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With that parting shot, he jerked the door open and his heart skipped at least three beats. Stephanie stood outside his door, hand raised and fisted as though she was mid-knock. She was wearing a loose purple T-shirt with a white rhinoceros across her tits and lettering that read Help the chunky unicorns. Skinny jeans that appeared a size too big hung from her hips.
Nothing sexy about the outfit. Nothing seductive. Hell, she didn’t even look good with dark circles under her flat eyes and a pallor to her skin that hinted she’d been hiding out inside since she’d left, yet the second his gaze finished its journey over her gentle feminine shape, his dick was rock hard and ready to play.
Instant boner.
“Stephanie,” he said as though she wasn’t aware of her own name. Not a smooth or charming opener in sight.
“Hi,” she said, dropping her hand. She flashed him the sweetest, slightly nervous smile, then her eyes shifted to a spot over his right shoulder and widened.
Carli had sidled up to him and was once again pressing into him, only she hadn’t bothered to do up her top.
Stephanie’s face blanched, which he hadn’t thought possible, then her gaze dropped, and Maverick could swear he felt the searing heat of it wrap around his cock.
His very hard cock.
The white in Stephanie’s cheeks immediately gave way to a crimson flush. “Oh, my God,” she mumbled, her gaze shifting between Carli’s smug expression and his hard dick.
The woman he’d been dreaming about for the past six weeks thought he had a raging hard-on for the scheming club whore.
Fuck a duck.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
WELL, THIS WAS off to a fabulous start.
The man who’d saved her from rape, who’d murdered the bastard who nearly raped her, who’d worked her to her first man-induced orgasm in years, and who she’d lied her ass off to protect was about to have sex with a very cheap looking…lady, if the bulge between his legs was any indication.
And she’d interrupted it.
Full-on interrupted while his date was in the process of undressing.
Kill me now.
The intensity of his gaze made her squirm, made it impossible to look away and peek at his package to see if it was still hard or if she’d totally killed his mood.
“What are you doing here?”
Well, he didn’t sound repulsed by her presence. Though certainly not excited either. Straight-up shocked was more like it.
“I, uh, um…”
In the forty-six hours since she left SAC Baccarella’s office, Stephanie had been briefed, briefed again, and then briefed some more. She was now the FBI’s official Hell’s Handlers expert with a profile on each man memorized—at least as much information as the FBI had, which admittedly was not impressive. They’d also given her a cover story that she’d learned forward and backward, but now seemed unable to conjure a single word of.
Then it started to come back to her. Maverick: road captain. Owner of a private security business suspected of muscle for hire and some illegally acquired intel. Lives at the Handlers’ clubhouse. Fun-loving, easygoing to a point.
Womanizer.
“I—” She cleared her throat and shifted her focus to the frowning woman. Why wasn’t he shutting the door in her face and getting back to business?
He continued to stare at her like he could see straight through her skin. “You’re struggling.”
Not the story the FBI wanted her to use, but the truth. They preferred she act worried for him and how he was healing. Thought it would help her worm her way into the fold. Part of her wanted to deny his statement, but she found herself unable to lie to those penetrating eyes. Except for the whole being an FBI agent, of course.
“I’m struggling.”
“Fuck.” He nodded and ran a hand through his hair. “You look like shit.”
Well, that was sweet.
The second the words left his mouth, he winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Holding up a hand, Steph nodded. “It’s fine. I haven’t been sleeping all that well. Not much of an appetite.” In case he was wondering why her outfit hung off her like a sack. As opposed to Miss Ginormous-Tits who wore skin-tight clothes and seemed to have lost all patience for this interaction.
“Baby,” she whined, rubbing those voluptuous breasts against Maverick’s arms. “Come on back inside.”
Maverick blinked and finally pulled his gaze from Stephanie, gaping at the woman as though he’d forgotten she was there. “Get gone, Carli,” he said sliding his arm from her boa constrictor hold.
“But—” She pouted. Actually pouted like an unhappy child.
“Nuh uh. Time’s up.” Mav stepped forward, dismissing her, his focus back on Stephanie. His gaze started at her hair and took a slow, examining journey down her body, stopping at her wrists. He circled it with a touch so gentle, tears sprang to Stephanie’s eyes. His thumb landed on the raised scar left from the handcuffs, and he lifted her arm as though holding a butterfly. “Shit, wildcat.”
