“You’ve been crying.”

Just like that, with his tenderness—so unexpected for such a tough guy—he makes my eyes sting a little again.

“How do you know?” I whisper.

“I just know.” He dries the other corner of my eye, looking sad. “You okay?” he asks.

“I am now,” I croak, and I look at his chest, and up at him, and swallow. “You look very handsome in black. Are you going out?”

His lips pull a little, and his eyes are still full of questions—and tenderness. So much tenderness I feel flooded with it. He shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

I like how silent he is, how every look of his says something. We’re both silent now. And I think he knows why I’m here.

Or does he?

He’s studying me too deeply. Almost tortured. And I realize maybe he doesn’t.

I take his hand and open it, and then I set the penny inside.

His eyes raise to me, questioning.

“I want you to make love to me.”

He inhales sharply and closes his fingers around the penny, his voice rougher. “Only that?”

“No.” My voice is low and very soft, but on fire with meaning. “I want you to love me very hard. Because I’m pretty sure I’ve never loved someone as hard as I love you, Maverick.”

His every muscle tightens when I say it, his shoulders, his jaw, his arms, his legs, and I can see a flash ripple in his eyes as if he can barely keep himself in check.

He’s known rejection, and I almost feel as if acceptance is new to him.

As if he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“I know that we still have a lot to learn about each other. But I also know there will never be another Maverick in my life,” I keep going. “I came here to find myself. And I think I did. And I also found . . . you.”

“And I found you,” he counters gruffly, standing suddenly closer, his eyes devouring me.

“So.” I clear my throat and go on, “I want to be with you. For as long as we have. An hour, a week, or just for the summer. I feel things for you that I don’t understand and I want to. You’re not your father, and I’m not my family. And for some reason, Maverick, I think that you’re quiet enough that you can hear me. And with you, I don’t need to wonder what you mean. Because you say what you mean.”

“I fucking want you, Reese,” he growls, impatient.

“Have me then. Right now. And tomorrow.”

“Both of those. And after.” He grabs my waist and lifts me, and I curl my arms around his neck. I see his jaw tighten as he looks at me, studies me. Memorizes me.

His eyes drop to my breasts. His hands shift lower, to my ass.

And he raises his eyes to mine.

“You’re priceless. Gold. Not gold, you’re the whole fucking mine to me. Do you know that?”

God, those eyes. So stormy right now.

“Maverick, Racer swallowed and choked on a little train wheel,” I blurt out. “He wasn’t breathing right, he was purple—”

“He all right?” He sounds harsh and angry, his hands clenching my hips convulsively. And I know it’s because he cares.

“Yes. He’s okay. I just . . .” He sets me down. “I was distracted. Thinking of . . . our trip together. And the next thing I saw was him choking. I didn’t even know it was the train wheel until I realized the train he’d been playing with had only three wheels. Remy twisted him upside down and then tried to pull it out, but it seemed caught. . . . We rushed him to the hospital.” I wipe my tears. “That’s why I couldn’t make it to the airport. I wanted to come. I ended up at the hospital, but I clung to your penny and to thoughts of you. And so I came here.”

His eyes cloud with a mix of sad tenderness. “Reese, what you’re asking me to do—I don’t need you to give me back the penny. It was all I had to give you. But now I have more. And I’ll have even more still.”

“But I want you to have the penny for a while. For luck.”

He tucks it into his jeans pocket and then raises his hand and lays his fingers on my hair, runs them through the strands as he uses his free hand and gently pulls me into his arms.

I’m knotted up, waiting for his lips, waiting for his skin to touch mine. But he’s running his fingers down my hair as if it’s lovely. As if it’s made of streaks of honey or rays of sunlight or yellow diamonds. When I tip my head up, I feel him place his lips on the bridge of my nose, five times. On my . . . five freckles?

I tip my head up higher, and Maverick finally yields to the impulse and tastes my mouth. I taste him too, soft, hungry. Gripping his shirt in my fists. A shirt I want to take off so badly.

The things this man does have no precedent, will have no predecessors; they couldn’t.

I boost myself up with my fists and curl my legs around his hips, and his muscles ripple beneath me as he starts walking us to the room. My fingers trace the tattoo on his back, over his shirt. He stops walking. Closes his eyes. He holds me tighter, close.

“Reese,” he whispers in my ear.

He tips my head back and clenches his teeth, his eyes raw and violent.

“What?” I pant, pressing closer. My breasts ache, my sex aches, my whole body aches.

“When you do that . . .” he begins, dark and hot.

I run my fingers over his tattoo again, and he presses me against the nearest wall, and crushes my mouth with his in a kiss that curls my toes and makes me clench my legs around his hips tighter as he grinds himself to me.

I touch his face. “You’re the first big decision I’ve made on my own. The first good decision.”

He looks hazy with desire as he gazes hotly at my smile, then frowns at me. “How do you know I’m a good decision?” he asks, his voice rasping in his throat.

“Because I know you.”

His expression flashes darkly with emotion.

“Spend the night,” he says. Nuzzling me.

I nod. “But I need to be back by the time Racer wakes up.”

“Okay,” he concedes, stroking a hand down my bare arm, savoring me. “How long do we have?”

“I’d say it’s long.” I giggle.

God.

Maverick is so hard against me.

His eyes dance playfully. “Dirty girl.”

“I’d say five a.m. would work?”