Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(42)

Ensuring that I stay still.

So he likes control. Not a new fact, but I wonder if he’d let go, just in bed. And then I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing about me.

The second our lips break, I put a firm hand on his chest. And I guide his back to the bottom of the leather seat. Until he lies supine.

His ravenous gaze swallows me whole.

I expect him to protest about the new position, but he clutches my shoulder and pulls me down on top. Our movements quicken, feverishly. Our legs intertwining. Our dicks grind before I stroke the outline of his length, rock-hard. Fuck.

Me.

I unbutton his black pants. He yanks my jeans halfway down my thighs, revealing my green boxer-briefs. We exchange hard, rough kisses in every free second.

His lip piercing no longer cold but warm against my mouth. I unzip him—we stop.

We suddenly freeze as my phone vibrates in my pocket. Loudly.

Incessantly.

Someone’s calling me. Our chests visibly rise and fall. His lips reddened from my force, and before I tell him I have to answer, he’s already digging into my jean’s pocket. Retrieving my phone.

He remembers that calls are more important than texts. I never ignore phone calls. I can’t. Not if family may be in trouble.

I just realize his earpiece is out. And also his radio. He left both on the passenger seat up front.

Checking the caller ID, Farrow says, “It’s your dad.”





15





MAXIMOFF HALE





My dad is calling me. Greaaaat.

I sit up off Farrow, and he sits up with me. Turned towards one another still, our arms are on the back of the same seat.

I steady my breath. Used to the worst timing for most things.

Farrow presses the green accept call button and hands me the phone. Basically saying, I’m okay with you talking to your dad, wolf scout. Do what you need to do.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, putting the call on speaker for Farrow.

Almost subconsciously. Throughout the years—but also while he’s been my bodyguard—he earned my trust, and now I can reciprocate. In my life, that’s monumental.

Farrow combs a casual hand through the just-tugged strands of his white hair. His lips quirk when he catches me staring longer.

I made out with my bodyguard.

Officially.

I’m in the no-takebacks fly zone. While I hover here, I just want to do so much fucking more. My brain is zeroed in on him.

And as far as I can tell, he’s just as honed in on me.

“Hey, Moffy.” My dad’s naturally sharp-edged voice fills the car, but he can’t see anything. Thank God. “I’m the bearer of shitty news tonight.”

My brows knot. “How shitty?”

“Hold on…” He must pull the phone away, his voice harder to hear. “What are you doing awake—no, never mind. Bed. Now.”

“Dad.” I know that voice and her serious tone like he’s unconscionably destroying her favorite pair of boots and gothic makeup. It’s my little sister Kinney. “You don’t understand. The witching hour is at 3 a.m.—I need to commune with my people.”

“Wait…are you dead? Did I forget to print an obituary of my own thirteen-year-old daughter? Let me think about this.” My dad’s dry voice definitively says I’m not thinking about this. His thick sarcasm makes Farrow’s lips upturn even more towards me. Knowing exactly where mine originates.

“Dad,” she huffs.

“Kinney Hale,” he refutes, “I banished ghosts from this house millenniums ago. They’re all afraid of me. You’re wasting your time. So bed. Now. You have school tomorrow.” He must put the phone to his ear. To me, he sighs, “Kids.” Just to piss her off.

“I’m not a kid, you troll.” I can actually hear her stomping away.

My dad laughs. “I love you, little Slytherin!” he shouts after her. And to me, he asks, “Sorry, where was I?”

“Shitty news,” I say, hesitant to pull off my jeans in case I need to go home for whatever reason. Farrow stays as motionless as me.

“Are you in your car?”

“Yeah. You’re on speaker by the way.”

“Farrow, is he speeding? If he is, you have my full permission to ground him. Take away his phone. He hates that.”

Farrow is smiling like a Cheshire cat. Loving this too much. I glare and flip him off. He clasps my hand. “He’s only five-over,” he says easily, still smiling. I bring our hands down, examining his tattooed fingers that spell k.n.o.t., the other hand reads: t.a.m.e. in black ink. Farrow watches me fixatedly but adds to my dad, “Let’s blame traffic.”

It’s more than a good lie. It’s one that’s meant to help me first and foremost. Not my parents. Not the security team. Me.

He’s on my side.

“Steal his keys next time,” my dad says.

I glance at the phone. “How about you not order my bodyguard around? That’s my job.”

Farrow grins and mouths to me, you wish.

I almost groan. I just want to fuck him.

Before my dad talks about my mom worrying about me behind the wheel, I say, “I can’t talk long. What’s the shit news?”

“We’re gonna have to reschedule our lunch tomorrow. Your Uncle Connor and Uncle Ryke have parent-teacher meetings.”