Rhapsody

24: these violent delights

For the life of him, Maverick cannot find the light switch. His fingers grope the wall, callouses scratching the paint like sandpaper, but it's a futile endeavor.

Fuck the light. Maverick's got two hands and a hot ass werewolf under their touch. Not even God could stop him now.

He guides his and Emery's interlocked bodies further into his apartment. Gently, the wolf grazes his teeth against his neck. Maverick moans open-mouthed to the ceiling, like an animal in heat.

He has studied every elegant curve of Emery's form, from the ridges above his startling blue gaze, to the shape of his waist, to the angles of his stride. Now that the roiling muscles of Emery's abdomen are here, just beneath his palms, he doesn't think he can focus on anything else.

The aged wood floors creak beneath their weight. With ease and grace, Emery maneuvers them further into the apartment. Maverick's back hits a wall. The incandescent glow of appliances suggests he's somewhere near the kitchen.

His kitchen.

The thought settles like lead in his stomach. Emery, ever so perceptive, reels back.

"Detective, is this—"

"Don't call me detective," Maverick groans.

Emery sniffs the deflection out like a goddamn bloodhound. His eyes—dark and wanton in the shitty light—search Maverick's face.

"If you're no longer comfortable..."

"It's not that," Maverick amends quickly. He swallows. "I just—I don't know."

But he does know. Anywhere else, Maverick is an entity of his own making—a guest who can depart in the morning and leave all the strings behind. But here, in his own apartment, there's no pretending. He's just Maverick, as plain and simple as the space he inhabits. The thought leaves him feeling more bare and vulnerable than any act of intimacy.

He wants this. And he wants Emery. He could swallow the moon and stars but the black hole of his heart would never be satisfied if Maverick didn't have him tonight. So there's nothing left to do now but take those smirking lips back into his own.

"Never mind," Maverick murmurs. Slowly, he feels the other begin to relax against his lips. "But we've gotta move it somewhere else. I'm not doing this in front of my fucking cat."

Lithe fingers trace up Maverick's spine. Before a shiver can capture his body, he's moving, his apartment a whirlwind of tonal grays around him. It's not the vodka. It can't be. The last traces disappeared on the walk back, dissipated in teasing touches and open-air laughter, replaced by something much more potent. The backs of his knees hit the bed, and Maverick lays back, feeling nothing short of just plain high.

He yanks his shirt off and tosses it into the abyssal dark. With the lack of light, Maverick can hardly make out the shape of the bed surrounding him, let alone Emery standing over him. Headlights from the occasional passing cast fleeting flashes, enough to briefly illuminate one titillating gaze.

The anxiety melts away. How on earth could he care, when those eyes are staring down at him like that? 

Maverick drinks in the sight. Emery stands tall and proud, hair delightfully mussed, regal lips swollen and hanging half open with lust, pants tight and shirt riding up over the ridges of his hips. He's perfect, Maverick thinks, but for the first time it's without a tinge of jealousy. Emery is perfect—lean, muscled, gentle yet sharp as a goddamn whip, a pretty-talker but made of all teeth—and he's in his bedroom.

His hands are trembling, aching for the feel of Emery's taut skin.

"Get the fuck down here," he says.