Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

And my back gently meets the mattress. He’s protecting my body from my aggressive self-destruction.

I like to manhandle and be manhandled. Not new news. But it’s pretty difficult with a surgically repaired collarbone that’s in the process of healing.

He straddles my waist, and his chest is hoisted off mine. Tattooed hands splay on either side of my shoulders on the mattress.

Our eyes create hot tracks along our faces, and I run my large hand across his rough jaw, a less-than-close shave. God, his masculinity fists me, and my carriage elevates in a blistered breath.

He turns his head slightly and kisses my palm. I rake my fingers through his bleach-white hair, and then hold his warm neck.

Farrow rubs my bicep before whispering, “I’m being as rough with you as I can be without hurting you.” He wishes he could give me more.

If he had fractured a bone, I would’ve been the same way with him. Not hesitating or bubble-wrapping him, just highly aware of his physical limitations. And knowing that he’d want to push against them.

I nod once. “I get it, man.”

Farrow starts smiling.

“What?” I ask.

“How you call me ‘man’ in bed,” he tells me, lowering his lips to mine, a teasing breath away. He must catch my confusion because he clarifies, “It’s the way you always say it with extra force. It sounds more like I’m your man. Not just any fucking man.” He raises his brows at me. “It’s hot.”

I barely have time to react to that. Because Farrow lowers more of his weight into me, and I throb.

Fuck. I reach down and free us from our boxer-briefs. Shedding the last fabric, we kick the underwear off our ankles.

I grip his length and mine together, rubbing us in a tight fist. Pre-cum slick in my palm—I flex, breath knotted in my throat.

Farrow shoves my hand aside and sits up off me. “Don’t jack us off.” He reaches for the end table, his mosaic of pirate tattoos cascading down cut muscle. I watch his hands, two images inked on top: sparrows by his thumbs and skull-and-crossbones in the middle.

I crunch upward and push myself to my knees with one hand. He’s knelt too, holding my gaze. Farrow shakes a black bottle and squirts lube in his palm. He strokes us, mixing lube with pre-cum, while we kiss.

More aggressively. Passionately.

He tosses the bottle aside, and our mouths break, catching our breaths.

“What position were you thinking?” Farrow asks since many have been hypothetically eliminated. My brain says most sex positions are doable.

And by most, I mean all.

“Me topping you, on our sides facing each other.”

He tilts his head at me like I’ve flown to Mars by myself and built a colony of one. “On your side?” he repeats. He makes a point of eyeing my shoulder, the bandage gone. A thick reddened puffy scar lines the length of my left collarbone.

“Yeah.” I don’t concede.

“No, fuck no,” he says easily and waves me on. “Keep going.”

I glance at his long, hardened cock. I want that in me as much as I want mine in him.

“I spoon you.” If there are proper terms for these positions, I don’t know them. I have a lot of sex. But I don’t research the fuck out of it on the internet.

“That’s also on your side,” he says. “Keep going.”

I exhale a hot breath. “Doggy-style or the one where your legs are splayed to the side and I’m standing off the bed and entering you from behind. But I could bottom for that one.” It’s one of my favorite positions I’ve been in as a bottom. I think because he wrapped his hand around my neck while he pounded into me, and I was so into it, into him, and I saw how much he got off on that.

Farrow contemplates for a half a second, and then waves me on again. “Getting closer.”

“With you flat on your back, missionary.”

He shakes his head, motion with two fingers to keep going.

My brows knot. “I’m getting the feeling you just want to know which positions I like.”

He smiles at me like the word pure is on his tongue. “That is part of the point, wolf scout.” His matter-of-fact voice pumps my blood.

I growl out and then exhale roughly. “I’m picking one now. Dresser. Standing.”

19

MAXIMOFF HALE

I climb off the bed buck-naked, and while he rises, equally buck-ass-naked, I gesture him to me. “Come over.”

Farrow doesn’t hesitate. In one blink, he’s reached me. He clutches my face and kisses me hard before he tears away and seizes the edge of the dresser.

My pulse thrashes. Pent-up and fixated on that simple movement and his confidence that matches mine over and over.

With my chest up against his tattooed back, I clutch his waist—and that’s when I realize that he never grabbed a condom. He lubed us without one. “No condom?” I ask him.

Farrow looks over his shoulder. “No condom,” he confirms. “But if you want one, that’s okay.”

