Damaged Like Us (Like Us 1)

“I don’t have one,” she says. “They’re infuriating, and if I lose my phone, I’ll wipe the data clean immediately. Plus, I have nothing incriminating. I delete all my texts, and I upload most of my photos and videos to Instagram already. There’s nothing anyone can steal.”

Maximoff smiles, proud of his friend.

Her preparation reminds me of something the security team says about Jane. That she acts carefree, but her whole life is outlined and planned to her liking, and she juggles just as much, if not more, than Maximoff Hale.

While I find the video, I tell Jane, “Lightly rub his shoulder blades, and you won’t hurt him.”

Maximoff grips the back of the loveseat harder, and he licks his lips again. I find myself watching him, and as I near the armrest, closest to his chest, he’s more eye-level with my belt.

Maximoff stares off into space. Where’d you go, Moffy? I wave my hand at him, but he’s lost in his head.

“Farrow.” Jane’s blue eyes twinkle. “How many massages have you given before? And why?”

Alpha also calls her Jane “Curiosity Killed the Cat” Cobalt.

I scroll through her YouTube “recently watched” feed. “Too many, and look up the main purpose of a massage and you have your answer.” I discover the video and whistle. “How To Give An Amazing, Super, Fantastic Massage.” I press play and find a blurry image of two high school girls. “No.” I shut if off. “Let me show you.”

Maximoff wakes up, glaring at me. “No.”

“Welcome back, space cadet.”

He flips me off and repeats harshly, “No.”

Jane shakes out her arms, tired already.

“You have to use your whole body,” I tell her, and to him, I say, “Let me demonstrate so she can copy me.” I’d love to give him a massage for more reasons than just to help Jane.

Maximoff gestures to my chest. “You don’t know how to give a massage.”

“And you really missed the part where I just said I’ve given massages before.” I place Jane’s phone on the coffee table. “I know how to do a lot of things better than average. I’m good with my hands.”

“Great.” He’s being more headstrong over something I thought he’d forfeit for Jane. I hone in on his stiff posture and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Maybe Farrow is right,” Jane says, “maybe I could use a real live demonstration.”

“Maybe Farrow is full of shit,” Moffy replies.

“Maybe Maximoff is scared of getting a massage from me,” I refute.

“You’re wrong.” He stands, facing me with as much self-confidence as Atlas bracing the world. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. “So what now?” He’s agreeing to a massage.

I use my boot and push the coffee table away from the couch. Then I throw a pillow onto the ground. “Lie down, wolf scout. Let me change your world.”

8

MAXIMOFF HALE

I’M SO FUCKED.

I breathe through my nose. Suppressing whatever tries to heat my veins and disorient my head. Lust? Irritation? Infatuation?

I stare him directly in the eye. Unabashed, but I keep thinking, never in my goddamn life have I wanted to accept an order like that one as badly as I do now.

I’m highly aware that I’ve always been drawn to alpha males. The kind of men who want to top me as much as I want to top them. I get my way almost every time, but just toying with the vulnerability of being with someone just as strong, just as dominant, lights me up to the fucking max.

Imagining that person while I stand here, right now, I realize that Farrow Redford Keene is the penultimate match.

He’s your bodyguard. Thank you, moral conscience. It’s why I refuse to let my gaze slip down to his mouth or his six-foot-three build. I don’t even let him read my reaction for long.

I retie my loose drawstring pants. And then I kneel on the rug before lying on my stomach. A position I rarely find myself in.

I prop myself on my elbows. And crane my neck over my shoulder. Keeping a narrowed eye on Farrow. He removes his silver rings. One-by-one.

Christ. His fingers—those fingers are going to be on me. The back of my neck is boiling hot.

His brown eyes travel languidly along my back muscles—ones that showcase my diehard love of swimming. And proficiency in the butterfly stroke.

After he pockets his rings, Janie hands him a bottle of oil. “A dreadfully bad idea or good one to film this for reference material?”

