Page 18 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Rumor has it, someone was screaming from their apartment.

Maverick

There are twelve IOUs on the floor.

One in her cleavage.

Two tucked into the waistband of her underwear.

And one clenched between her teeth like she’s posing for a very specific kind of mugshot.

“You’re insane,” I mutter, reaching for a marker.

Ainsley grins around the card. “You started it.”

I swipe a new card off the floor, cap my marker with my teeth, and scrawl her name across it. “I warned you.”

“You also said ‘don’t move.’” She raises a brow, wiggling just enough to make her point—and maybe flash me again on purpose. “But then you licked my thigh like I was the last popsicle in a heatwave, so…”

I grab her ankle and drag her closer, across the poker table, ignoring her squeal as the cards scatter like confetti. “You didn’t follow instructions.”

“I’m a free spirit.”

“You’re a menace.”

She lifts a hand like she’s taking an oath. “A sexy, misunderstood menace.”

I press the latest IOU to her forehead. “You owe me for making me use my last marker. That was my limited-edition matte black fine point.”

“Not my fault your handwriting gets unholy when you’re turned on.”

I narrow my eyes. “Keep talking, and I’ll double it.”

She stretches out like she’s daring me to.

Arms over her head, toes pointed, every inch of her a challenge I have no intention of refusing. The IOU slips from between her teeth and flutters to the table. She doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, she tilts her head, all smug confidence and exposed skin. “Double it, coward.”

I move slowly on purpose. Sliding my hand up her thigh, over the warm curve of her hip, fingers hooking just under the waistband of her underwear. I don’t pull—yet. I just rest there. Teasing. Threatening.

“Say that again,” I murmur, tracing lazy circles over her skin.

“Coward,” she whispers, smug as hell.

So I yank.

Hard enough to make her gasp, not hard enough to tear. Yet.

Her eyes flare wide, mouth open like she’s about to say something smart—and I shut her up with my mouth.

It’s not gentle. It never is with us. It’s heat, friction, and teeth. She tastes like sin and satisfaction. Like she knows she’s already won, even while I’ve got her pinned under my weight.

Her hands tangle in my shirt, yanking it over my head with zero grace.

She grabs one from the table and sticks it to my chest.

“Penalty,” she mutters, breathless. “For thinking you were in charge.”

“Oh, baby.” I catch both her wrists and pin them above her head with one hand, my body pressing her into the cushions. “You really want to test me tonight?”

“Depends,” she pants. “You gonna punish me or make me beg?”

I lean in until my lips brush hers, then lower—jaw, throat, the soft swell of her chest. “Both.”

I take my time.

I let her squirm.

My mouth drags over her skin like I’m branding her with every kiss, every bite. She arches, breath hitching when I nip just below her ribs, then I soothe the sting with my tongue.

“You’re stalling,” she breathes.

“No,” I murmur, lips against her navel. “I’m savoring.”

Her hands twist in the throw pillow behind her head. Her back lifts, legs shifting like she’s trying to find something to brace against.

“You’re relentless,” she breathes.

“And you love it.”

She doesn’t deny it. Just moans.

And when I kiss her again, lower this time—soft and slow and deliberate—she gasps like it’s a confession.

I smile against her skin.

She’s unraveling.

And I’m just getting started.

Her thighs tense when I lower myself between them, hands braced on either side of her hips like I’m worshiping at an altar I built myself. I press a kiss to the inside of her knee—gentle, almost reverent—then trail another down the soft line of her thigh. She squirms, already impatient.

“I’m still waiting for a thank-you,” I murmur against her skin.

“For what?” she pants.

“For letting you survive round one.”

She laughs—breathless, wrecked—and then gasps when I nudge her legs wider and settle between them like I belong there.

Because I do.

Another kiss. Higher now. Her breath stutters.

Then my tongue traces the edge of her lace underwear, slow and deliberate, until she’s shifting restlessly, trying to get me where she wants me.

“Say please,” I whisper, mouthing over the fabric.

“You’re evil.”

“Please,” I remind her, nipping the waistband with my teeth.

She grits it out. “Please.”

So I slide the lace down, past her hips, slow enough to make her curse under her breath. And then I press my mouth to her—hot and open and hungry—and she falls apart instantly.

Her back arches, fingers digging into the cushions. I wrap an arm under her thigh, anchoring her as my tongue sweeps through her—firm, purposeful, unrelenting. She gasps again, louder this time, hips bucking into my mouth.

I hold her steady.

I take my time.

