Page 30 of Maverick (The Bull Riders #3)

And I can see that it’s killing him too.

But what I can see so clearly in him, and see it as foolish, is so much more difficult to deal with it myself, so I know that nothing I say to him is ever going to change anything.

I’m just Stella. I’m just some girl he’s sleeping with.

It’s not going to fix this yawning hole inside of him. Unless he lets me.

And I don’t know why he would.

But he is eating the dinner that I made him. That’s its own kind of wonderful.

He’s talking to me. He shared with me. I’m going to take that.

“I think I’m going to grab a workout before my shower.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You can come down if you want.”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

He takes the dinner dishes into the kitchen, and goes upstairs to change into his athletic shorts. I go to my room to get on a sports bra and a pair of bike shorts. I’ve also stashed condoms down in the gym.

My body gets hot when I think of that. I go down the stairs and into the basement, and he’s already there, lifting weights. And my gaze is completely stuck on the way his biceps flex, the way his chest moves as he lifts the barbell up and down.

“Stop staring, and find something to do.”

I love when his voice gets commanding like that.

“I dunno. I feel like I did enough today. Maybe this will just be my dessert.”

“Stella,” he says, his voice a warning tone. “I’m busy. Be a good girl and do something.”

I smirk as I go to the corner and grab some tension bands. I don’t intend to work out. I’m going to seduce this man. This man who doesn’t think he’s good enough. This man who is more than good enough.

This man who is rapidly becoming part of my life in a way that matters more than I can say.

He moves to a mat on the floor and starts doing sit-ups.

And I don’t even pretend to work out, because I’m too busy watching his ab muscles.

The shift and bunch, the way his whole body tenses and releases with every movement.

He’s a work of art. Sculpted almost as if from stone.

Hard and hot and glorious, and I’ve had my hands all over him.

It’s miraculous, honestly. That he’s been mine for two weeks now.

That I have six more weeks left with him.

I try not to think of that. Try not to think about the guillotine falling. Because I just don’t want to. Because I want to live in this space for as long as possible. It can be two months, but can it just slow down? It doesn’t have to be forever, but can it just pass by a little less quickly?

He lies on his back, breathing hard, and I push my bike shorts down my legs, grab the condom that I stashed in the gym, and walk over to him.

He looks to the side and catches a full view of me just as I move to straddle him, coming down on top of him, on his rock-hard stomach.

I smile, press my palms to his shoulders.

“I feel like having another kind of workout entirely.”

“You’re being a very bad girl tonight,” he says.

“Maybe. But I made you dinner. So I think you need to be nice to me.”

He chuckles, then reaches up and grabs the back of my hair. “Do you think you’re in charge here?”

I start to breathe faster, my heartbeat is erratic. “I…”

“Answer me,” he says. “Do you think you’re in charge?”

Something wicked overtakes me, and I shift my hips backward, bringing myself over the top of his rock-hard cock. “There’s definitely part of you that thinks I might be in charge.”

“Dangerous game, little girl,” he says.

He flips me over so that I’m on my back, he’s over the top of me. The move is so seamless that I’m shocked by it. “Who’s in charge now?”

I flex my hips upward. “Still me. Unless…” I wiggle away from him, and stand up, beginning to walk away. “If you can let me go, then maybe I’ll believe you’re still in charge, big man.”

He grabs me around the waist, pulls me up against that sweaty chest, and lifts me up off the ground. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he kisses me.

Hard.

He carries me like that, back up against the wall, presses me hard against it. It reminds me of the times we’ve been together in the shower, but there’s no spray of water washing away all the pheromones. I’ve got them all, right now. He’s feral. So am I.

And it’s pretty damn delicious.

He grabs hold of my sports bra, pulls it up over my head, and I practically dislocate my shoulder blade helping him get it off of me.

Then I’m naked, and he’s not, but I really don’t mind.

He carries me over to the weightlifting bench, and wraps his arm around my waist, peeling me away from him as he lifts me down onto the bench, my stomach across it, ass facing him, legs dangling down to the floor. “Now I like that,” he says. “You still got that condom?”

His voice is strained, hard. I can see that he’s doing his best to show some restraint. I really don’t need him to.

I reach back, arm pinned to my lower back, condom clutched between my thumb and forefinger.

I can’t see what he’s doing. But I hear him tear the condom open.

Then he presses his large hand over the top of my wrist, pinning it there to my spine as he gets down on his knees behind me.

I feel the blunt head of his cock up against where I’m slick and ready for him. “Oh, yes,” I whimper.

“ Fuck . Stella,” he groans as he thrusts deep inside of me. I see stars. I see whole planets. Everything is awash in glory.

And if I’m made and unmade a hundred times during the course of this, I’ll find a new way to be every time. Because it’ll be worth it.

It will be worth it to have been with him like this.

He claims me, over and over again, his cock going impossibly deep in this position.

I’m pinned to the bench, draped over the top of it, and he is ruthless as he pounds into me.

But I barely feel the edge of the bench pressing into my stomach, or the other edge caught beneath my breasts where I dangle over it.

It’s all just pleasure. It’s all just wonderful.

It’s all him.

He’s over me, in me, and it’s incredible.

When I cry out his name, it’s like a prayer, as I come hard around him. As he growls and slams himself into me, my name on his lips as he finds his pleasure.

And I’m desperate. Desperate to know what about this is unique for him, because it’s completely unique for me.

Completely new. Because he’s special, singular, and he always will be.

But I… I won’t be for him. He’s just going to forget me.

I’ll be one of however many girls he’s fucked down in his gym.

I’ll be one in a long line. I guess maybe the first one he was with after all that grief, but still, it’s bound to get blurry.

That shouldn’t hurt the way that it does. It shouldn’t hurt at all. Because it’s supposed to just be sex, and that’s supposed to just be fine. But it all feels so big. It’s just…

It’s just the new thing. It’s just an obsession. Like learning to cook. Like learning to barrel race. Like dressage for a sweet minute. He’s the nose piercing that I won’t keep, and the impulsive attempt at being a show jumper that I never felt the urge to try again.

I just have to remember that. The intensity of it all will pass. This is nothing more than a moment, and I’m no stranger to these sorts of moments.

It will pass.

But right now, he’s still inside of me, his palm against my back, and I’m sweaty, and he’s sweaty against me.

It’s so raw. Visceral.

Then he moves away from me on a grunt, and disappears into the bathroom. I stand up, and look around the gym. I take in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I think I’m going to call that good on the workout,” he says.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

“See you tomorrow morning.”

He doesn’t invite me to shower with him, and he doesn’t even wait for me to get dressed. And that’s fine. It’s actually in line with how we do this. We don’t cuddle after. We don’t sleep together. I put myself out there…

But then, why would he feel like this was me putting myself out there?

This is really what we do every day. Maybe not in here, but we have sex, and then we go our separate ways for the rest of the evening.

I made him dinner, I’m feeling some things, but it’s not up to him to have a different feeling just because I do.

No. Of course it’s not.

This is me being… Stella. A little bit too much. Too flighty. Following my big emotions wherever they take me. This is what got me into that poker game in the first place. It’s what got me enmeshed with him.

I’m the one who needs to settle down.

What we have is good. I don’t need to overthink it.

Too bad overthinking is a specialty of mine. Unless I’m underthinking.

There’s no happy medium.

I feel like maybe that’s what he and I both struggle with.

And I’m really not the one to help him with it.