“You’ve slapped me and slammed the door in my face,” he snarled. “Twice.”
“You deserved it,” I shot back like the spoiled brat he thought I was.
My sleepiness evaporated completely when he smiled.
It was the kind of smile hunters made right before they fired their rifles.
I tripped over my boots as I tried to retreat, but he caught me around the waist and flung my back against the wall. I hit it hard. My hands shot out to steady myself and were met by his massive chest as it crowded me.
He pushed his hips into my stomach and his cargo pants scratched at my bare thighs.
My breathing spiked and pulse eradicated.
One of his rough hands slid up my arm and wrapped around the front of my throat possessively.
“Are you afraid of me?” He asked it like he was making a threat.
I leaned into his hand around my neck. “No,” I spat.
And I wasn’t.
Maverick treated me like I was unbreakable.
He was the wild high, unpredictable and ravaging.
There wasn’t another high like him.
“Good.”
His lips slammed down on mine and I dove forward to greet them.
I bit and he growled.
My arms snaked around his neck as our mouths went to war.
I would push, and he would shove me back into the wall.
We played dirty and I liked it.
His hand on my throat squeezed as I wrapped one of my legs around his hips.
Our bodies couldn’t get close enough.
My skin burned.
Releasing my throat, he grabbed my ass with both hands and lifted me into the air.
I fell forward onto his chest, securing my legs around him, and he spun, knocking a tray off the table before slamming me into the adjacent wall.
I pulled at his hair and he bit down on my lip.
It was everything but nice.
Kissing Maverick Hart was like rushing the gates of hell with a one-woman army.
I didn’t stand a chance.
My legs tightened like a vice around him and he groaned, ripping our mouths apart.
He dropped me feet first onto the ground and started to back up.
Then he was gone, out the door so quick I still could feel his stubble on my lips.
I heard him growl, “Deadbolt,” from behind the copper.
Dishevelled, I wandered to the door and locked it.
Then his boots moved down the hallway and he was gone.
Gone.
I’d officially illuminated the No on my heart’s no-vacancy sign.
It was full, full of three men.
Have you ever seen inside the soul of a romantic?
I suppose you haven’t; it is hardly for the faint of heart, because while love for a romantic is epic in its highs, the lows of love are sadly so very crippling. It would certainly not take educated eyes to see that. In fact, the soul of a romantic is indeed an expansive battleground of long-lost lovers and the futures that died with them.
So, if you get a chance to see inside the beating heart of a romantic, I dearly hope you say no. It’s so very messy and, sadly, it’s a sight not forgotten by most.
I knew I would never forget seeing inside hers.
“Leighton, honey…” I whispered into my cellphone and leaned against the headboard of my California king. “I’m so sorry.”
“I just… I… I thought he was…” she choked out.
She had gone to Banff with Morgan for a romantic long weekend just the two of them. It should have been perfect for her, with the snow and the cozy fire. Instead, she came so close to love and it burned her. Again.
“I know you did,” I cooed, and fisted my hands in my lap.
Love was a blinding emotion, and Leighton loved with all she had, every time.
“He’s married, Char! Married!” she shouted.
That was the catch.
Morgan had gone to shower. His phone rang, and like the good girlfriend she was, she answered.
And spoke to his wife of six years.
Leighton dumped the contents of his suitcase in the snow. Took the keys to their rental car and left Morgan in the shower without saying a word.
She was now en-route to the airport.
“He’s a pig.” I shook my head, climbing out from behind the covers.
I knew technically as a rule you weren’t supposed to bad mouth someone’s ex to a certain extent, just in case your friend ever happened to get back together with them, but I figured in this case I was likely good to go.
“I can’t believe I was so stupid,” she ragged on herself.
“You’re not stupid,” I told her. “You want to believe the best in people and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
She scoffed. “I’m pathetic.”
“Shut up. You’re not pathetic; you’re romantic.” I sat on the edge of my bed and dangled my legs over the side. “And yeah, sometimes that’s brutal—”
“No shit,” she interrupted.
“But sometimes it’s magical as fuck.”
Leighton laughed.
“I mean it,” I said as sternly as I could. “I couldn’t do that. Being romantic is not easy. Only tough people can handle that.” I heard her hiccup a sob. “And you’re tough people, Leigh.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t believe me now, but she would be okay.
She always was.
She had a forgiving heart and a forgetful mind where men were concerned.