Page 26 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Rumor has it, she let him mark her.

Ainsley

The car door clicks shut, and I sit here, trying to process what just happened while my entire nervous system stages a revolt.

My wrist is on fire. Not metaphorically.

It’s literally burning with fresh ink and rebellion and the kind of adrenaline that makes you want to either throw up or run a marathon.

The tattoo is tiny, just three letters, but it feels like it’s radiating heat through my entire body.

Like it’s rewriting my DNA one pulse at a time.

I.O.U.

In his handwriting. Permanent. Forever.

And the worst part? I wanted it.

I felt like I was signing a contract with the devil himself.

Maybe I was.

Maverick slides into the driver’s seat beside me, and I catch a glimpse of his watch before he kills the display.

156 BPM. His heart rate is spiking, which means I should be worried about him.

I should be thinking about beta blockers and stress management and all the ways I’m probably shortening his life expectancy.

But I’m not thinking about any of that.

I’m thinking about the way he looked at me in that tattoo parlor. Like I was something precious and dangerous at the same time. Like watching me get inked was better than anything he’s ever witnessed.

I’m thinking about how his chest looked when he took off his shirt—all sharp angles and controlled power, the new tattoo over his heart already red and swollen. My handwriting. My sloppy, imperfect scrawl that he’s now wearing like a badge of honor.

Goodness, what is wrong with me? Normal girlfriends don’t get matching tattoos in sketchy parlors after their boyfriends catch them committing academic espionage.

Normal girlfriends have conversations. They work through their issues with therapy and communication and maybe a shared Netflix password.

But then again, Maverick Lexington isn’t exactly what you’d call a normal boyfriend.

“I shouldn’t have let you do that,” I say, and even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a lie. Because if he asked me to do it again right now, I would. Without question. Without hesitation.

That should terrify me. It does terrify me. But it also makes me so wet.

“You didn’t let me do anything,” he replies, voice low and controlled in that way that makes my stomach flip. “I told you to get in the chair. You did.”

The casual dominance in his tone should piss me off. It should make me want to lecture him about consent and autonomy and the fundamental principles of feminist theory I learned in my gender studies elective.

Instead, it makes me press my thighs together and try not to whimper.

What the hell is happening to me? Since when do I get turned on by being ordered around? Since when do I find possessiveness romantic instead of problematic?

Since Maverick, apparently. Since the moment he walked into my life and flipped every single principle I thought I had upside down.

“You’re such an asshole,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. Just breathless acknowledgment of a truth we both already know.

He smirks—that slow, deadly smile that should come with a warning label. “But you knew that already.”

I sure as hell did. And to be honest, I love it.

I also love how he doesn’t apologize for being intense. How he looks at me like I’m something worth claiming. I love how he makes me feel powerful and fragile at the same time, like I’m the most important thing in his world, yet completely at his mercy.

I should be ashamed of that. Any self-respecting woman should be ashamed of melting for a guy who just basically branded her in a parking lot.

But shame is the furthest thing from my mind right now.

Because he’s looking at me like that again. Like he wants to devour me. Like the only thing stopping him is the fact that we’re sitting in a public parking lot instead of somewhere more private.

My name falls from his lips—“Ainsley”—and it sounds like a prayer and a threat rolled into one.

That’s all it takes.

I’m moving before I fully realize it, leaning across the center console like a magnet pulled toward its opposite pole. He meets me halfway, his hand sliding under my chin, tilting my face up to his with the kind of gentle authority that makes my brain short-circuit.

“You know what that mark means?” His thumb brushes across my bottom lip. His touch is light, almost reverent, but his voice is pure steel. “It means I own you forever.”

The words should make me angry.

Instead, they make me moan.

Actually moan. Like a shameless, desperate mess who’s apparently discovered she has a thing for being claimed by broody control freaks with heart conditions and trust issues.

“And that mark on me?” He takes my hand and presses it against his chest, right over the fresh ink. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the slight swelling where the needle did its work. My handwriting. My claim on him. “Means you own me.”

That breaks something inside me. Some last barrier I didn’t even know I’d been holding up.

Because this isn’t just about possession. It’s about reciprocity. He didn’t just mark me—he marked himself. He didn’t just claim me—he surrendered himself. We’re bound now, in the most permanent way possible, and the intensity of that should scare me.

It does scare me.

But it also makes me feel like I could fly.

Then he kisses me, and thinking becomes impossible.

This isn’t the sweet, tentative kiss from our first date, or the sleepy morning kisses we share over coffee.

This is something else entirely. This is hunger and need and barely controlled desperation.

His tongue slides past my lips like he owns my mouth—which, let’s be honest, he does at this point—and I melt into him like I’m made of nothing but want.

I shift in my seat, trying to get closer, trying to eliminate the space between us.

The center console digs into my ribs, my seat belt cuts across my chest, and none of it matters because Maverick’s hands are on me now.

One on my hip, anchoring me, the other sliding up under my dress with devastating precision.

When his fingers find the slick heat that’s been building since the moment he first said my name tonight, he groans like he’s been waiting his entire life to confirm what he already knew.

“You’re soaked.”

I should be mortified that I’m this turned on by what essentially amounts to psychological manipulation and public indecency.

But embarrassment isn’t what I’m feeling.

What I’m feeling is powerful. Desired. Like I’m exactly where I belong.

“Shut up,” I pant, but there’s no real irritation in it. Just breathless acknowledgment that he’s right, that he always seems to be right about what my body wants before I even know it myself.

