Damaged Like Us (Like Us 1)

We kiss in rough, hurried waves, and I steal his condom and roll it on his shaft. Faster than he would be. He spits in his palm for lube, the image sticking in my brain. Pulsing blood in my veins.

I turn, put my forearms on a shelf next to jars of peanut butter and jam, and bend slightly over. I feel his strong grip on my waist.

His deep, edged voice kills my fortitude. “I’m going to fuck you fast.”

I press my forehead to my arm, stifling a gnarled moan.

“Good,” I say, choked. “Fuck me fast.”

Maximoff eases into me, the pressure nerve-blistering and fucking…fuck. He sinks full in and starts thrusting with a quick, hungered pace.

I try to seize the wooden shelf, but my mind ascends to a place with zero common sense and just body-numbing feelings. Good fucking God. The pleasure wells up inside of me.

I grit my teeth, breathing hot, ragged breaths through my nose. I glance back, his gaze devouring the way his dick enters me in deep and fast repeated succession.

His satisfaction grips me in a stronger vice. Sweat coating his biceps, he quickens, holding me closer. My jaw aches, gritting down hard, and I let my lips part. A raspy groan barreling through.

“Fuck,” Maximoff growls into a low moan. “Farrow.” The words I’m about to come are all over my name. His hand shifts from my waist to my muscular shoulder.

Cords in my neck pull taut, heart rate elevated, and then a feminine voice shouts, “Moffy!”

Jane.

Dammit.

“We’re home!!” she blatantly announces her presence. I assume to give us time to “collect” ourselves if we’re indecent.

We are very fucking indecent.

“Finish or pull out,” I tell Maximoff, voice hushed.

He’s surprisingly the one who toys with the risk, staying inside of me. All for that climax—fuck, I swallow another moan as he rocks forward. I bear hard on my teeth again. Especially now that footsteps sound through the living room and kitchen.

Maximoff pulls out and tosses the used condom in a small trashcan beneath the shortest shelf. We both catch our breath and dress hurriedly. He’s armored like he’s ready for gunfire, rarely panicked. When he buttons his jeans, he turns to me.

And he fixes the wild strands of my white hair. I stand an inch taller and buckle my belt, then I tuck my V-neck into my pants and fit my earpiece back into my ear. I run my thumb against his reddened lips.

Maximoff lowers his voice. “The shade is called My Lips Against Your Lips, and it’s not coming off. Stop rubbing and let’s form a plan.”

“I can give you a plan.” I unpeel a piece of gum and pop it in my mouth. “We exit and say we were gathering food for the party.” I collect a handful of shit off the shelves: peanut butter, crackers, a pack of Lightning Bolt! energy drinks.

Maximoff grabs two rolls of paper towels, and we both step forward to be the first out. We glance at one another, and then race for it. I grab the knob first and slip out.

I laugh when I catch sight of his scowl, and then my lips pull in a line when I notice Jane rifling through the kitchen drawers.

“There you are,” she whispers, her curious blue eyes pinging to the pantry, then to us. Mainly Maximoff’s hair. I flatten a few of his askew strands and then unload all the food next to the liquor bottles. I take the paper towels from Maximoff.

He gives Jane a genuine, warm smile. “Bonsoir, ma moitié.” He’s about to kiss her cheeks, but he freezes midway. Catching himself.

He grimaces.

Because he blew me. Very, very recently.

Jane cringes, putting the pieces together. “You should go…freshen up. I’ll sort through this spread before Sulli and Akara arrive.” She motions to the entire countertop.

“Thanks.” Maximoff cracks two of his knuckles, and before he leaves upstairs, he asks me, “You alright?”

I frown and chew my gum slower. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I read his gaze: did I go too fast for you? Did I hurt you? It’s cute, but I’m the last person that needs a consoling hand. “I would’ve told you in the moment if I wasn’t.”

His shoulders noticeably unbind. And he disappears through the archway. I hear him greet Quinn, but the exchange is normal. I focus on the girl in the kitchen.

“What do you need?” I ask Jane and swivel the knob on my radio. Soft chatter returning.

