He has a massive presence. He’s lean and young but acts old and wise, as if he’s traveled to the future and knows exactly what he’s supposed to become.

What else does he know?

Does he know he will one day kiss me?

Will he still want to one day kiss me? Taste me?

“I’m pissed off, and I’m high on the fight, and you’re not making it easy to come down from that high.” His voice breaks with huskiness.

“No?” I ask in a silky voice.

I don’t know where this voice comes from; I never even knew I had it in me to speak like this to a man.

He exhales. He sounds frustrated. Is he frustrated? He drags a hand over his hair and then takes a step, leans forward—our eyes level. “No.”

“Maybe it’s the sugar from the sports drinks.”

“It’s not the sugar,” he dismisses.

He remains without touching me for a moment.

I’m sad and frustrated about what I learned, and I’m frustrated and desperate and feeling reckless and I don’t know. It’s an inexplicable turmoil of feelings as I look at him.

I want him more than I’ve wanted anything, and I’ve wanted things that were bad for me before. But I want Maverick Cage now like a sickness.

I don’t move when he reaches out.

His hand moves from the back of my head down to my neck, where he squeezes a little, causing his touch to make me tremble all over. His hand is warm and gentle, both familiar and new. I react so strongly my lips part and he notices.

He inhales slowly, and his eyes start darkening and darkening as he spreads his fingers on the back of my neck and slips his hand into my hair. As he pulls me a few inches closer, I catch my own breath. And the breath smells of him, hot and spicy.

He exhales through his nostrils and narrows his eyes. It’s as if he’s losing some form of inner battle. He lowers his head and every inch of my body—from my head to my toes—grips and squeezes in anticipation.

Oh god. I don’t even know what to do with my fingers. I clench them at my sides, exhaling a nervous breath.

I’m stunned by how good my body feels as he pulls me closer. Feels good when his fingers touch it. I feel good when he touches me.

I don’t know my name. What’s going on between us. All I know is Maverick. Maverick looking at my lips. Maverick opening his hand on the small of my back possessively. Maverick leaning his head down. Maverick . . . about to kiss me.

And I want to kiss Maverick.

I know I want Maverick’s lips on me.

So when they touch mine—Maverick’s lips on me feel like the most incredible, amazing thing that has ever happened in my life.

He’s kissing me. . . .

His tongue, dipping inside my mouth. His mouth is possessive; his grip is possessive; he is acting so possessive. My tongue has never given me so much pleasure than when it’s stroked, slow and sure, by his tongue.

He shifts me closer, his hand splaying on my waist. And he . . . groans. He groans into my mouth and crushes my body against his. And I like possessive Maverick so much I can’t think or breathe, only soften my lips so he takes everything.

There’s a change in pressure in his grip that speaks to me on such a primitive level, I’m twisted inside. He takes a ragged breath. His nostrils flare a little bit as he seems to fight for control. He wraps his wounded knuckles around my hips and edges me closer.

My tongue slips into his mouth, and he draws it in deeper.

It’s like he’s pouring all his frustration into this kiss.

I don’t want him to get turned off by my inexperience, so I try to rub his tongue back. He groans. He slides his hands over me as if he likes the curve of my ass, and my breasts squish against his chest pleasurably. He edges back, takes a breath.

So many words I’ve heard before.

Toe-curling.

Panty-melting.

Heart-pounding.

Breathtaking.

I can apply them all right now. To this guy. This moment.

His muscles tighten, and the warmth of personal contact, of our mouths, our bodies closer than close, the pounding of his heart is the pounding of mine, his breath my breath, our space the same . . .

Placing long, calloused fingers along my back—a rough touch is not supposed to feel this delicious, this feathery, this good.

Lust. It’s not soft like the touch of a raindrop. It’s not easy like floating aimlessly on the water. It’s weighted, and heavy, a spark that catches on the forest of your body. A wildfire.

I have never been marked by lust like this.

I can’t speak.

Even Maverick’s voice is extremely thick right now. “Tate and his wife left earlier.”

“Yes. I promised her I’d be careful. I have pepper spray.”

He smiles, then scans my face, his eyes as dark as I’ve ever seen them. “Did you tell them you’d meet them later at your hotel?”

I nod.

“Do you want this like I do?” He looks at my lips, and then into my eyes as he curls his fingers around the back of my neck and gives me a gentle squeeze. “Do you?”

Say no, Reese.

This can go nowhere.

I open my mouth and say, “More. I want it more than you.”

He exhales, then he leans his forehead against mine and looks deeply into my eyes. “That’s impossible on every level, I’m breaking every existing record.”

He eases back and looks genuinely tormented by this same lust I feel, and I say, “Maverick, I haven’t done this before.”

“I know, Reese, but god, I need it to be me.” He presses his mouth to me and groans rather than kisses me, groans and embraces me against him and whispers in my ear, “Please let it be me.”