Maneater (The Mavens, #1)

by Morgan Elizabeth

To the strong, powerful, independent women who know the power of playing dumb. May the world continue to underestimate you.

Sometimes, I feel bad about ruining the lives of men. Sometimes, I catch glimpses of a different version and see past the carefully crafted one meant to pull unsuspecting people into his web. Those days, despite the research we’ve done to ensure our client is in the right and that the man I’m currently trying to pull evidence from is, in fact, a piece of shit, I feel the tiniest niggling of guilt about deceiving them to get their deepest, darkest secrets with a simple smile and a bat of my eyelashes.

This is probably the worst part about my job: having to win over the grossest specimens of men and stroke their egos just enough so they slip up.

“You really don’t have to do that, you know,” a familiar deep voice says. It’s a good voice, the kind that rolls through you—a little dangerous like thunder in the distance, but bringing with it a warning of what’s to come. When I turn, the lights behind him cast him in shadow, but I still know what—or rather, who—I’m dealing with. The man who keeps bumping into me at bars and restaurants across Hudson City while I’m on jobs and who has started to make a game out of riling me up. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was stalking me or something, but fortunately, I’m a Maven, and I do know better. If I had a stalker, Gabriel would be on it in a flash. Rowan.

I’ve never wanted to know much more than his name, though, not with the way he always looks down his nose at me, with the way he always gives the tiniest barbs that stick a little too deep. And with how my body responds to him in a way completely opposite to how my mind does, he could easily blow my cover on assignments.

the first time I met Rowan was in my junior year, when I was running an underground business of testing girls’ boyfriends to see if they were cheaters and would fall for my flirting. Spoiler: so, so many did. At that point, I was targeting different frat boys and trust-fund babies almost every week, using my unique skills to help out my friends and friends of friends. He judged me back then, too, though I’ll admit, it probably did look strange that I was always out with some other guy.

“You can think whatever you want about me,” I said, leaning back with my wine glass in hand, gently swirling the liquid like I had not a care in the world. His jaw was tight as he looked over me, and I did my own personal thorough onceover to ensure every muscle in my body remained loose and unaffected.

You’re clearly very intrigued by me and my happenings, since this is what? The third time you’ve found a reason to talk to someone I was having dinner with?” His jaw tightened, proving I had hit a nerve. “And, really, I can’t blame you—I have a mirror, after all. But just because you so desperately wish you were the one wining and dining me doesn’t mean you have to be a dick to me.”

I’m startled when he pulls the chair next to me out and sits down, though I don’t bother to argue and tell him that it’s taken. If I’m being honest, I’m…intrigued by him.

“If you’re trying to make me feel bad about conning him out of two hundred bucks, you’ve got the wrong woman, babe. I don’t feel bad for a man who is clearly married and hitting on women at a bar. And I definitely don’t let random assholes like you make me feel bad about any decisions I make in my life.” I can feel rather than see his gaze burning into me, and then I hear his laugh. It’s even better than his voice, warming me like a shot on an empty stomach. At the sound, I can’t help but turn fully to look at him. The light shifts as he also moves to look at me, and I’m reminded once again that despite his horrific attitude, the man is hot.

“You know, I think in an alternate universe, we could be friends. You with all that sass, absolutely no filter, and⁠—” I cut him off before he can continue. “And you with your dry personality and clear obsession with me?” He smiles again, and this time it’s more genuine, with all his straight white teeth and full lips. “Yeah, something like that.” He looks me over, top to toe—or at least what he can see from where I’m sitting—and that smile goes lazy in a way I feel through my whole body.

He turns to me a bit, just enough so the lights of the dimly lit bar hit his smile, and I jolt when heat runs through me. Oh, god, this man is dangerous. Not because he clearly is an ass or is making assumptions about me, but because that smile could be absolutely catastrophic if used correctly.

“What about me?” he asks. “You?” “What do you get from me?” I stare at him, trying to see if he’s playing a game, but I think he’s being serious. So I do what I do best: assess. Okay, so maybe it’s what I do second best, because flirting is truly my specialty.

