Pusher

forty-two.

I cracked the door of Maverick's truck, careful not to let too much rain pour in. His eyebrows were raised, surprise written into his face. One glance from those dark eyes and suddenly I wasn't so sure what I was doing, caught between pretending to have forgotten something under the seat and telling the truth. Before I could really decide the words were already tumbling out.

"You can come in. You know, if you want to. We could watch a movie or something."

I shrugged, trying to appear casual, but I think he could sense the desperation that burned inside me. He agreed, almost entirely without hesitation. I told him to grab his shirt and the blanket, and we half-jogged to my porch. He did his best to pretend like he wasn't freezing as we stood there in front of the door while I struggled to unstick the key from the lock. Sometimes it felt like everything in this house was falling apart.

I shouldered it open and we retreated inside. He trailed after me, boots squeaking along the wood floors as I led him to the laundry room. I tossed our wet clothes into the dryer along with the dripping blanket and threw a clean towel at him. He ran it through his hair and across his chest — still shirtless — as I tried to avert my gaze.

I sent him back into the living room to pick out a movie and slipped out of my jeans, rather ungracefully, as soon as he was out of sight. I tugged on a pair of pajama shorts, but his sweater hung so low on my thighs that it didn't make much of a difference.

When I wandered back out, I found Maverick in the kitchen. His muscles stretched across his back as he reached to the top of the pantry, fumbling for a packet of popcorn. His jeans hung low on hips, an area I was desperately trying to keep my eyes away from. I focused on his tattoo instead, watching the way the line drawing stretched across his skin.

"Good idea," I said. He didn't notice me until I spoke, craning his head around to glance at me. His eyes briefly scanned over my bare legs, and I didn't feel so guilty about staring at his exposed skin and the intricate ink that painted it. He threw the popcorn into my microwave and then turned his attention back to me, leaning back against the dining table with his hands propped back on its surface. I wondered if he knew how well the pose made his arms look. Once again, I tore my eyes away, but I think he noticed the effort it took this time. 

"Do you want your sweater back?" I asked, " I can change into something else."

"I'm alright," he said, shaking his head. His teeth dragged along his bottom lip, a small subconscious act. "Besides, you look good in my clothes."

A small smile quirked the corner of my mouth. In any other situation I might have rolled my eyes at him, but this time it didn't feel like he was teasing me. I hopped off the cool tile floor and sat on the edge of the counter, my curious eyes roaming over him.

"You think so?"

He took a step forward, all dark eyes and messy, wet hair. For a moment I feared I made a mistake — that I should have insisted he take back his sweater because I was having trouble focusing on his eyes. And then he was standing between my knees, his palms pressed to the counter on either side of my waist.

"I do."

Our eyes were level, but I was too afraid to meet his. Instead I focused on his mouth, ever so slightly parted and growing nearer. He moved slowly, slow enough for me to count each breath that fanned over my lips before our noses touched. His fingers curled against the outside of my thighs, just brushing the skin. My hands slid over top of his, tracing from his fingers to his wrist.

A cord wrapped around my chest and squeezed until I could no longer breathe, until my erratic heart felt as though it would burst. My head was swimming, drowning in the soft curve of his lips, the rough warmth of his scent, the water droplet still hanging onto a strand of his damp hair, the fear that this was wrong.