Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(40)

He nips my ear.

Desire and need tauten my whole body. “Fuck,” I swear and grasp his jaw. I throb for greater, harder pressure.

His silver-ringed fingers dive down the ridges of my abs. He sucks the nape of my neck, bites my shoulder, my bicep—I growl out a guttural noise. Beyond fucking aroused.

I hook my fingers in his waistband and pull him off the dresser. I watch his fingers unbutton my jeans, moving effortlessly and precisely.

We quickly undress to our boxer-briefs, and we start wrestling for the lead. Hands everywhere, our forceful movements light up my nerves and boil me alive.

Farrow gains an advantage. With a hand to my chest, he shoves me on the king-sized bed. I catch his wrist and bring him down next to me. I top him—he flips me.

Easily. Fuck.

Now he’s on top, and Farrow puts me in some kind of MMA lock. His forearm across my collarbones, knee splitting my legs open. And he imprisons my hands behind my back.

Our mouths a literal millimeter away, his smile rises. “Never forget,” he whispers, “I’m stronger than you.”

I try to combat that. And I use my strength and attempt to rip out of his grip. He bears his body down on me, and I practically fucking melt under his weight.

Oh fucking Christ. This feels better than good.

My chin tilts upward. And my eyes nearly roll back, but I breathe through my nose. Pulse pounding. Get it together, Maximoff. Combat him. Wrestle him. Don’t melt already.

“Fuck,” I growl into a fucking groan. Fuckfuck.

He kisses me, my groan lost in his mouth. Even without my hands, I slide my tongue along his, always deepening the kiss, and Farrow curses, “Fuck, Maximoff.”

His lips descend to my jaw, my neck. Sucking again, and I mutter French and Spanish in his ear. Extremely fucking dirty. NC-17.

And Farrow understands not a single damn word. Still, his muscles contract and a low noise breaches his mouth.

We make out in this same position for a long while. I’m practically bursting through my fucking boxer-briefs. I try to move my hands, but he still cages them behind my back.

I’m too pent-up to untangle and flip him. I let out a heady breath. “I was thinking about jerking you off, and now…”

Farrow runs his tongue over his bottom lip piercing, smiling. “And now, I’m taking you in my mouth.” He lets go of my hand, and I prop myself on my elbows. Comforter soft beneath my back.

My chest rises and falls in shallow breaths while I watch him suck and bite my flesh. Down to my elastic waistband.

His feet are on the floor, and he pulls me further down the mattress, my legs hanging off the bed. My ass close to the edge. God. Fuck me.

His mouth skims the outline of my erection. Boxer-briefs wet from pre-cum.

“Farrow,” I snap into a groan, pissed that he’s teasing. I can’t handle it, and I almost fall back off my elbows.

He nearly laughs. Then he pulls my boxer-briefs off—way too goddamn slowly. My cock springs out, and I try to sit up to tear off his black boxer-briefs. But he pushes my chest back.

“Relax,” he says in that graveled voice.

I glare. “And you call me bossy?” I reach down to a nearby duffel on the ground and unzip to find lube.

“You are bossy.” Farrow is standing and takes off his boxer-briefs. His hardened dick comes into full view, and I pause. Soaking in his chiseled muscles and cascading ink, not to mention the mouth-watering erection that’s supposed to be inside of me.

Don’t get fucking nervous now.

“Never said I wasn’t.” I lick my stinging lips for the millionth time. “But maybe you are too.”

“Maybe?” he repeats, his barbell lifts with his brow. “I am bossy. Lie back.”

I chuck the bottle of lube at him. He catches it with one hand. Jesus.

“Let’s do this fast,” I say, “because I’m on a fucking ledge, man.”

Farrow strokes his length while he lowers to his knees. Then he grips mine, licks the tip, and he sucks me—holyshitholyshit. I clutch my thigh with one hand and clench his hair with the other. He devours my reaction, and I bite down, a mangled noise in my throat.

I pay attention to how his lips wrap around me, and the pressure—Christ, the pressure. He slows, and he lubes his fingers. This is it.

He pops his mouth off my cock. “Lean back, Maximoff.” He lifts my foot onto the edge of the mattress. I’ve done this enough to other people, so I’m highly aware I need to set my other foot on the bed to let him in.

But I’m fucking frozen.

He tries to distract me, his hand rubbing me. And he stands and leans down, kissing me strongly. My heart rate is elevated. I slide back more into the middle of the bed, and I bring him down. Not liking when he’s standing and I’m not.

Farrow clutches my jaw. “I’m not going to hurt you. Trust me.”

I take a deeper breath. And I try not to tense, but my muscles cut sharp. While he’s on top, face-to-face, we make out; he strokes me, I stroke him, and he whispers, “Relax.” His voice soothing.

And his other hand descends.

His fingers brush against my puckered hole. I do my best to focus on my pent-up arousal, and one finger slides into me. Deeper, finding my prostate.

He massages, and I tighten, the nerves killer. Almost too sensitive.

“Wait, wait.” I put a hand on his chest, and he’s out of me in a millisecond.