My body melts into his. God…yes. This is what I need.
Ryker rolls his eyes at us. “Okay, you two, keep it PG.”
Feeling glad that he’s here and okay, I turn around only to have my heart fall.
He stands there in bare feet, navy flannel pajama pants, and a white t-shirt with one eye swollen shut and his left cheek colored yellow and purple from a bruise. His arms are painted with bruises too, most of them on his biceps.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. I feel sick. Swallowing down my panic, I say, “What happened to your face? Are you okay?” My hands flutter around him.
He shakes his head. “Nothing you need to worry about. It’s all over now.”
What? Nothing to worry about? Is he crazy?
“Who did this to you?” I’m assuming it was a fight.
His face tightens, his gaze not meeting mine. “I got in a fight with someone at the bar when I went to pick up my dad this weekend.”
My brow furrows, trying to imagine it. “That’s horrible.”
Ryker seems displeased with Maverick’s response and lets out a sigh. Maverick scowls back at him, his jaw clenching.
I look from one to the other. “What on earth is going on? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Maverick doesn’t respond, just strides over to the coffee. I watch as he lifts his arm to get a cup from the cabinet, the movement slow and careful.
My frustration with the lack of details grows. “This is why you weren’t in class?”
Ryker snatches another chocolate muffin from the container and makes his way around us. “Looks like you two need to talk, and I need to put some clothes on.” He walks by, giving me an apologetic look. “Good luck,” and then he’s out of the room and shutting his bedroom door.
“What the hell is going on here?” I ask Maverick as he stirs in creamer and settles back against the counter to sip his coffee.
“Just got in a tussle. It’s not anything I want you to worry about.”
“I am worried.”
“Why?” Those intense blue eyes study me.
“Because you look terrible and I’m afraid you’re hurt.”
“Why?” He takes a long drag from his mug.
I lift my hands in exasperation. “Because I like you and I don’t want bad things to happen to you.”
He exhales loudly as he sets down his coffee, the movement making him wince. Because he’s an alpha male, he’s probably holding back some of his discomfort, so I know he’s in a lot of pain. My eyes roam over him, taking in the way he gingerly moves forward to retrieve one of the muffins and sinks his teeth into it.
My lips compress. “Were the police involved? Because you need to file charges against the person who did this to you.”
“No.” Silence fills the room, and I stand here, not feeling entirely welcome. I’m disappointed and angry he isn’t being more forthcoming.
Fine. I inhale sharply and snap up my backpack, which I set on the floor next to the table when I came in.
I’m at the door when I hear his voice.
“Delaney, please…don’t go.”
I freeze, my chest rising at his plea. His tone is soft, with an undercurrent of vulnerability that gives me pause.
I hear scuffling and turn around to watch him walk toward me. His steps are slow, his jaw clenched, his chest barely moving as if he’s restraining even his own breaths.
“Dammit, you’re really hurt,” I say, biting my lip as I drop my backpack and walk over to him.
“I don’t want you to go.” He swallows and stares down at his feet.
“Let me see everything,” I say, pulling up his loose shirt and gasping as I see the bruises on his ribs. A long one stretches down his right side, ending just above his hip. I clench my jaw and gaze up at him as tears prick at my eyes. This wasn’t just a regular good-ol’-boys tussle.
“Maverick? This is…this is…”
“I’m okay,” he says soothingly, cupping my cheek. “Get that worried expression off your face. I’ve been checked out by a friend, got some X-rays, and nothing’s broken or fractured. I’ll be fine, and I’ll be back at practice in a week. Coach Al and my professors think I had a fender bender.”
I lace my fingers with his and squeeze. “You’re scaring me. Are you going to tell me what happened?”
His forehead presses against mine. “Just trust me, okay? Are you in a hurry to get to class?”
I shake my head as his eyes hold mine.
He kisses me lightly on the lips. “Good. Come back to bed with me.”
My body gets hot at the words.
“You can’t have sex like this…can you?”
He huffs out a laugh, and a smile—the first one I’ve seen today—flashes across his face. “I can have sex even if I’m half-dead, but right now, I just want to hold you.”
There’s a neediness in his gaze, and it makes me protective of him.
He tugs me toward a door and I follow him as we enter his bedroom. The bed is a full with a plaid duvet, and there’s a dresser against the wall. His laptop and books are scattered across the foot of the bed, and he grunts as he moves them to a chair next to the door. I’m itching to offer to help, but I can sense he doesn’t want me to.
I have a design class at noon, but I know I’m not going to make it, especially when he slowly pulls his shirt off by tugging at it from the neck. I get an unobstructed view of his magnificent chest as it slips over his hair then gets tossed to the floor. Next are his flannel pants. He kicks them off and stands there proudly, bruises and all, and I probably look like I need a fan in my face to cool me down.
“Want me to open a window, Buttercup?”
I smirk.
He hits me with those piercing eyes. “Take your clothes off. I want your skin against mine.” There’s that need in his tone again.
I take my coat off and toss it on the chair. My shirt and jeans are next, until I’m standing in my black lace demi-bra and matching panties.
A long sigh slips through his lips as his eyes caress me. “Damn.”
Moving tentatively, he gets in the bed, lies back on the pillows, and pats the spot next to him, a searching expression on his face. “It’s like I wished you were here, Delaney, and you appeared. Thank you for checking on me.”
I swallow. Part of me wants to get to the bottom of what happened, but for now, it doesn’t feel right. I crawl in beside him and lie down, our bodies touching lightly; I don’t want to hurt him. His arms curl around me, and everything else fades away.
Whatever’s going on with him, I’ll figure it out later.
Maverick
Delaney taps her chin, thinking. “My biggest TV-slash-movie pet peeve is that Han Solo and Princess Leia never got enough on-screen kissing time.” She looks over at me. “What’s yours?”
I grin at her. It’s been over a week since the fight, and most of the bruises on my face have faded to a light blue. I’ve been wearing sunglasses and a ball cap everywhere, and my story of a minor car accident seems to be accepted. I hate lying to everyone, but it’s necessary.
We’re sitting inside Buffalo Bills after salsa lessons, and Delaney’s on a quest to figure out the real Maverick. I get the feeling once she becomes interested in something, she’s devoted to it with a one-track mind. I can relate because I’m the same with football.