Maverick's penthouse has become my second home—if homes required service entrance access codes and strategic doorman avoidance.
I'm tangled in his sheets, watching late afternoon light paint golden stripes across the ceiling, trying very hard to pretend the outside world doesn't exist.
Three weeks of this now. Three weeks of stolen hours in private, invisible in public. I've become an expert at slipping through back doors, timing my arrivals to avoid curious eyes, leaving before dawn like some romantic ninja with commitment issues.
It should feel degrading. The word "mistress" should taste bitter, should make me feel small and disposable. Instead, I keep rationalizing with the determination of someone who's made a choice and refuses to regret it.
The sex is otherworldly—the kind that rewires your nervous system. He's attentive and caring in ways I never expected from a man who communicates primarily through meaningful silences.
When we're alone, he's tender. He brushes hair from my face like I'm something precious. He's learned exactly what makes me gasp, what makes me arch into him. He holds me afterward like I might disappear if he loosens his grip.
It's easy to forget the rest when he looks at me like that. Easy to pretend the hiding doesn't matter.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder now, drawing shapes I can't identify. I watch his face—those green eyes distant, focused on something I can't see.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask, because the silence has stretched long enough to make me nervous. "You've got that look again. The one that says 'I'm contemplating the futility of existence' or possibly 'I forgot to send an important email.' Hard to tell with you."
He grunts something noncommittal—his signature move.
"That's not an answer," I press, shifting to prop myself on one elbow. "You always deflect with silence. It's very mysterious and brooding, but also deeply unhelpful for someone trying to have an actual conversation. Some of us use words, Maverick. Revolutionary concept, I know."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I'm thinking about you."
"Elaborate. That could mean anything from 'I find you mildly tolerable' to 'I'm mentally composing sonnets about your earlobes.' Context matters."
"I'm thinking about wanting to stay here." His voice drops lower, rougher. "About ignoring everything else. Turning off the phone. Pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist beyond this room."
Something warm blooms in my chest—dangerous and hopeful. I shift, swinging my leg over his hips to straddle him, settling my weight across his stomach. His hands find my thighs immediately, thumbs stroking the skin there.
"We have time," I tell him, leaning down until my hair curtains around our faces. "Right now, we have time."
It starts slow, building like a symphony finding its rhythm.
I kiss down his chest, taking my time, learning the geography of muscle and skin. He watches me with darkening eyes, fingers threading through my hair as I move lower.
When I take him in my mouth, his head falls back against the pillows, a low groan escaping his throat. I work him slowly, tongue tracing patterns, learning what makes his breath catch, what makes his hips flex upward.
"Come here," he breathes, tugging me gently. "I want to taste you."
We rearrange ourselves—me straddling his face while my mouth returns to him—and the first stroke of his tongue makes me moan around his length.
He grips my hips, pulling me down against his mouth, and I lose myself in the dual sensation of giving and receiving. His tongue circles my sensitive spot with maddening precision while I take him deeper, matching my rhythm to his. It's a warm-up, and we both know it.
When my thighs start trembling, he shifts us again. His weight settles over me, grounding and overwhelming, and when he slides inside, I gasp at the fullness.
He moves slowly at first, building tension with deliberate strokes. My nails dig into his shoulders as he angles deeper, finding that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes.
"Look at me," he murmurs, and I do—watching his face as he watches mine, something raw in his expression. "Just like that. Stay with me."
I'm close, so close, when his phone starts buzzing on the nightstand.
He ignores it, focused entirely on me, his hips maintaining their rhythm. The phone goes silent. I'm climbing again, tension coiling tighter—
It buzzes again. And again. A persistent, demanding interruption.
"Answer it," I manage between gasps. "What if it's an emergency?"
"Nothing's more important than this." His voice is strained.
"Maverick." I cup his face, stilling his movement. "Answer it. Please. I can't focus with that noise, and you're too distracted now anyway. I can see it in your eyes."
Frustration flashes across his features, but he pulls away reluctantly, reaching for the phone. His expression shifts when he sees the screen—that particular tightening of his jaw I've learned to associate with one person.
"I need to take this," he says, moving toward the bathroom. "Give me a minute."
The door clicks shut, and I'm alone with my racing heart and the ghost of his warmth. I stare at the ceiling, counting heartbeats, trying not to strain to hear the muffled conversation.
He returns minutes later, and I know immediately it's bad news. His jaw is granite, shoulders carrying tension that wasn't there before.
"What's wrong?" I ask, sitting up and pulling the sheet around myself.
"Priscilla will be on the next flight." His voice is carefully controlled. "Grandfather's orders. She's accompanying me to a meeting in Milan. Business optics."
The words land like stones dropped in still water. Milan. Priscilla. Business optics. The world we've been pretending doesn't exist, crashing back with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
"Can you handle it?" He watches my face intently. "I can make an excuse, say you're ill—"
"Of course I can handle it." I keep my voice light. "I'm a professional, remember? Very good at my job. Excellent beverage distribution skills."
"Floris." My name sounds like a warning and a plea.
"I'm fine." I force a smile. "Really. It's just a flight. This one happens to include your future wife, but that's barely worth mentioning."
He studies my face with that intensity that sees everything I'm trying to hide. I can tell he doesn't believe me—doesn't believe the casual tone or the forced lightness.
So I kiss him instead, pressing my lips to his before he can ask more questions I don't want to answer. He responds immediately, one hand cupping the back of my head, and for a moment, we're back in our bubble. Safe. Hidden.
But tomorrow exists. It's already pressing against the windows.
When we break apart, I'm already reaching for my clothes. "I should go. Early flight tomorrow. Very important to be well-rested for professional beverage distribution."
He doesn't argue, which somehow hurts more than if he had.
I dress quickly, the familiar routine of disappearing before anyone notices I was ever here. Service entrance. Careful timing. The rhythm of being someone's secret, performed so many times it's become muscle memory.
At the door, I pause and look back at him—still tangled in sheets, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Something heavy settles in my chest, pressing down with the weight of tomorrow. Of Priscilla. Of all the things we don't say because saying them would make them real.
"See you on the flight," I say, and close the door behind me.