My head is tipped up, hair down my back, and in this moment, with my eyes closed, him inside of me, his hand claiming my throat, I feel loved. And I know, even in the moment, it’s the most twisted sort of love. The kind my mom, if she gave a damn, if she had been someone else, someone that cared, it would be the kind of love she warned me against. If my father was out there somewhere, he’d be disgusted. But I don’t care. It’s mine. And whether Maverick says it or not, whether he admits it, I know he feels something for me.
