Page 90 of Married to the Scottish Player
He nods, all teasing gone. “I have. No one raw since my last girlfriend.”
Last girlfriend. I don’t want to talk about whoever that would have been—probably some celebrity or pop star or cover model—so we won’t think about her right now, whoever she is ...
“Annabelle, I’ve been tested,” he goes on, his hands now stroking my boobs in the most incredible way. “I get tested every six months. Team policy.”
“Oh.” I nibble a lip, hips beginning to move again.
“Clean bill of health. Scout’s honor.”
Oh, it feels so good ... “Were you a scout?”
“No,” he groans, dick still hard. “We can get tested together if you want. I don’t want Tim’s germs.”
I laugh, head tilting back. “Mmkay ...”
So good.
“And next time we’ll use protection.”
Mmmkay . . .
Suddenly he moves, taking me with him, flipping me so I’m on my back, his huge body moving over me. His hands grip the headboard on either side of me, arms flexing, face buried against my neck as he moves—deeper,harder, like he’s trying to etch himself into my skin so I’ll never forget him.
Not rough but not gentle ...
“I’m not gonna be able to stop thinking about you,” he rasps. “You’re so sexy. You feel so good.”
My hands roam his back, nails dragging lightly, and he shudders—like I’ve short-circuited every nerve in his body.
“I want to stay here,” he pants. “Right here. Buried inside you. Fuck you forever.”
Fuck you forever . . .
How romantic.
That shouldn’t feel like the most intimate thing anyone’s ever said to me—but itdoes. And it knocks the breath right out of my chest.
I wrap my legs tighter around him, pulling him closer, breath catching, pleasure curling tight in my belly as he shifts again, his rhythm going from teasing to torture, and I swear I see stars.
Bright light shines through the window. We’re a tangle of limbs and breathless curses, Maverick muttering something filthy and worshipful into my skin, while I cling to him like a koala hanging on for dear life.
His pace picks up like he’s on a mission from thepleasuregods—and I know I’m screwed. Toast. Straight-up, golden-brown,butter-me-uptoast.
“Oh fuck, Annabelle . . . Fuck . . .”
Yes . . .
Yes . . .
F-fuck . . .
My bones liquefy.
My soul briefly leaves my body, waves politely from above, then floats back down ...
We collapse in a heap, tangled and sweaty and making an imprint in the mattress.
Maverick groans into my neck, his voice gravel and glory. “Jesus. How do you feel?”
