Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(53)

This just seems like the best distraction.

Fuck my high sex drive.

“You usually don’t let me do it unless you’re about to blow me,” he says casually.

Yeah, I’ve been trying not to imagine taking him in my mouth.

“But you haven’t even looked in my direction once,” he continues. “Blow jobs are off the table then.”

“Kitchen blow jobs in front of everyone are definitely not happening.” My voice is more serious than I intended.

“It was a joke, wolf scout,” he says coolly, calmly—like his entire world resides on a beach somewhere sipping Mai Tais with zero stress and zero irritations.

Finally, I swing my gaze up to him.

Sure enough, he’s doing the whole towering over me thing. Elbow on the counter, lips curved, and head slightly tilted. It’s sexier than what I pictured in my head. He seems taller.

Older.

Stronger.

His silver rings lightly drum the granite with a click click click.

And yeah, I’m in a perfect position to blow him. Every bone in my body screams at me to clutch his ass, suck him off, and watch him come.

I’d like to do a lot of damn things that can’t happen on a crowded tour bus.

My muscles burn. “Your jokes aren’t funny today.”

Farrow lets out a low whistle. “I’d ask who pissed in your Cheerios, but you’re still looking for them.”

“Again,” I say and then snag a box of Raisin Bran. Rising to my feet, we meet at eye level since he’s slouching. “Not funny.”

Our eyes catch and hold. Fuck me hard, man.

“Noted,” he says, and he reaches out, about to touch my neck—I jerk away.

“Don’t touch me.” My voice is firm. For Christ’s sake, I need to be a hundred feet from this guy. No eye contact. Definitely no skin contact. Not until we reach the next hotel.

Farrow straightens up almost instantly. Worry shades his face. “Okay, now I’m going to ask,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I tear open the Raisin Bran and walk stiffly towards the couch. “Walk” is honestly an exaggeration. The counter and the couch are barely three feet apart—and I’m fixating on stupid shit on purpose.

“Maximoff.”

I turn.

His barbell rises with his brows.

I breathe out an agitated breath. “Fuck, man. We haven’t had sex in a while. I can’t look at you.” I recognize that I can go masturbate, but I’m dying for him.

Not for my hand.

He rests more against the counter and fixes his bed-head hair. Back to being cool, calm and collected. It’s like a switch that I apparently don’t possess.

“Because you want to jump my bones,” he adds and eyes me up and down. “How are you unable to keep my company now, but you did fine when I was just your bodyguard? You weren’t having sex then and that was two months.”

I don’t know.

I honestly don’t know.

I start shaking my head. Maybe it’s because I have access to him. Because my imagination satiated me back then. Now that I have him, God, I want him.

“I don’t have the answers,” I say seriously. “I just listen to my body.”

“And what does it say?” His voice is a graveled whisper.

I rake a hand through my hair. “Need. Want…You.”

Farrow nods slowly, as though repeating those words over and over. His thumb skims his bottom lip, and he glances over to the bathroom door. “So there’s a shower here—”

“That has thin walls,” I cut him off.

“We’ll be quiet.”

“And when we walk out of the bathroom together, people will just think we were in there knitting sweaters,” I say, sarcasm thick.

He steps away from the counter. “They’ll think we were fucking, wolf scout.” A smile plays at his lips. “And you have to be okay with that.”

Privacy in my sex life is like a rope I’m hanging onto while suspended over a bridge. But today is different. Today, I’m far willing to loosen my grip on that damn rope.





19





FARROW KEENE





Maximoff rams my back to the tiled wall, a breath and grunt ejecting from my throat. Hot water pelts our flesh, shower glass fogged. Good fucking God.

Our locked gazes dig deeper, and I hold his face, gaining control as our mouths crash together with force and fire.

He kisses like he’s been depraved of my tongue and body. I reciprocate like my greatest want is to satiate this gorgeous-as-fuck guy. And it is.

I’m extremely attracted to turning him on and watching him get off. Fuck, I’m going to make him come hard.

I catch his lip between my teeth, and his hips thrust forward for closer contact. My mouth curves, seeing clearly that he wants to plow me. He fists my wet hair, and a husky noise rumbles inside of my lungs. Fuck.

The small confines of the shower fall to the wayside with our heat. Our touch. Both of us lean but muscular and cut, both nearly the same height, both at equal strength—we play for an advantage and his needs fuel mine.

Still clutching his jaw, my other hand trails down his wet chest to his abs and then I grip him and stroke his rock-hard length.