A beat passes before he smiles, and fuck, his smile is good, especially now that I can see the full force of it, how it crinkles at the corners of his eyes, how it stretches across his cheeks.

Carrie slides the whiskey to him, and he thanks her, sliding a black card across the bar back to her. “Put her other drinks on here. Keep the previous payment as a tip. And a fresh glass, if she wants,” Rowan says. Something about it is undeniably hot in a way that doesn’t usually do it for me. The smoothness of the card slide, not only insisting on paying for my next drink, with the assumption I’ll be enjoying it with him, but my previous ones as well.

“You know, the whole grumpy asshole thing is kind of hot, but I bet you’d get laid more if you dropped it.” It’s a bit of a lie because, unfortunately for me, assholes have always been my type. And worst of all, I think Rowan could also be my type. Because, fuck, just look at how his arms look in that button-down. The fabric is literally straining. I have to actively fight against the urge to fan myself. Add in the fact that his bared forearms are thick with veins and sinew and muscle that make my mouth water, along with the edges of a tattoo I desperately, in my tipsy state, want to see in its totality, and I’m lost to common sense.

He smiles. It’s devilish and shoots lust through me. It’s probably a mix of adrenaline from a completed assignment earlier, drinks on a nearly empty stomach, and banter with this man who drives me mad that is creating an undeniable cocktail of desire to shift through me, but for once, I don’t care. For once, the tight rein I normally hold on my restraint and common sense is loosening.

“I’ve found that actions speak louder than words,” I say. It sounds huskier even to my own ears, and for once, it wasn’t intentional, not part of some intricate scheme to win someone over, to convince them to tell me what I want to hear. This is so far out of character for me. Usually, I’m all talk, no action. All flirting with no payoff. God, I can’t remember the last time I went on a real date that wasn’t set up for work, much less the last time I kissed a man. But right now, I want this man to prove to me he has the skill.

He stares at me hungrily, his gaze moving between my eyes and my lips, a small smile tipping the edges of his own. “I feel like you’re not an easy woman to impress, Josie.” “Seems like all of your obsessing over me has paid off a bit.” “I’m not obsessing over you,” he lies. “Sure you aren’t, baby.” I don’t have much time to revel in the flash of pleasure and heat that lights his face at my words because then his lips are on mine, and the world slows. Every bit of my focus drops to where we meet, to where his tongue glides along my bottom lip, a polite request to open, which I oblige too quickly.

It’s a full-body experience, the way he feels pressed against me, the way my mind quiets, the way he tastes, the throaty sound of approval that comes from his chest as he kisses me.

“How’s that whiskey you hate so much taste now that it’s on my tongue?” I groan, my hips shifting to try and get some kind of relief from the need quickly building in me, and a deep chuckle rumbles through him. “It’s an acquired taste, I suppose,” I murmur. “I haven’t quite decided yet how I feel about it.” “Give me a few minutes, I can guarantee you’ll love the taste when I’m done with you.”

“Please,” I whisper, my eyes fluttering shut, shock rolling through my system at how turned on I am. It’s never like this. I’ve never been so turned on by a man that I lose all common sense, let him pull me into a room in a bar, and beg him to ease the ache inside of me.

“You have to prove yourself worthy before you fuck me, Mr.—” I pause, realizing I don’t actually know his last name. “Fisher,” he says, then slides a finger into my wet pussy. “But you can call out Rowan when you come.”

“Is that what you need? Me to prove myself before I get the pleasure of fucking you?” I smile then, all drooping eyelids and satisfied lips, before nodding. “Exactly. I’m not wasting my time with a man who doesn’t know how to make me come.” “Challenge accepted,” he says,

My body is still singing with bliss, my heart still racing, and despite the orgasm, I already want more. He lets out a dark chuckle of his own, a shake of his head that has my entire pussy tensing once more. “That was just the start, Josie.” His hand lifts, wet fingers moving to my lips as I stare at him with lust and need. “Clean these.” The idea of tasting myself on a man has never been something I thought was hot, but my fucking God, when he slides his fingers between my lips, when my tongue tastes the salty, musky flavor of myself on his thick, calloused fingers, remembering how they stretched me and made me come quicker than ever before just moments before, I moan.