He chuckles—low and dark and infuriatingly smug—and circles my clit with one finger. Slow. Lazy. Like he has all the time in the world to unravel me piece by piece.

“You want more?”

The question is a formality. We both know the answer. But he’s going to make me say it anyway, because that’s what he does. He makes me acknowledge my own desire, makes me own it, and makes me ask for it.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I want more.”

“Say it right.”

“Please.”

And there it is. The magic word he’s been waiting for. The one that transforms me from a marine biology student with trust issues into something desperate and pliant and willing.

His smile is pure satisfaction. “Good girl.”

Oh, gracious. Those two words shouldn’t have the power to turn me inside out, but they do. They make me feel like I’ve accomplished something monumental, like I’ve earned his approval in a way that actually matters.

Which is probably deeply problematic from a psychological standpoint, but I’m way past caring about that now.

Because his fingers are moving, and I’m grinding against his hand like I have no shame left. The windows are fogging up, and I’m pretty sure if anyone walks past this car, they’re going to get an eyeful of exactly what Maverick Lexington’s girlfriend looks like when she’s coming apart.

And then I hear it. The sound of his belt, his zipper, the rustle of fabric. He’s freeing himself, and the knowledge of what’s about to happen makes my entire body clench with anticipation.

He wraps my hand around him—hot and hard and thick—and the contact sends electricity straight up my arm.

“Get yourself ready.” His voice is rough, strained with the effort of maintaining control.

For a second, I don’t understand what he means. Then I realize he’s not going to do this for me. He’s not going to guide himself inside me or position me how he wants me. He’s making me take control. Making me choose this. Making me take what I want instead of just waiting for him to give it to me.

It’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.

I lift myself up, position him exactly where I need him, and sink down slowly. The stretch is intense—almost too much—but I take it. All of it. Until I’m fully seated in his lap, completely filled, trembling with the effort of staying still.

“You feel that?” he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot and unsteady. “That’s mine.”

“Yours,” I whisper back, because it’s true. In this moment, in this car, in this life—I’m his. Completely.

“You gonna ride me like a good girl?”

The question breaks the last of my restraint. I start to move—slow at first, then faster, finding a rhythm that makes him curse under his breath and grip my hips hard enough to bruise.

But even as I lose myself in the sensation and chase the release that’s building low in my belly, there’s a voice in the back of my head that won’t shut up.

“Stop saying that,” I choke out before I can stop myself.

Maverick freezes beneath me, every muscle in his body going taut. “What?”

“Don’t say I’m good.” The words spill out in a rush, like confessing to a crime I didn’t know I’d committed. “Not when I’ve been lying to you.”

The silence that follows is deafening. He doesn’t push me away, doesn’t demand explanations, doesn’t lose his temper. He just waits, like he’s been expecting this moment since the beginning.

Maybe he has been.

“I’m scared,” I whisper, and the admission costs me everything. “I’m scared you’ll hate me if you know what I’ve been hiding from you. And I don’t know how to fix it because I don’t want to lose you.”

His hand comes up to cup my face—gentle now, so gentle it makes my chest ache.

“You think this”—he moves his hips slightly, reminding me that he’s still buried inside me—“is what I give people I plan to walk away from?”

The question hits me right in the center of my fears. Because that’s exactly what I think. That I’m temporary. That I’m replaceable. That once he realizes how messy and complicated and fundamentally flawed I am, he’ll move on to someone easier. Someone better.

“You think I inked your favor into my skin because you’re disposable?”

His voice is soft but fierce, and when I look into his eyes, I see something that takes my breath away. Not just desire or possession or even love, though all of those are there.

I see permanence. Choice. The kind of certainty that doesn’t waver when things get complicated.

“I think… I don’t deserve you.” My words are barely audible.

He leans in, his lips brushing my cheek as he speaks. “Then be better. Tell me everything. But not right now. Not while I’m inside you.”

The combination of tenderness and filth in that statement makes me laugh—a broken, desperate sound that’s half sob, half relief.

“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him.

“You’re beautiful,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

And then he moves, and thinking becomes impossible again.

The rhythm is different now—rougher, more desperate, like we’re both trying to fuck away the distance that secrets have created between us. I cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s spinning out of control, my nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

He doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it spurs him on, makes him thrust harder, deeper, until I’m gasping his name and he’s growling mine like we’re the only two people who exist.

“Good girl,” he says again, and this time, I don’t flinch. This time, I arch into it, letting it fill the spaces where doubt has been living.

“Mine,” he continues, and I nod frantically because yes, yes, I’m his.

“Only mine.”

And when I finally fall apart—when the tension that’s been building snaps and sends me spiraling into the kind of orgasm that rewrites your entire understanding of your own body—I scream his name into his neck and hold on for dear life.

He follows me over the edge with a groan that sounds like surrender, his whole body shaking as he empties himself inside me.

For a moment, the world goes quiet.

No lies. No secrets. No fears about the future or regrets about the past.

Just us, breathing hard in the aftermath, still connected in the most intimate way possible.

But I know it can’t last. Reality has a way of creeping back in, and mine is particularly stubborn.

Soon, I’ll have to tell him about Carter. About the blackmail.

Soon, I’ll have to face the consequences of all the choices I’ve made.

But not yet.

For now, I’m just going to stay here, in his arms, wearing his mark and carrying his claim.

For now, I’m going to let myself believe that love might be enough to survive what’s coming.