Farrow climbs on top, and we’re all limbs and muscle, sweat and speeding heart beats. We wrestle for the lead, his strength all over me.
I’m burning up at a million degrees. Our mouths slam together, a fucking kiss that pushes my body against his. Closer. We tangle, then untangle, and Farrow pins me down. I’m lying on my chest, my knees digging into his soft sheets.
His pelvis is in line with my ass.
This position sends signals to my nerves to prepare for ultimate intensity. One last effort, I try to flip Farrow and hook his ankle.
Yeah, that doesn’t work.
I just concede.
My forehead almost touches the mattress. Breathing heavily.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Farrow stands off the bed, and I fixate on his movements while he walks bare-assed to the end table. His tattooed build is carved with lean muscle, and his fingers gently open the drawer. Pulling out condoms, lube, and he tosses a couple towels on the bed.
When he looks back at me, he smiles. “You love this.” His voice is a hundred percent gravel tied in silk.
Yeah.
I love how he moves. How he speaks, how he acts. Who he is. Just him.
I love all of him.
“Maybe,” I say confidently.
He checks me out like I just did to him. How I’m on my knees, my forearms, and I’m waiting for him. The bed undulates as he climbs back. Staying behind me.
I relax my muscles. It’s easier for me since we’ve led up to this point. Especially after New Year’s Eve in the hotel. My body trusts him. I trust him, and I’m not even partially afraid.
God, I just want him.
Craning my neck over my shoulder, I watch him rip open a condom and then sheath his erection. He places his knees on either side of my waist, his confidence like a hammer to my pulse.
He clutches my ass with that tattooed hand, and then teases me open with two fingers, the lube warm. God. My chest tightens, breath twisted in my lungs.
Farrow studies my body’s reaction. That felt fucking good. Not bad. He sees, and slowly…slowly, he starts to push into me.
My head swings forward, the sensations gripping my nerves. Not able to watch, I bite down, nose flaring at the build-up—oh fuck. I growl into a groan as he goes deeper, deeper.
“Fuck,” he mutters, letting out a shallow breath. “I didn’t think you’d be this tight.” He shifts his knee slightly, pushing even further into me. Fuck me.
Farrow rocks forward, thrusting in a perfect rhythm. I can’t concentrate on words. My vocabulary dwindles to fuck and Jesus Christ.
While I’m underneath him and he’s above me, he places his palms flat on the mattress. Only an inch above my hands that fist his black sheets. His inked arms stretch like pillars beside my biceps. He practically shields me with his body—as he rams in and out.
My twenty-eight-year-old bodyguard is fucking me.
His pace is rougher, faster—I choke out a groan, he’s hitting a sensitive spot that tries to shake me limb-to-limb. My muscles flex, my eyes ache to roll back.
Jesus. Fuck.
I take a breath, stopping myself from coming. Christ, I’m not even touching my cock. He slows a fraction, giving me some time.
Glancing back, I catch sight of his clenched jaw, breathing hot breath through his nose. His arousal tenses his body, and damp pieces of bleached hair fall in his carnal gaze while he pounds into my ass.
Raw sex. This image beats every fucking-on-his-bed fantasy I’ve ever constructed.
I know how he prefers to top, too.
Rough and deep. Just like me. Not a fucking surprise. As his pace speeds, I can’t look at him. I stare straight, my lips parted. I try to shut my mouth—I can’t. I can’t, fuck.
I cage all breath, my neck muscles strained. I can feel him in me. I white-knuckle the sheet, then I instinctively grab his arm beside me. Holding on. “Holy fuck,” I moan roughly.
I’ve never done this with someone. Never let them in this far. I’m giving myself to a person in a way that I never thought possible. Warmth and safety bridges us together, and I wouldn’t choose anyone but him.
“Maximoff,” he grits my name, the hot pleasure like another thrust inside me.
My body rocks with his force, and my brain short-circuits to single syllables.
Now.
Need.
More.
Want.
More.
Him.
Fuck.
He lowers his weight on me for deeper entry. More friction. His chest melded to my fucking back, and I fall flatter, his arm curving around my collarbone, his jaw skimming my cheekbone. We’re that close. That connected together, and I’m riding a nerve-blistering edge.
