“I’m on birth control—just a posted FYI. And I haven’t had sex,” I say, pausing to consider what I should confess to. “For a really long time.” I don’t say since Nash because then he would have a visual of me having sex with Nash in his head, and I don’t want that. I can tell he’s jealous of me merely talking on the phone. He needs no reminders. “So, as long as you’re comfortable and…” I stutter. How to ask properly?
“Christ. Of course I’m clean, Windsor,” he says, turning around mid-step.
I shrug my shoulders and raise my brow. “How am I supposed to know that? Remember all I have to go by are rumors at this point,” I say. He narrows his eyes.
“Even if I wasn’t tested every other month for shit like that I’d be clean. I always use a condom. Always. Except for,” he admits, cutting off the end.
“Except for what?” I ask, walking toward him.
He swallows, turns away, and heads for the bathroom. “Except for when I was in a relationship,” he says, after what feels like an eternity. Well, that’s surely new information. I fight back the sting of unwanted jealousy.It’s in the past Windsor,I remind myself.
“When were you in a relationship?” Okay, that came out super catty. Shit.
“A long time ago. The point is I’m clean. You’re on birth control andwe’rein a relationship now,” he explains. He tosses the condoms into the trashcan and stalks back toward me. “You want to use your CPA skills,” he says with a half one-dimpled smile.
I tilt my head to the side in question. “I use a calculator for work things,” I say. “Or a program that does computing for me.” I think my accounting skills are the furthest thing from his mind. His eyes heat, and my stomach jumps to my throat.
His white smile assaults me. “Cock Polishing Assistant. That’s the title that comes to mind whenever I hear your job title,” Maverick says, pulling me to him. He kisses the top of my head and inhales. I love when he does it. It’s like he can’t get enough of me. He wants me inside him. I let a small chuckle slip. I’ll never think of CPA the same way again and it’s my freaking job.
“Isn’t that what my mouth does? That so counts as polishing,” I fire back.
“Sort of. This,” he growls, stroking in between my legs, “will do a much better job though.” A small moan slips. His hand disappears after he strokes me a few more blissful seconds. He pulls my face up to look at him.
Then he kisses me senseless. Like that type of whole body kiss that shocks you from your head to your toes. It starts simply with his tongue in my mouth, and then it greets my heart, causing it to pound out a new, more frantic rhythm. Next it goes down to my tummy waving hi to the flip-flop sensation. And lastly it shivers all the way down to my toes. It’s melty-electric and passionate at the same time. His hands stroke my face in the same spots where his stubble will turn me red later. He scoops me up and places me in the bed again. He scoots in next to me as I pull up the soft sheets to hide us from the world.
“I just want to kiss you like this,” he whispers into my mouth.
“You know exactly what I want…sexual manners,” I say back. All we do is kiss, entwined legs and hands on faces and necks. He uses those manners for a long time, not taking it any further even though my body is on fire for him.
Eventually we fall asleep. His body wrapped around mine, my hand over his heart.
*****
“I don’t know how I feel about this. Won’t everyone wonder what I’m doing there? I only know Morganna. It will be weird,” I explain, a little wildly, one hip propped against his desk in his home office.
It’s late afternoon on Saturday and he wants me to go to dinner; a-farewell-we’re-headed-out-on-deployment dinner, with the guys and their significant others. I. Am. Terrified. I imagine Morganna times fifteen and my heart races like a freaking jockey in the Kentucky Derby. Logically, I know there won’t be anyone quite like Morganna, I just fear the judgment that comes from dating a guy like Maverick. Will his friends think I’m aFrog Hog? Will the girls think I’m just easy convenience sex before he leaves for six months? I know I shouldn’t give a shit and I could tell myself that a million times, but I still would. Mommy issues. It’s like Daddy issues except worse. Mav sits at the huge desk, papers and non-fiction books stacked in organized piles, shirtless.
