Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(13)

I sidle to the bed and unclip my radio from my waistband. I wrap the earpiece cord and set it on the night table. “A call or notification wake you up?” I ask and rest a knee on the bear-printed quilt.

Maximoff lowers his phone and returns to his laptop. “Never went to sleep.” He tries to catch a yawn and fails.

“Okay, enough.” I push his computer closed. He rubs his eyes and doesn’t try to reopen the laptop.

I step back, keeping an eye on him, and I find black drawstring pants in my duffel.

When I unzip my pants, Maximoff hones in on my tattooed fingers. Especially as I fish the button through. He likes that.

My lips rise.

He tears his gaze off me, neck slightly reddened, and he rotates his strained deltoids, computer still on his lap. “You’ve been awake for just as long,” he says.

“And I’m not the one that looks like shit.”

Maximoff bites down to fight a small smile, which sharpens his jawline.

I skim his striking features from afar, my blood hot, and then I step out of my pants and into the drawstring ones.

“We’re not the same,” I remind him, lifting the elastic band to my waist. “I’m used to vigilant nights. Sometimes they even excite me.” I kick my duffel aside. “But clearly, sleeplessness isn’t your thing. Let go and just sleep.”

Maximoff rakes a rough hand through his thick, dark brown hair. “If I’m going to be out of the office for four months, I have a million-and-one things I need to take care of and schedule.”

His work ethic is admirable and insane.

I sit on the bed. “Plan tomorrow. It’s not going anywhere. And your parents are trying to beat an incoming blizzard right now. They’ll be here earlier than you think.”

His muscles flex, readying himself for that shit storm.

I put his laptop on a night table, and I edge closer to Maximoff. When I lean back against the log headboard, our shoulders brush. Close. Both of us on top of the quilt and shirtless. His charcoal gray boxer-briefs cling to his toned build.

Maximoff fixes his messy hair. A knockout sexual tension grips us both, his muscles flexing. My jaw clenching, hot breath brewing at ninety-degrees inside of me.

He probably wants to make the first move. But I reach out and massage his taut shoulder.

His breathing heavies, and our tough gazes bore into each other.

Maximoff leans forward, allowing me to go lower. For a guy that doesn’t trust easily, his permission to “go lower” is absolutely priceless. I want to give him more.

And more.

I knead his muscles, using my whole body to massage deeper. I run the heel of my palm down the length of his back.

“Fuck,” he mutters, blinking repeatedly to keep his eyes wide open.

If he weren’t tired, he’d flip me over by now. I like how hungered he usually is, but there’s something extremely fucking sexy about how he’s trying to battle his exhaustion.

I pull him between my legs to massage his back with two hands. I brace more of my weight against him, and my thumbs knead the base of his neck.

He swallows a wolfish groan, the noise almost fisting my cock.

I grit down and shift slightly.

Maximoff glances back at me, his fuck me, kiss me eyes in full blood-boiling effect. Before I even make a move, he rotates his body to take charge. And he yanks my leg, pulling me down—my head hits the pillow.

Damn.

My pulse hammers in my throat as I lie beneath him.

I clutch his neck and bring his mouth to mine. The starved kiss turns deep and heady as his tongue parts my lips. Fuck, Maximoff.

The way he uses his mouth is fucking killing me.

He falls to his elbows. Lowering his pelvis against my pelvis, thin fabric separates us, but he’s grinding while deepening a kiss.

Hot friction hardens him and me. Veins throb in my cock, and his dick pulses against mine. Fuckfuck. A gruff noise cages inside my lungs.

Maximoff shifts his head and scans me in a slow, thundering wave. One that clearly reads I want to fuck you.

His voice is more hollowed out as he says, “I don’t want to fucking sleep. Not yet.”

With him above me, I run my palm down his hard chest and the valleys of his abs. Our stinging lips brushing, I whisper strongly, “You want to fuck me?”

His mouth crushes against my mouth, and his hips buck against my waist before he grows more against my thigh. Fuck, I love feeling a guy harden.

Our muscular legs tangle; my ankle rubs his calf, and I grip his hair with one hand, our tongues wrestling. I could flip him to his back, but instead, my other hand travels to the waistband of his boxer-briefs. Dipping under them, I cup his perfect bare ass.

He grumbles an aroused curse against my mouth.

Huskily, I ask, “Did you like that?”

His gaze narrows in want.

I test something and edge my fingers towards his—he tenses. Badly. Enough to where I draw my hand back to his shoulder, and he stays rigid and catches his breath.

I have to ask. “You still want to try to bottom?”

Maximoff lifts his body off me a little more. His palm on the quilt by my shoulder. His eyes trace an inked skull pirate on my ribcage. “Yeah,” he says with a heavy breath. “I do, but I keep thinking about the tour bus and how the fuck this’ll work.”

“We’ll figure it out,” I say, confident about this.