Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(21)

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.”