Damaged Like Us (Like Us #1)(50)

And that’s just not me.

I put the phone to my ear. “Maximoff.”

His long pause spikes my pulse, and just before I ask what’s wrong, his deep voice fills the line. “Come over.”

Damn. My cock strains against my black boxer-briefs, and more heat gathers in my attic bedroom. I wonder if he intended for come over to sound that blistering and erotic.

I wait to jump at his command. For one reason only. “Don’t you have a girl in your bed?” I found out fast that the nights where Jane and Maximoff are alone in the townhouse—no friends-with-benefits, no one-night stands—they somehow end up asleep in the same room. Same bed.

Platonically.

It’s a little strange. A lot strange when I really sit and think about it, but I also understand how open and uninhibited these families tend to be. And how Maximoff and Jane’s shared experiences from birth bond them together like fraternal twins. Much closer than just being cousins.

I’ve never dated a twin, and I honestly question how I’m supposed to fit into their dynamic.

Before he replies, I ask, “Have you told her about us?”

“Not yet.” He plans to let her in on the secret.

I already agreed to that stipulation. See, Jane Cobalt comes first in his life, and it’ll take a lot more than a five-minute ass-grab and lip-lock in his Audi to change that.

“She’s asleep,” Maximoff says, voice hushed. “I left her room. I’m in mine now. Alone.” His hot impatience strokes the long length of my erection.

Aroused knot in my throat, I stand, bare feet on the floor. I use my shoulder to free my hands and push my phone to my ear. Just so I can wrap my wire around my radio and collect my holstered gun. I’m about to say I’ll be over, but I want his voice in my ear.

“Is this your first booty call?” I ask.

“Is this your first time being propositioned by a celebrity?” he effortlessly flings back.

I smile. He’s such a little smartass. “I think you mean Harvard Dropout.”

“No, I mean celebrity.” He could easily add: internationally famous, overwhelming adored and revered, but he just stops at celebrity.

I joke about Maximoff dropping out of Harvard, but I know the true reason he quit. It wasn’t because he couldn’t hack it. He needed three bodyguards during his first and only semester. Students bombarded him. Snapchatting. Instagraming. Taking selfies before, during, and after the lecture. The disruption his presence caused wasn’t just pissing off his professors, he felt like he was ruining the education of his peers.

So he quit.

And he could’ve finished out his degree with online courses like Jane, but instead he threw himself into his career. It’s all public knowledge.

I pull on my black cotton pants, and with my gun and radio in one hand, I’m out of my room faster than Maximoff probably thinks. Descending the narrow flight of stairs. Quietly passing the second floor where Quinn is passed-out asleep.

I reach my living room, and I open my mouth to speak. But he fills the line first.

“Try not to come before you get here,” Maximoff says and then hangs up.

Damn.

I slip my phone in my pocket, my neck pricked hot. I subconsciously palm my dick, up and down twice. I want him.

Shit, I want him badly.

By my fireplace, I open our adjoining door.

“Walrus, you little bastard,” I whisper and snatch the scampering kitten. Gently, I kick the door shut and then release Walrus in Maximoff’s dark living room. No lights on.

The hot tea aroma is pungent tonight, the Earl Grey scent reminding me of him. I’ve seen Maximoff fill 16oz thermoses with hot tea like it’s black coffee.

I quietly ascend the stairs. Careful that they don’t squeak beneath my weight. I pass the second floor where Jane’s room, a guest bedroom, and the only bathroom lie, and I ignore the two or three cats that stalk me.

At the very top of the staircase, I reach his door. And I enter his attic room, just as sweltering as mine—I use my leg to block two furry bastards from following.

No pussies allowed. I shut them out. Before I even look up, Maximoff says, “Lock it.”

Maybe I should change his contact name to Bossy in my phone. I do lock the door. I’m not that big of an asshole.

I turn, and my pulse pounds in my cock. Maximoff stands in drawstring pants, hung low on his cut waist, shirtless, abs chiseled like marble, but more than that—more than the outline of his erection and his beautiful cheekbones—his unshakable, staunch demeanor overpowers the small attic room.

Basically saying, I’m going to fuck you good.

My blood cranks from a simmer to a boil, and I give him a slow-burning once-over. Likewise, Maximoff. I set my holstered gun and radio on his dresser.

In my peripheral, I survey his room out of habit: closed gray curtains, a low-standing bookshelf, all deep red brick walls, a full-sized bed and burnt-orange comforter. Tiny white lights are strung around the wooden rafters, a dim glow. No other light source but that one.

Facing one another, I comb my hair back with two hands, and his gaze trails over my tattooed abs and barbell nipple piercing.

I nearly smile. “Why are your clothes still on?”

His lips ache to rise. “Come here and take them off me.”

With two lengthy steps, I bridge the distance between our strong builds—and I clutch the base of his neck, my hand running to his sharp jawline. My mouth teasingly close. Our locked gazes exhume the deepest depths, as though whispering furiously: I know you. I know you. I know you better than most ever do.