whispers my name, I lift my gaze to his.

The deep, hypnotic blue of his eyes has me swaying toward him before I even realize it.

He meets me halfway, our lips connecting in a kiss so sweetly perfect I think my heart will burst.

It’s like something out of a movie, but ten times better.

Fade to black and roll credits . . .

Chapter Twenty-Two

gunner

Irace to the corner of the racquetball court, running down the ball that my brother just hit. Swinging my racquet, I hit a kill shot to end the rally.

“Fuck!” Maverick yells in frustration.

I grin, pointing my racquet at him. “I own you, son.”

He scowls and flips me off.

Chuckling, I pick up the rolling blue ball and toss it to him. “Your serve.”

He wipes sweat from his brow and then smashes the ball with his racquet. It bounces on the floor and ricochets off the back wall before rocketing toward me.

I smack the ball hard and high, sending it hurtling into the front wall.

Maverick misses the return shot and unleashes a string of obscenities that make me laugh.

It’s Thursday afternoon and we’re halfway through the third game of our racquetball match. We play against each other oncea week, sometimes more depending on our schedules. It’s a great way to clear our heads, burn off steam and keep the adrenaline pumping during a busy workday. We also enjoy kicking each other’s asses, a time-honored tradition dating back to childhood.

No matter what game we were playing, no matter how high or low the stakes, we always tried our best to dominate each other. We were so fiercely competitive that we often ended up rolling on the ground throwing punches until our father intervened. Torn between laughter and exasperation, he’d pry us apart and make us shake hands. Within five minutes, we’d be laughing and joking again, arms slung around each other’s necks.

Nothing can ever destroy the unbreakable bond we forged in our mother’s womb. But we both hate to lose and we’re so evenly matched that even now, as grown men, a friendly game of racquetball can turn into bloodsport.

Maverick bounces the ball on the hardwood floor, catching his breath. “So how’re things going at the love nest?”

“They’re good. C’mon, let’s fucking go.”

We rally back and forth, driving the ball off the front wall and down the sides, sweating and grunting with every shot.

“I’ve been thinking about that night at the bar,” Maverick pants as we wrestle for control of center court.

I backhand the ball. “What night?”

“The night you met Marlowe.” His explosive shot thwacks into the side wall.

“Whataboutthat night?” I grit out.

He grins. “She would’ve been mine if I’d gotten there first.”

My racquet swishes through the air, missing the ball by a mile.

Maverick does a fist pump and laughs.

I glare at him. “Bitch ass.”