Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(39)

“I know. I understand. It’s okay,” Maximoff says, and he asks if he can touch her. When she agrees, he rubs her arm in comfort.

As Sana gathers her emotions, we all stand.

He hugs the girl, then Izzy. And I describe the NDA in detail that they each need to sign. No photos posted online. No alerting the media that Maximoff and his family are here. After they sign the electronic contracts, Thatcher pushes through the revolving door.

Aimed for me.

We back away from the counter and stop him midway. I open my mouth, but he already cuts me off, “Turn up your radio volume.”

My jaw tics. “That wasn’t a priority—”

“It is,” he snaps, and then raises a leveled hand to Maximoff. “I’m sorry, but I need to talk to Farrow in private. It’s security—”

“He can hear,” I cut off Thatcher. “I don’t give a shit.” All three of us head towards the revolving doors, the two girls unable to hear us.

Thatcher towers over me, and I rest my shoulder blades on the wall, uncaring about the whole domineering tactic. He begins to scold me for not waking him up before we left the bus. Apparently that was a rule since he’s keeping an eye on Maximoff, too.

“Thatcher.” Maximoff draws his attention. “I told Farrow not to wake you up.”

“No he didn’t,” I tell Thatcher and shoot Maximoff a cold glare. He’s never lying to cover for me. I can’t be the reason the best parts of Maximoff change. Ever since we kissed in front of his parents, I promised myself to protect the good in him.

His honesty isn’t dying by my hand.

Thatcher’s strict gaze pings between me and my boyfriend before landing on me. “Try harder or there’ll be repercussions for every infraction.”

I force myself not to roll my eyes. “Sure.”

He leaves at that, and we’re left alone in the lobby, the girls disappeared in the back room. Maximoff adjusts his sunglasses. They’re hurting his nose.

“I’m fine.” He lowers his voice. “I guess it’s good to know people are still talking about the rumor.” His sarcasm is clear.

“It took her ten other comments, including calling your uncle a DILF before she even mentioned it,” I whisper. “I’d say that’s a success.”

“Yeah.” He nods, more assured. “I think the tour is going to help.”

“Me too.” I sweep his tensed build, stress weighing heavier on his shoulders. My muscles burn because I want to step nearer and wrap my arms around my boyfriend. And just hold him for a second.

Maximoff takes one foot forward, but he stops himself. Craving the same thing.





13





MAXIMOFF HALE





Finally in my hotel room with Farrow, I prep in the bathroom for something I haven’t tried since I was eighteen.

I’m a pro at sex. But being a bottom is new for me, and there’s a pretty good chance I’ll be a terrible lay.

I try to shelve any doubts and just focus on the fantasy. Of Farrow Redford Keene—a twenty-seven-year-old sexily tattooed guy—driving his cock into me.

I lick my lips. Goddamn, I crave that.

I exit the bathroom.

A champagne-colored comforter fits a king-sized bed. Nothing else in the modest-sized hotel room besides a desk, chair, dresser, and television.

Farrow winds the wire around his radio and tosses it on the chair. As soon as he turns, our gazes latch like magnets. We inhale the tension, built from constant, nonstop teasing on the bus. The air could snap.

My body says go, go, get him.

In a second, we both saunter forward and bridge the distance—our bodies collide, our mouths crush together. Instinctive and starved.

Holy fuck. I hunger for his touch, his love.

I breathe deeply into a kiss. Gripping his bleach-white hair in a tight fist.

Farrow cups my jaw, his masculine grip driving me closer. Nearer. Fuck me. We’re pushed up against each other. Muscle to muscle. Heart hammering against heart.

The corner of his mouth curves upward knowingly.

Newsflash: I’m more aggressive. In a powerful kiss, I walk him backwards into the hotel dresser.

“Fuck,” he curses, his gaze rakes my build like hot coals.

Closer, my body demands. Fucking closer. I grind forward. Our cocks confined behind the fabric of his pants and my jeans—they rub. Hot friction hardening us.

I pull off his leather jacket, and I yank off his black shirt over his head while he lifts off my sweatshirt and tee. Our mouths return like a firestorm. Wild, crazed. Never ceasing.

When my waist bucks against him, he curses huskily. His large hand drops to my throat, fuck me. His fingers add force, and he carefully chokes me. His eyes dance all over my face. “You like that?” he whispers into a kiss.

Fuck yes. Veins pulsate in my cock, and my eyes almost water in desire. More.

Fucking more.

I grip the dresser on either side of him, his back digging into the wood. So close, our foreheads nearly press together.

“Harder,” I order, breathless.

Farrow tightens his grip a fraction. Air lunges from my head, dizzying me—fuckyesfuckyes. My mouth parts, and he whispers in my ear, “You want it hard and rough?”

I could come to his voice, day and night.