I drill a glare into the wall where a headboard would be, my pulse thumping. “Oh, fuck.” A noise escapes that I’ve never made. I shudder, a peak rippling through my veins.
Water wells in the corner of my eyes—I’m not kidding. Farrow brings me to a level I’ve never reached, and I can’t breathe, can’t speak. I’m in a new universe that catapults me.
My eyes roll back, my fingers digging in his arm. God. I come, a sharp breath expelling out of my mouth. I rest my forehead on the bed, my energy draining fast.
“Fuck,” Farrow curses, milking his own climax. I think he hit his peak at the same time. If I was supposed to wait for him to come first, there’s no fucking way I could’ve.
I rub my wet eyes on the sheet, then I turn my head. Our eyes on each other’s lips. Our mouths meet in a slow, sensual kiss that mimics our come-down.
When we break apart, he pulls out, and he whispers with a peeking smile, “Better than your fantasy?”
I lick my stinging lips. “Beyond.”
“Saturn Bridges has good dessert and coffee,” Farrow tells me, buttoning his black pants, the elastic band of his Calvin Klein underwear sticks out.
We just showered, and now we’re back in his attic room.
I dry my wet hair with a towel and scroll through my phone, already dressed in another pair of jeans and a black Batman shirt. “I’ve never eaten there.”
“But you’ve been there?” He buckles his belt.
“For their trivia nights.” I pop open the website. We’ve been trying to pick a place for late-night dessert. A semi-date.
I get that we’re not publicly a couple, but we can still eat out together since he’s my bodyguard. PDA is just completely off the table, and no eye-fucking. Obviously.
The restrictions don’t bother me, but I sometimes imagine what a full-date would be like. Twice as much paparazzi, no doubt.
“Fuck,” Farrow mutters and opens a couple drawers. Overturning pockets of some pants.
“What are you missing?” I ask.
“My wallet.” Realization washes over his face. “I left it in your bedroom.”
“I can just pay for you, man,” I offer, but I already know his response.
“No. We’ll split.” He attaches his radio to his waistband, not worrying about putting on a shirt.
I get it. Occasionally, we both like paying for t
he other. It feels good. Knowing we’re dating. We’re together. But I’ve stopped him from buying my breakfast and dinner before.
Likewise, Farrow doesn’t like being financially dependent on anyone but himself.
“So Saturn Bridges?” I ask. “I can make a reservation.”
Farrow smiles, his hand on the doorknob, and he lingers, our eyes locked. Don’t fucking leave. “Yeah,” he says huskily.
Stay.
I almost edge near.
He rubs his mouth, his chest rising. “I’ll be right back.”
45
FARROW KEENE
“Watch it, you little bastard.” I snatch Walrus before the calico kitten darts into security’s townhouse, and I kick the door shut. He meows and paws my cheek.
The corners of my mouth rise, but not because of this cat. I keep remembering Maximoff and me together only moments ago. Hell, I can’t stop replaying each minuscule part: the wolfish noises he made, his daggered eyes, the purest vulnerability, the overpowering feelings. Fuck, I’m kicking myself for leaving shit in his room. Because I just want to be with him.
Let’s make this fast.
I drop Walrus, and he leaps towards the kitchen. While I head to the old staircase, I spot Jane on the Victorian loveseat. Snuggled in a fuzzy pink blanket, she watches 10 Things I Hate About You alone.
This wouldn’t be unusual, but she invited Nate over tonight for a movie and sex. I saw the guy earlier in passing. He looks like a young, lightweight Scott Eastwood. Tall, preppy-styled brown hair, wide-jawed. A black blazer and gray button-down hugged his skinny build.
“Where’s Nate?” I fix my earpiece, the cord cold on my bare shoulder and back, running to the radio on my waistband.
Jane scratches Licorice behind the ear. “He’s using the bathroom.”
I nod, not about to linger long. I ascend the creaking stairs.
Jane has a little bit more freedom with a friends-with-benefits than she would with a one-night stand. See, Nate has been vetted multiple times and been in this townhouse even more. It’d be extreme overkill to keep putting a bodyguard “chaperone” on him.
And Thatcher is back at security’s townhouse, safe from overhearing his client having sex. Not that I really care about what Thatcher hears and doesn’t hear. We’re not all meant to be “besties” and that’s more than okay with me.