Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(125)

Farrow slowly unwraps the square-shaped package. Glancing at me, he asks, “You didn’t know about this?”

I shake my head. “No clue.”

He tears off the last piece of paper, and his smile stretches from cheek-to-cheek—and I’m groaning.

“Mom.”

“What?” She balks. “You probably don’t have any photos together of you two in public. I just thought it’d be nice—”

“I love it,” Farrow says.

“You do?” My mouth parts, my pulse still beating in my ears.

Farrow rotates the wooden-framed photograph to me. The picture was taken from a celebrity news site, a little watermark in the corner. In the photo, I stand with crossed arms near the love sign at LOVE Park. Farrow is close as my bodyguard, earpiece wire hanging.

But our eyes are on each other. I’m laughing like he said something funny. His smile is full-on James Franco. If it weren’t for the earpiece and the radio on his belt, he might look like a friend.

Maybe even a boyfriend.

But I hone in on the setting. Philadelphia. I remember that day. I was doing a photo-shoot for The Hollywood Reporter. It was before the tour. We’d just started dating.

My brows furrow. “Mom, this was before you knew we were a couple.”

“Yeah.” She clears her throat. “I had to scour some magazines for that one.”

“She was stalking you,” my dad says.

“Lo!” My mom slugs his arm.

He smiles affectionately. “Alright, love.” He looks to me. “She wasn’t stalking you.”

Farrow only focuses on my mom as he says, “Thank you.”

My mom practically beams. Her eyes dart from him, to me, back to him. Like she’s fully feeling our relationship as reality. Her smile kind of looks giddy. Like she could root for us. Wave flags for us. Create banners and move mountains for us.

That means a fucking ton.

My dad is almost there. Maybe. Progress.

Farrow seems a little off as he wraps the photograph back up, his lips drawn into a thin line. I suddenly realize it was what my dad said.

Stalking.

He’s thinking about the stalker.

My parents have no idea that someone is stalking me. I don’t plan to tell them or worry them. The stalker hasn’t been found yet, but now that we’re back in Philly, the possibility is imminent.





44





MAXIMOFF HALE





I want your cock inside of me. I sent my childhood crush that text tonight. In this reality, not a dream or some alternate universe or as a fucking joke.

Legit, I told him to fuck me.

I’ve been mostly into topping him, but this night, I’m mentally on a carnal loop. Where I can’t break from imagining his cock pounding in my ass for the first time.

My muscles beg and plead with me to be beneath Farrow Keene, and after all the build-up to bottoming, I know I’m ready. Prepared.

My room. I’ll fuck you hard. – Farrow



Goddamn.

My dick strains against my jeans. My body and my brain are desperate for him, but I take about ten minutes before I leave.

I enter security’s townhouse through the adjoining door. Lucking out on not seeing Thatcher or Quinn. I climb the narrow staircase to the attic bedroom, the one that mirrors mine.

As the stairs end and I face his door, I just realize I’ve never slept in his room. Never fucked on his bed.

Not once.

I think about that first combining with the other first, and I may self-combust. My blood pools, body craving rough friction and strong pressure.

Fuck me. Muscles taut, I open the door and step inside. His small room is pretty bare: dresser, end table, bed, and a short bookcase with nothing shelved.

Farrow leans so damn casually on the brick wall, just watching a video on his phone, but as soon as I enter, he looks up.

I soak him in. His nonchalant and confident demeanor, the tattoos that crawl up his neck. His earring. The piercings on his nose and lip, his muscles outlined in a black V-neck. And his platinum hair, a few pieces brushing over thick brown brows that slowly rise. Knowing I’m turned on beyond human recognition.

His gaze rakes my body in an even hotter once-over.

I lick my lips, wanting him on them. On me.

In me.

Fuck me.

Tension wrings the air. His eyes meet my eyes and it snaps. We move closer, a fucking boiling urgency pulsating inside me. I pull my green shirt over my head.

He yanks off his black V-neck.

And somehow, some damn way, my gaze drifts. To his full-sized bed, the black sheets visible beneath a pulled-down black comforter. Heat brews in the attic, even in April, and whenever he’s here, he probably doesn’t sleep with more than a sheet.

That’s his bed.

My brain fixates on that obvious fact. This is his room. I can imagine, way too well, Farrow driving his erection into me on that bed.

Fuck. I blink a few times. I’ve been staring faraway. I grimace and focus on a six-foot-three Yale graduate who rests an elbow on the dresser. Watching me.

His mouth curves upward. “Welcome back, space cadet.”

I scowl and unbutton my jeans. “I barely spaced out.”

His smile widens. “Let me ask you something. How many times have you fantasized about me fucking you on my bed?”