watch the computer screen and imagine it’s his hot dick sliding into me instead of my own small fingers. “Yes. Like that. Just like that,” he groans. He slows down his stroking to match the pace I’m working myself. He is the one screwing me now. It’s hot. Everything about this sets me on fire. I feel my cheeks flush and tingles flash everywhere.
I come hard, moaning small pants as I float down from the epic high. I close my eyes to regain my bearings and when I open them, Maverick has his camera pointed back at his face.
“Hey,” I breathe. “No fair.” I sit up, wrapping my arms around my knees.
“Oh it was perfectly fair. I’m a fucking mess over here. I underestimated your virtual appeal.” He points the camera down to his come-covered stomach and quickly back up.
“I like seeing you a mess,” I say.
“I like seeing you come,” he counters.
“I’m the newest fan of SF. Can we do it again?”
He tilts his head in question, eyes wide. “Right now?”
I laugh. “Not right now but another time?”
“Okay good. I’d love to beat it again while watching you writhe on your bed like the world’s hottest porn star, but Stone will be back soon and I’m not sure I can be that quick again. Though, if you asked me, I wouldn’t say no,” Mav admits, smiling widely.
“I feel bad. I didn’t even get to tell you what I think about when I use Bob late at night.” I wink.
He presses his lips into a firm line. “Oh, come on, Win. You don’t have to breathe a word to have me blowing my fucking load,” he says. An uneasiness creeps onto his face. I frown.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head and says, “We both know exactly what I do want you to tell me.”
The words die on my lips. I love you, I think once again. I open my mouth to explain or play dumb, I’m not sure which. I’ll never know because the screen cuts to black and the Skype call is lost…or disconnected.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Maverick
WE HAVE A mission tomorrow night. We spent two months planning it. It’s a big one and I’d be stupid if a little nervousness didn’t mix with my excitement. It’s all I think about. The scenarios flit through my mind like a Power Point slide show.
That’s how it’s supposed to be. I’m reassured knowing that Windsor won’t cloud my brain as we storm a compound vice shack and kill some fucking bad guys, but she’s always there in some form or another. She won’t admit that she loves me. She tried to explain in an e-mail after the greatest Skype call of all time, but her explanation fell short.
Here’s the thing: I know she’s in love with me. I recognize it as the same thing I feel. It’s in her eyes, in her words, in her heart. It’s everywhere, blatantly staring me in the face, taunting me, because she won’t say three words. I feel guilty after I get upset. She went through a lot with Nash and I can’t get pissed about that. It’s that jackass that ruined her to begin with. She’s mine to fix.
I thought she’d be past him by now. It will be in the corner of the room for the rest of her life, I realize. It sucks. I know the feeling.
When I do let myself think about Windsor it’s all consuming. I pull up the Facebook and Julio Bigcock sends Windsor a quick message explaining that he won’t be able to talk or e-mail for a few days. She’s always understanding when I can’t write her. She’s good at this…at deployment. It makes my chest well with pride. I hear stories about girlfriends cheating a week after we take off. This life isn’t made for many men. It’s made for just as few women, too. I found one.
Steve and Stone are in my room pacing around like a couple of caged panthers ready for their raw meat. I only hear snippets of their conversation because I’m scrolling through Windsor’s Facebook page like a superstar stalker. I read what her friends post, I click on photos of people I don’t know to try to figure out how she knows them, and then I scan through her newest photos. It’s addictive. It’s like glimpsing into her life—a life I’m not currently a part of. Sometimes she’ll write little updates about missing me or private jokes that only I’ll understand. I like