Headstrong Like Us (Like Us 6)

Still surges up in me.

I eye the lettering. God, how infatuated do I look right now?

And it’s not just his name.

It’s his handwriting. Farrow drew on my bicep with marker, and the way his eyes flitted up to me and down to the movement of his hand as he scrawled on my skin—that stays with me.

He wrote out Farrow in smooth, cool script, and underneath the “w”—a little off to the side—he drew a small heart. And inside the heart, he wrote a tiny, M + F

And yeah, I got that tattooed too. Thanks to Donnelly, who permanently inked everything that was written in marker.

“You’re drooling,” Farrow says matter-of-factly. He beats me to the shower and opens the door.

“At the M part of the tattoo.” I stubbornly squeeze between his tattooed chest and the entry to the glass stall. Rotating the faucet on myself. Water pounds the marble tile. “And how the M comes before the F.”

“Eh, it is accurate.”

His agreement surprises me. But I play it cool. “Yeah, it is.”

His mouth hikes up. “You do come before me 9 times out of 10.”

Christ. The sexual innuendo rakes hot coals down my body. My cock likes that agitation. Blood pumping, and I grip the frame of the shower beside his shoulder. Neither of us steps inside the stall yet.

Fog rises and cakes the glass. I’m about to tell him that I last longer than him. Always. Every time.

But right when I go to speak, I catch sight of his collarbone.

He has a new tattoo.

When he finished writing on my bicep, he held the marker out to me. “Pick a spot.”

That’s right.

He wanted me to pick the tattoo location. On his body. Between all the other art that bleeds into his skin.

I tried not to overthink. I knew he’d like wherever I chose.

And with Donnelly’s expertise on placement, the line of his collarbone made the most sense. My name fit perfectly among the inked mast of the pirate ship and a red sparrow.

So I’m standing here, buck-naked, a millimeter from my childhood-crush-turned-bodyguard-turned-doctor—and I’m staring at my inked handwriting:

Maximoff

Farrow has my name on his body.

Somewhere, in another timeline, my sixteen-year-old self is hyperventilating.

Heat cloaks the bathroom, and Farrow is full-on grinning at me. He touches my arm and inspects my bicep, his fingertips electrifying my skin. “My name looks good on you.”

Fuck me. I seize his wrist, pulling him into the shower. “Mine looks better on you.” Water rains down our bare bodies, soaking our hair.

Steam cocooning us, and our mouths meet with swelter and yearning. I hook an arm around his shoulders, his inked hand rising up my neck.

We claw and kiss and wrench closer. Closer. His heart thumping against me and my heart drumming against him.

I let him shove me up against the wall. Soap and a razor fall from the ledge.

Fuck. Breath ejects, his strength and lean, muscular build bears down on me, and Christ, it feels good. Our eyes drown in each other: our love, our bodies, desire and need. Consuming every ounce of all that we possess.

Farrow fists my shaft with the best grip in the world, and I jerk him off, my hand wrapped around his impressive length.

Friction builds, the sensitivity mind-blowing, and I stretch my head back. Muscles flexing. “Fuck,” I choke into a gnarled groan.

Pre-cum washes down the drain, while I’m losing my damn mind to his physical movements. Farrow is devouring my arousal, my parted lips and the guttural noise that tries to rip through me.

I kiss him hard. Rough, and he catches my bottom lip with his teeth. Fuck yes. I tear away from the kiss, veins pulsating in my hardening cock.

“Fuck me,” I groan.

Pleasure wells up in his gaze. He grits down on his teeth, breathing through his nose, and Farrow pushes more of his body weight on me. I clutch his perfect ass and feel his cheek flex beneath my palm.

My neck careens back, eyes set on the ceiling. Fuuuuck. His hips plow forward, his erection sliding in my grip, and I want that movement in me.

Farrow braces a forearm on the marble wall. He pumps his pelvis, teasing my brain and body to the brink of an edge. “You like that,” he whispers against my ear.

Too damn much.

I can’t bow forward or rock against Farrow. He has me pinned, and he completely, massively obliterates me.

“Fuckfuck,” I groan and stake a glare before my eyes threaten to roll. But he eases back before I reach that euphoric peak. “Farrow.” I growl in fucking frustration.

His lip quirks. “Calm down, wolf scout. You’ll have my mouth around your cock in a second.” He’s about to lower to his knees, but I seize his waist. Stopping him.

“I want you inside me, man.” Vapor stifles breath. “Like twenty centuries ago.”

“Twenty centuries,” he repeats, eyeing me from head to toe, and I’m already turning around. My hand pressed to the warm marble wall.