“Bad,” I say, for no other reason but this one, “if it leaks somehow, people will start asking who’s my amateur masseuse.”

Farrow rolls his eyes at the word amateur, but he also agrees, “Don’t record.”

We both know people would fixate on Farrow in this hypothetical video recording. Because he’s a.) fully-tattooed, b.) the kind of attractive that makes you crave a “happy ending” and c.) his hands would be on me.

It’d make him famous.

Famous people can’t protect famous people. Or else I’d be the bodyguard to my own siblings. And once a bodyguard needs a bodyguard to protect themselves, they’re worthless to security.

Farrow would lose his job.

Jane lounges on the loveseat. “I’ll watch attentively then and take mental notes.” Lady Macbeth, an old black cat, springs onto her lap and collapses, purring. Janie kisses the cat’s fur and scratches behind her ears.

That damn cat better not distract Jane. I’m not about to repeat this massage.

“Cela n’arrivera pas deux fois,” I tell her. It will not happen twice.

She strokes Lady Macbeth, her bright blue eyes on me knowingly. “Je regarde. Profite du massage, Moffy.” I’m watching. Enjoy the massage, Moffy.

I stay propped on my forearms and glance over my shoulder again. Standing, Farrow oils his palms, so damn confident. His smile stretches at the sight of me watching, his bottom lip piercing too hot.

Everything about Farrow is lightning cracking the night sky.

He lowers.

Fuck—here we go.

He rests his knee beside my waist, and the sole of his boot is on my other side. Straddling me without touching me. Not yet, at least.

“All the way down, Maximoff,” he says in that deep, gravel voice. “Arms flat by your sides.”

My pulse pounds in my neck. I tensely extend my arms by my waist. Which forces me to look away from Farrow. I’d rather hide my face, so I put my forehead on the decorative pillow. Concealed, but also staring at nothing.

“Don’t kill me,” I snap.

He leans forward, his lips near my ear. “Hurting you is the antithesis of my job description.”

Right.

“Trust me,” he breathes. “Relax.” The silky part of his voice soothes me from head-to-toe like stepping into a steaming sauna.

Fuck.

Me.

My normally bound shoulders want to unlock, and I force my arms to stay still and not bring them to the pillow. My whole back is exposed. And only the gray fabric of my drawstring pants lies between Farrow and my bare ass.

I’m not wearing any boxer-briefs.

He can probably tell.

I shut my eyes. Breathing stronger. The anticipation killing me.

And then his warmed, oiled hands start at my tailbone. Holy shit. Using the weight of his body to dig deep, he runs his thumbs and palms up the length of my back. Reaching the base of my neck and kneading circles around my broad shoulders.

A sharp breath catches in the pit of my throat. Holyshitholyshit.

His fingers and hands create hypnotic movements up and down my back, shoulders, and even my biceps and forearms. Every time he anchors his weight to knead and rub my body, I imagine his pelvis near my ass—I grit down.

Tighten my eyes shut more. I can’t get hard.

“Relax,” he breathes, his thumbs running up the back of my neck. That feels too fucking good.

He leans nearer to my body as his large hands travel down my

build and then veer to my waist. Teasing against the band of my drawstring pants.

Don’t fantasize.

Don’t fantasize.

I breathe through my nose again. If I rotate and sit up—would we kiss? Stop thinking. When he leans closer again, I picture his lips beside my jaw. Nipping my ear before sucking, then I turn and we—no.

Yes.

Hell yes.

I’m still lying on the ground. He’s still massaging my tight shoulders that refuse to unwind. His lips do brush my ear, and he actually, realistically whispers, “Let go.”

I can’t.

The moment I let go, I’ll cross a line that can’t be crossed.

He kneads my traps harder, deeper, almost bringing me somewhere I can’t ignore. To a state of euphoria. My eyes open but nearly roll back, my mouth slightly agape. Fucking…