She searches through a drawer, dressed in what Maximoff lovingly calls “granny jammies” for the party: flannel cat-printed pants and long-sleeve collared top. Jane checks over her shoulder and then whispers to me, “You two were almost dangerously loud. I had to send Quinn back to my car to find chocolate bonbons that I didn’t even buy.”

I’m more than appreciative of the cover. “Thanks, I owe you.”

“Don’t break Moffy’s heart. That’s payment enough.” She shuts the drawer and opens another. “Or as my mom would say, you break his heart; I’ll break your dick.”

I whistle and remove liquor bottles from paper bags. That was a mild Rose Calloway hyperbolic threat. “No chopping off my dick and flinging it at the sun?”

Jane crouches to a low cupboard. “Moffy is the one who likes grandiose, embellished warnings.” She shuts the cupboard empty-handed and stands. “You can go. I know you’re only lingering out of obligation to Moffy.”

I’m not about to lie and say, oh no, Jane, I’m really here for you. I’m not. I stay in the kitchen because Maximoff would want me to. The only thing Jane Cobalt and I have in common is Maximoff Hale. Take him out of the equation, and we’re a number and a letter that can’t be added together.

“He wants us to get along,” I tell her the truth.

She opens a nearby drawer and narrows her eyes. “Did he tell you that?”

“Not in words,” I say. “But you know, Maximoff, he’s so over-prepared. I’m waiting for a contract. Sign on the dotted line I’ll be friends with Jane Cobalt type of thing.”

She removes a cheese grater from the drawer, and her lips draw into a thin line as she looks at me. I said something wrong. I feel it before she even opens her mouth.

“So the only way you’d be friends with me is if Moffy made you sign a contract?”

“No,” I say quickly. Fuck. “I’m just saying Maximoff is so practical and meticulous with everything. It was a joke.” I run a hand through my hair. “Did he mention anything to you about us?” I motion from her to me.

“No, but I’ve noticed the same thing as you.” She sidesteps to the fridge. “He’s nervous we’re not going to get along.”

“And we both agree that we want to make him less nervous?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says and snatches a hunk of cheddar cheese from the shelf. She kicks the fridge closed with her slipper. “There’s nothing I want more than for him to be happy.”

“Me too,” I say holding up a hand. “See, we’re already making progress here. Okay, what else do we have in common?”

Silence suddenly thickens in the room. She slices a piece of cheese slowly.

“Are you thinking?” I ask her.

“Yes, it’s difficult.”

r /> “It can’t be that difficult.”

“Then do you have anything?” she shoots back.

“You love animals,” I tell her. “And I don’t hate them.”

She slices a piece of cheese and lands her eyes on me. “I’ve heard you call Walrus a little bastard about thirty times.”

“With affection,” I say.

She pops the slice of cheese in her mouth. “So we have two things in common. With my calculations, we should have enough commonalities to be friends in about five-hundred and sixty-four years.” She reaches for her beer, and I don’t know what to say without putting my foot in my mouth.

I don’t want to give up on this, but I feel the air tensing around us. Awkward silence piling on. I tap my thumb ring on the kitchen counter to fill the quiet. She watches me for a second before popping the cap of her beer on the side of the counter.

“You’re supposed to disagree with that,” she says casually, placing the beer to her lips.

I stop tapping my ring. “With the five-hundred and sixty-four thing?”

“Yeah,” she nods and motions the bottle to me. “You’re supposed to say no, Jane, we’ll be friends in a couple years.”

“I don’t have a fucking crystal ball,” I say.

“Okay, then just tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” I say. “Because skeletons aren’t making friends in their graves.”

“Wow.” She shakes her head.

“Wow. What?” I can’t say the right things, and correcting course is just driving myself further into a ditch.

“Wow, you want to be my friend but you can’t even have any confidence that it will happen,” she says. “Not in five-hundred years. Not in two years. How about ever?”

“I have confidence in myself, but friendship is a two-way street,” I reply.

Her brows furrow. “So you think I’m the one not trying?”

Fucking hell.

“You’re right,” I say. “This is difficult.”

“Agreed.”

Something nags at me, and it’s not going to bring us any closer since it’s about Maximoff. I scratch my jaw. “So Maximoff doesn’t have a license anymore,” I say. “I thought the only reason you didn’t ride together was because of his driving.”