I learn every reaction, every stutter of her breath, every broken sound she tries to muffle.

Because this? This is mine.

Her pleasure. Her surrender. The way she chants my name like it’s a lifeline.

Mine.

And I’m not stopping until she remembers it with every part of her body.

She’s shaking by the time I finally lift my head.

Flushed. Gasping. Glowing.

Every inch of her is slick with heat and something close to worship. Her hands are still gripping the cushions while her eyes are glazed over, half-lidded, dazed, and wrecked.

Perfect.

I kiss the inside of her thigh one more time, just to feel her shiver. Then I drag my mouth up her body—over her stomach, her ribs, her chest—until I’m hovering above her again, arms bracketing her head.

“You with me?” I murmur, brushing her hair back.

She nods—barely.

But I don’t move until she whispers, “Yes,” her voice raw and hoarse and beautiful.

My hand slides between us, stroking once, slowly. She gasps and arches again, so responsive that it makes my throat tight.

Then I line myself up, the tip just nudging her entrance, and pause.

Her fingers clutch my shoulders instantly. “Maverick,” she breathes, half a warning, half a plea.

I lean down and kiss her.

Not rough. Not teasing.

Just slow.

Certain.

Then I press in—just the head—and her mouth parts in a silent gasp against mine. Her legs wrap around me, tightening as I slide deeper, inch by inch, until I’m buried to the hilt.

Her back bows. Her nails bite into my skin.

I don’t move. Not yet.

Just let her adjust. Let her feel all of it.

All of me.

Her forehead presses to mine. “Fuck, you feel…”

She doesn’t finish.

Doesn’t need to.

I already know.

So, I hold still.

And wait for the next wave to start.

She’s warm and tight around me, clenching like her body hasn’t decided whether to fight or surrender. My control stretches thin, thinner, dangerously close to snapping—but I hold the line.

Barely.

I pull back just enough to feel her tighten, then ease in again, slow and deep, like I’m laying a claim.

Her breath shudders. Her head tips back.

“Look at me,” I say, voice rough against her jaw.

She forces her eyes open, glassy and dark and locked on mine. There’s something about that—about being seen in this, in her wreckage—that undoes me more than anything.

I start to move, steady and deliberate. Each thrust a promise. A warning. A vow.

Mine.

Her fingers scramble for purchase, dragging down my back, leaving heat in their wake. I brace one hand behind her thigh and press her open wider, angling deeper, until the sound that leaves her is more sob than moan.

“That’s it,” I whisper, teeth grazing her shoulder. “Let go.”

She clings to me, breath hitching with every movement. Her hips try to meet mine, to push for more, faster, but I keep her pinned. Keep the pace right where I want it.

She’s unraveling.

And I’m not giving her mercy.

Not yet.

My name leaves her lips again, half-swallowed, half-plea, and it shoots straight through me like a match to dry timber. I grit my teeth, push deeper, and hold for a second that stretches forever, just to feel her flutter around me.

Her body begs.

But I’m not done making her feel it.

Every inch.

Every second.

Every fucking heartbeat.

Her body tightens under mine—hips lifting, breath catching—and I feel her getting close, the tremble in her thighs, the way her fingers clutch at me like she’s holding on for dear life.

I slow down, just slightly.

Ease into each movement like I’m carving it into memory.

“Breathe, baby,” I murmur, my forehead pressed to hers. “I’ve got you.”

Her lips part, and the sound that leaves her is pure want. Raw. Honest.

I brush my thumb across her cheek, just to ground her. Just to be close.

Because this… this isn’t about control.

It’s about knowing her body better than I know my own.

It’s the way she arches into me, like we’re two puzzle pieces slotting into place. The way her breath hitches every time I whisper her name. The way her hand cups the back of my neck, pulling me closer, like she wants to crawl under my skin and stay there.

“I love you,” she whispers, almost too quiet to hear.

My heart stutters.

I kiss her—slow and deep—like it’s the only response I know how to give. Because words don’t cut it. Not right now. Not when I’m inside her and the whole world has narrowed to the space between our bodies.

“Let go for me,” I breathe against her lips. “Come with me.”

And she does.

With a soft cry, her body gives out beneath me, shaking as she clings to my shoulders. I follow right after, burying my face in her neck, letting the warmth and the rhythm and the sheer overwhelming love carry me under.

When it’s over, we don’t move.

Her legs are still around my waist, her fingers tracing soft lines down my spine.

I’m still inside her.

Still breathing her in.

Still not ready to let go.