[Maverick’s POV]
I wake with Floris still curled against me, our fingers intertwined from the night before.
The morning light catches her hair, turning brown strands copper, making her look like something out of a painting I'd pay too much for at auction. I told her things last night I've never told anyone—about my parents, my grandfather, the transactional emptiness of my childhood.
And the strange part is, I don't regret it. I should. Vulnerability is weakness; my grandfather taught me that before I could tie my shoes. But watching her sleep now, peaceful and warm against my chest, I can't summon the usual defenses.
She stirs, surfaces from sleep in stages—confusion first, those hazel eyes blinking against the light, then recognition. Then that soft smile I'm starting to crave spreads across her face.
"Did you sleep okay?" she asks, voice rough with sleep. "You look like you're thinking very serious thoughts. Very brooding. Very 'contemplating existence at dawn' energy."
I grunt something noncommittal, because articulating that I slept better than I have in years seems like too much honesty before coffee.
She laughs, bright and warm. "Wow. Eloquent. Has anyone ever told you you're a grump? Because you're a grump. A very handsome, very grumpy grump."
"You snore," I inform her, keeping my face straight.
"I do not!" Her indignation is immediate and adorable. "Take that back. Gemma says I sound like a broken fountain, but she's a liar and I've never trusted her opinion on anything sleep-related."
"You just contradicted yourself. Impressive."
"I contain multitudes." She bites my shoulder—actually bites it, teeth pressing through fabric—and I catch her jaw before she can retreat. Her breath hitches at the contact. My thumb brushes across her cheekbone, slower than necessary, and her eyes darken almost imperceptibly.
When I pull her closer, she comes willingly, her body softening against mine. My thumb drifts lower, tracing the curve of her jaw, the column of her throat, finally settling on her lower lip and stroking slowly across the soft skin.
All kinds of images flood my head. Her on her knees, those hazel eyes looking up at me while her lips wrap around my cock. Her bent over the edge of this bed, back arched, my handprints red on her ass. Her riding me, head thrown back, breasts bouncing with every movement while I watch her fall apart.
I try to temper them down, but my cock is already stirring, thickening against her thigh. We'll have time. It's too early for that now, I tell myself, even as my body disagrees emphatically. She feels me hardening, and her cheeks flush pink.
"Are you sore?" I ask. "From last night?"
"A little," she admits. "But the good kind. The 'no regrets, would do again immediately' kind."
I hum, considering. Then I shift, pushing her onto her back and kissing down her stomach. Her skin is warm beneath my lips, soft and responsive, muscles jumping under every touch.
"Maverick?" Her voice is breathless. "What are you doing?"
"Stop asking questions." I keep moving lower, settling between her thighs, then change course entirely—rolling onto my back and pulling her up, guiding her to straddle my chest.
She resists immediately, embarrassment flooding her features. "I can't just—Maverick, that's—I can't just sit on your face, that's—"
"Get up here." Not a request. My hands are already on her thighs, insistent. "Now."
She hesitates, desire warring with self-consciousness. My grip tightens, pulling her forward until she's hovering over my mouth, trembling. I can see how wet she already is, her folds glistening and swollen, pink and perfect, and my cock throbs against my stomach at the sight.
"But I—"
The first stroke of my tongue cuts off her protest. I drag it slowly through her folds, parting her, tasting her slick—sweet and musky on my tongue. She gasps sharply, her hands flying to the headboard for balance, knuckles going white as I circle her clit with deliberate pressure.
"Oh God—" She tries to lift away, overwhelmed, but my hands clamp down on her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh, holding her exactly where I want her.
"Stay," I command against her, the vibration making her whimper. I flatten my tongue and lick a broad stroke from her entrance to her clit, then seal my lips around the swollen bud and suck hard. Her thighs clench around my head, and she moans—loud, uninhibited, exactly what I wanted to hear.
I take my time learning her. What makes her gasp versus what makes her moan. The way her hips jerk when I flick my tongue rapidly across her clit. How she grinds down against my mouth when I thrust my tongue inside her, fucking her with it while my nose presses against her sensitive bundle of nerves.
She's soaking my chin, my jaw, slick dripping down as she rides my face, and the knowledge sends heat pooling in my groin.
"Maverick—" Her voice breaks on my name. "Please, I'm so close—"
I pull back, just enough to deny her the friction she needs, and she whines high in her throat. Her hips chase my mouth desperately, but I hold her still.
"Not yet." My breath ghosts over her wet flesh, and she shudders violently.
"Please—" She's practically sobbing now, thighs trembling. "Please, I need to come, I can't—"
"Tell me what you need. Say it."
"Your mouth," she gasps, abandoning all embarrassment. "I need your mouth on me. Please, Maverick, please let me come—"
I give her what she's begging for. My tongue finds exactly the right spot, circling her clit with relentless pressure while I slide two fingers inside her. She's tight and hot around them, inner walls clenching rhythmically, already fluttering with her approaching orgasm.
When I curl them forward against that sensitive spot and suck hard on her clit simultaneously, she shatters.
Her thighs lock around my head, shaking violently, her back arching as her orgasm crashes through her. My name spills from her lips—"Maverick, oh God, Maverick"—and I feel her clench around my fingers in rhythmic pulses, her whole body convulsing.
I keep working her through it, gentling my strokes as the aftershocks roll through her, her inner walls still gripping my fingers. The satisfaction that rolls through me is almost as good as my own release. Almost.
She collapses beside me, boneless and flushed, breathing like she's run a marathon. Her hair is wrecked, her cheeks crimson, her thighs still trembling. I wipe my chin with the back of my hand, thoroughly pleased with myself.
"You're too good at that," she mumbles into the pillow. "It's annoying. Is there a billionaire training program? 'Oral Excellence 101: A Course for the Obscenely Wealthy'?"
"Get used to it." I can't keep the smugness from my voice. Don't want to.
She groans. "Your ego is going to be unbearable now. I've created a monster."
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I consider ignoring it, but habit wins. James. Of course.
Your grandfather expects you at the Hartwell Foundation Gala next week. Plus one. Confirming your attendance.
I stare at the message, Floris warm against my side. Something shifts in my chest—a decision crystallizing. I've been hiding her, keeping our arrangement in shadows. But that night changed something. This morning confirmed it. She's not just convenient anymore. She's becoming everything I didn't know I needed.
I text back: Confirmed. I'm bringing someone.
"What is it?" Floris asks, propping herself up on one elbow. Her hair falls across her face, and I brush it back without thinking. "You're making that face. The one that says 'I've made a decision that will have consequences.'"
"Do you have an evening gown with you?"