This doesn’t normally do it for me, this thinking he’s got me figured out, thinking he has me in the palm of his hand, but for some reason, with Rowan, it doesn’t feel like a show. Instead, it’s like a game. But two can play, and god, I love to win.

The phone continues its shrill call from his pocket, and his head falls back to look at the ceiling with another pained groan. “I have to get that.” My eyes snap up to him, and like a child who knows she’s about to not get her way, I put my hand over his dick, palming it once more. It twitches beneath my hand. “What? No. No, you don’t. Ignore it.” “Unfortunately, I can’t. It’s my emergency line.” His fingers slide out of my hair, and he steps back. Without thinking, I mewl in protest, shoulders dropping as I pout. Pouting. Me, Josephine Montgomery. Pouting for a man. What the fuck is happening to me?

The ringing stops as he steps away, and I give him a hopeful look. My body is humming with need, and I think the only person who will be able to sate it is standing right in front of me. Maybe the emergency is over, maybe⁠— But then the ringing starts again, and his hand is in front of me, offering to help me up. I don’t miss that it’s the one that was in me not long ago as I take it with a defeated sigh. At least I got an orgasm out of it.

The first time I met Josie, I was enamored. The second time, I was annoyed. This is the twenty-second time I’ve bumped into her. Each time I left feeling slightly different, but this is the first time I’m leaving with blue balls.

I’ve never been on my knees for a woman, but my fucking god, the way she looks down at me like she knows she could own me if she asked nicely makes my already hard cock throb.

I pull her into my arms, taking in her sweet, floral perfume. I’ve smelled it a dozen times when I’ve interrupted one of her many dates with colleagues and acquaintances, the scent of it haunting me each time. Just like the woman now in my arms.

I haven’t ever felt such a pull to a woman like this, this undeniable need to touch her, to taste her. Considering that no woman has interested me enough to make me put my work aside for even a moment, this feels monumental. Despite myself, I want more of her. It feels like an idiotic move to let this go. I like the way she pushes my buttons and the way I can push hers back without her getting offended. I like the way that she’s clearly attracted to me yet doesn’t throw herself at me like some women I encounter do.

There’s something so magnetic about her, something that pulls me so when I saw her sitting across from Stephen Jones months ago, I knew I needed to talk to her. Josie is nothing like the women who fawn and faint around me, batting their lashes and pouting their lips. Instead, she challenges everything I say and practically begs me to argue with her, instantly knowing how to press my buttons in ways I shouldn’t like, but I do all the same.

“If you want me bad enough…a big, powerful man like you…you’ll find me.” The words, like everything about her, are so unexpected, they stop me in my tracks. “Find you?” She’s fluffing her hair as she reaches for the bag I didn’t realize had slid to the floor when we entered, a playful smile on her lips. That’s when it hits me: she’s really going to leave without giving me her number. She shrugs before responding. “Yeah. If you want me, find me.”

“You’re really not going to give me your number?” “You’re really not going to put in the effort to find me?” she counters in a whisper. “I’m a busy man, Josie. I don’t have time for games.” Something flashes in her eyes, and then she moves, dipping under my arm, smiling, and pulling open the door for good this time. “Then it sounds like you’re too busy for a woman like me. Thanks again.” And then she’s gone.

Two figures far off duck under the caution tape, and I curse low before continuing toward them. It’s not until I’m about twenty feet away that I catch a brief, familiar glance of one of the women’s faces and freeze before shifting around the corner in case she turns again. Because for some insane reason, I’m pretty sure I’m looking at Josie. Josie, the woman who has intrigued and confused me for months. Years, even. Josie, whose dates I can’t seem to stop myself from interrupting just to watch her jaw get tight with irritation. Josie, whom I bumped into at Dante’s bar, who got my dick hard just by arguing with me, who willfully followed me into the office belonging to my friend, who let me push her against a wall and kiss her, who moaned when I slid my fingers into her, who called out my name when she came, and who, most importantly, refused to give me her number.