He shakes his head while he speaks. “You’re mine now. You have nothing to be afraid of—the fact that your Morg’s friend only solidifies that. No one will say anything rude to you. I mean, I’ve never been to one of these things as half of acouple, but I can’t imagine it’s that painful. You might even make some new friends. It will be good for you to have people who are in the same situation as you.” Sell it, Mav. Sell it. “Go get dressed, please. I need you to be there with me,” he says.
And I can’t say no to that. He needs me. He wants me wrapped up in his world. I huff a little, which makes him laugh. I turn and stalk out of the room before I catch sight of his dimples and attack him for round four.
I’m dressed in jeans, a dressy top, and heels at Maverick’s request and out the door two hours later. We had sex one more time before we left because he saw me naked after I got out of the shower. My core clenches when I think of the way he looked at me before even touching me. It was the hottest gaze in the entire universe.
Dressed in tailored jeans and a black button up shirt, Maverick looks divine. He opens the door for me, offering his arm to walk into the restaurant. I’m not nervous when he’s near, when his body heat drips into mine and I know I’m okay, fearless. But then I see the two tables near the back. Separated into sections like Thanksgiving at Aunt Velma’s. Girls at one table and boys at the other. He senses my freak-out and squeezes my elbow a bit.
“It will be fine. Text me if you really want to leave. There’s Morganna,” he whispers, nodding toward her. I see an empty chair next to her and breathe a sigh of freaking relief. Her red lips part in an exquisite smile when she sees us. Subtly, Mav pats me on the ass, sending me to a table full of vultures, eyeing me down like I’m fresh road kill. Bottle blonde heads laden with more extensions than a Hollywood red carpet turn in my direction.
I ignore them and head to my seat. “Windsor,” Morganna exclaims a little too loudly. “Come sit. Fashionably late was fifteen minutes ago.” By the gleam in her eye she knows exactly why I’m late. Friends always know a well-fucked look when they see one. I’m probably a step beyond well-fucked. I’m not sure what comes after, though. I’ve never been there until now.
“Sorry,” I mutter, quickly sitting down. Morganna introduces me to the table full of women, most of their names ending in Y, and I know I won’t remember a single name because they all look the same and are dressed similarly. I smile wide and exchange fake pleasantries like I do at work.
I glance over at Maverick as he greets his buddies with weird, contorted handshakes and back pats—lots of touching. He flicks a smile at me when he sees me staring. I smile back. Barely. The women chatter around me. It’s only now that I see physical details about them. Standard fake. They have lollipop heads on tiny bodies with enormous breasts that chant the song of their people when in a gathering such as this. Every other guy in the restaurant is staring at them, which seems a little stupid seeing as they obviously belong to the guys one table over. They dobelong, too. They spare me a tiny glance and continue talking about their husbands and boyfriends like they are talking about their own lives instead. Morganna texts under the table, and I’m blessedly reassured that she finds these mundane, vapid creatures just as boring and senseless as I do.
I sip my wine and smile when someone says something that’s supposed to be funny. I don’t offer anything, and it’s because I can’t. I have absolutely nothing in common with these women. They talk about their gym regimens and exercise classes like Christians speak of God. To be more specific, one of the Y’s just comparedLululemonworkout pants to baby Jesus. Others chatter quietly about their own, real babies and how advanced they are because of their father’s obviously glorious sperm contribution. I cringe when a brunette with a huge mane of hair announces her plan for a weekly spouse/girlfriend meet-up while the men are deployed. She bats her huge, fake lashes a few times and says we shoulddolunch next time. What. The. Freak.
I clear my throat and send Morganna a text message, keeping my phone hidden under the table.You’re going to gag me with a spoon when this is over, aren’t you?:) Wait! I know. It’s a joke…It has to be a joke.
She responds quickly, liking the distraction. She smiles.No. Phillipe is going to do that to you. I won’t have time. I had to clear my schedule for this waste of fucking time. Welcome to the Rosy Team, Win. Where the only thing the women love more than themselves is their husband’s career.