This is a big deal. We’ve both been tested; we’re both clean and monogamous, but we haven’t taken that next step. Until now.

To let me bareback, Farrow has to have complete trust in me that I won’t cheat. I’d never. Same if we flip, I have to trust him.

And I do.

Completely.

“I want to,” I tell him, assured. He’s barebacked with a serious boyfriend before, but I haven’t.

Farrow cups the back of my head, and we kiss with slow-burning intimacy that feels like descending gradually… gradually in warm… soothing… waters.

My head dizzies, and we part with ragged breath. Farrow angles forward again, his knee bent in a slight lunge, and he hangs his head, muscles relaxed.

He glances over his shoulder to tell me, “You can come in me.” I catch his smile as he adds, “I know you want to.”

God. “And I know you want me to,” I say, too hot now. Too ready, and he doesn’t deny that we’re both dying for the same thing.

While I tease his hole open with two fingers, I kiss the back of his neck. He rubs himself twice, and then reaches backwards and grips my ass.

Fuckme. I clutch his ass before I take my erection and press the tip to his hole. Easing myself in—the pressure around me narrows my eyes into aroused pinpoints.

“Fuck,” Farrow groans, the further I go in…now all the way inside. “Ah, fuck. Maximoff.” His throaty noise combines with mine, a raw sound scratching out of me.

Christ. I rock my hips, pounding against him with mind-numbing friction. My hand shoots for his waist for deeper entry, gripping him. He white-knuckles the dresser, gritting down as a tangled moan ejects. Fuckfuckfuck…

I run my hand up his back muscles. “Farrow,” I groan, and he pushes back into my cock. My head tries to loll back—fucking fuck. I grip him harder. Ramming, my ass flexing beneath his strong hold.

“Harder,” he grunts, his forehead on his bicep. I pick up my pace and slam into him.

He moans as I hit his prostate. I know the spot. Very goddamn well.

I wrap my arm around his abdomen. Aching to bow forward where my chest melds his back, closer than close. Fuck this sling.

Slowing, I eek out the movement, and more sweat beads up on both our bodies. Skin slick, and hair dampening.

“Fuck,” I groan. “Fuck.” I quicken my rhythm, and I fucking explode. Fuckfuckfuuuuuuck. Lights burst in my vision, nerves scorched alive. I dagger a glare on the ceiling, another gnarled noise in my throat.

Farrow moans lowly into his arm, his tendons straining in his neck. Face reddening, he cages breath, and I come inside the guy I love. With a few more pumps, I milk my climax, and I watch his grip loosen on the dresser. Glancing back at me, he absorbs my pierced fuck me eyes that still exist for him.

He’s really hard.

Slowly, I pull out. Cum dripping off my tip, and I switch spots with him. As our paths cross, we draw together and kiss.

Not able to separate for a while.

We push-and-pull for a lead, and I bring his back to the dresser—then he spins me. My back to the wood. I hold his jaw and kiss Farrow with my whole body. My waist, torso, and chest arch into him. Reaching out for his fucking heart.

And then willingly, I turn and face the dresser. I grip the edge with my only available hand. Giving him access to push into me.

This is still new for me. But the more and more I allow myself to be vulnerable with Farrow, the more my life feels at peace. I’ve found someone who can ease me in this intangible, miraculous, cosmic way.

Farrow places a warm kiss to my bicep before he pulls me back some. Adjusting my stance. “Pain?” he asks, referring to my arm.

“Not that much.” I must’ve rolled my shoulder and neck too far because the tendon sears.

“Where?” he asks, his inked fingers toying with the outside of my hole. I drown in the fucking sensation. He stops. “Maximoff.”

Focus. “Closer to my neck. I’m alright; just fuck me.” I glance over my shoulder, and pain hammers my collarbone.

“Maximoff. Fuck, I’m not putting my dick in you if you keep hurting yourself to look at it.”

I hang my head forward. My muscles burning. “Who said I was looking at your cock?” I breathe heavily. “Maybe I was looking at the carpet.”

I was looking at his erection.

“Sure,” Farrow says. “Let’s pretend you like the carpet more.”

I picture his tattooed hand wrapped around his length. I’m not at the right angle to see a thing, so my imagination has to be good enough.

Farrow slips a finger inside of me, then works another. Fuck.

“Relax,” he breathes, one of his hands holds my waist and squeezes like come on, wolf scout. I won’t hurt you.