When I saw her at Opal, I was ready for more of the same: a quick flare of her irritation and then moving on with my evening, but this time, she wasn’t actually with someone. This time, I took the seat next to her, flirted with her, chatted with her, and realized I fucking wanted her. Since the only woman I had been able to think about for the past year, since she fell back into my life, was her, I decided fucking her out of my system would be the solution. That is, until we were interrupted.

Why does the fucking universe hate me so goddamn much as to put this woman in my path, interrupt us in such an untimely manner, and then put her here this week? As if I don’t have enough on my plate, the world drops this utter distraction of a woman into my lap. Just my fucking luck.

I put a hand up to shade my eyes to get a good look at who I’m talking to against the blinding sun behind him. It hits me why the voice sounded so familiar. His hazel eyes lock on mine, showing the barest hint of shock before hiding once more beneath his annoyed mask. “You,” he says, low and assessing, and I feel the single word coast along every inch of my body like cool flames licking over my skin. “You,” I reply, my voice breathier than I mean for it to be, but that usually works in my favor. Unfortunately, it simply seems to annoy Rowan further.

I step forward and brush sand from my hand on my hip, along where the high-rise bottoms lay across my full hips. I’m grateful for the revealing bikini I’m in, but for once in my life, I don’t know if it’s going to work. Rowan has always been immune to my charm.

It’s not my favorite mask to put on, but I’d rather be perceived as an idiot than suspicious. It’s why the Mavens work so well, specifically when it comes to men: they’d rather see a gorgeous woman with nothing between her ears than a woman on a mission. It’s also something I quickly learned after my glow-up in high school: we live in a society where someone sees a pretty face and a killer body and decides she’s an airhead. I simply decided to use their assumptions against them. They want to think I’m some kind of idiot with a nice rack and let their guard down because of it? Let them. It works in my favor, after all.

“No,” he says, quick and easy, without even bothering to answer my question. I fight the urge to flinch, not because I’m hurt or disappointed, but because that doesn’t happen. I don’t get turned down.

“You’re kind of an ass,” I say without meaning to, but it seems to be the right thing to say regardless because, for the first time since he caught us, a smile spreads on his lips. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” Oh, there is no world where that should be hot. Not even the tiniest bit. But with the smile and the way he said it, all low and sexy and accompanied by the knowledge of what his fingers can do to my body…it is. It is so hot.

Unfortunately, assholes totally do it for me. It’s why I’m still single, of course. For some crazy reason, I want a man who is an asshole to everyone but treats me like a princess. Unfortunately, it seems that man only exists in my imagination.

“You were so nice at the bar,” I say, my voice going soft. It’s a lie, but I tell it anyway. As if without meaning to, his eyes move over my face, down my body, and back up again before smiling wider, like a predator sensing prey. “I think that was an extenuating circumstance.” I roll my eyes because...

I step forward, closing the gap between us and putting a hand on his arm. It’s covered in a thin, white button-down, too dressy for a casual beach resort, but I can still feel his warmth beneath my hand and his strong muscles flexing as I rest there. A rush runs through me. I am a sucker for arms. It actually would be beneficial for my work ethic if he kept the business casual a...

He stares down at me with a look of impatience, and it’s then that I realize it’s not working. Sure, he’s a bit distracted by my every curve being on display in this bathing suit, but beyond that, he’s either holding tight to some rope of restraint and professionalism, or he’s just not falling for it. And in that same moment, I decide to make it my new personal mission to get Rowan to look at me with the same heat he showed me in that bar, to make him want me, even if I won’t cross that line now that things are different and this is for work. It’s a point of pride, being able to have a man falling at my feet. And I won’t let Rowan Fisher ruin my perfect score.

I love a challenge, and he just presented me with the perfect one: crack Rowan Fisher once and for all.

I reach over and barely graze his pinky with my own. It’s the barest brush, chaste, even, but it still sends a bolt of heat through me. Well, that might be a problem.

A long moment passes as I take him in. Fuck, he’s handsome. So much more so than I gave him credit for the dozen or so times we’ve bumped into each other. Like this, smiling and at ease for the smallest moment in time, he looks completely different.