Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(6)

For Christ’s sake. His words fist my cock.

His satisfied smile stretches from cheek-to-cheek. Somewhere in some alternate universe, I’m a philosopher writing dissertations on that fucking smile. And its sheer effect on me.

Farrow says, “I’m flattered.”

I groan out my agitation. Blood pumps south, my cock still not understanding. “I’m mildly, somewhat attracted to you,” I tell him. “That’s so far from obsession, I can’t even reach the word in five millenniums.”

“Mildly, somewhat,” he repeats softly, his gaze dancing across my features. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and silver piercing. The air is headier.

My chest rises in a deeper breath, and I close the two-foot distance.

Farrow clutches my sharp jaw, his large palm warm. I clasp the back of his neck, my hand rising to his black hair. Our mouths teasingly close but not touching.

I walk him backwards. Until his muscular shoulders hit the door again and our legs thread. He lets me take the lead for now.

I breathe, “Did you hear the part where I said I’m not obsessed with you?”

His brown eyes flit to my mouth, then back up.

Kiss me, man.

“Did you hear the part where I said you’re nervous?” His graveled voice wraps me up like safety.

I nod. “Yeah.” I’m kind of fucking anxious. In a lot of ways, I want this guy by my side, but reality slams hard.

And I pull back.

Our hands drop.

We both look disappointed, but I just tell him the truth, “You shouldn’t be late to your SFO meeting.”

He rolls his eyes. “It isn’t a formal meeting. If you need me, I can be with you while you talk to Jane—”

“No,” I cut him off and take another step back, a knife in my ribs. “You shouldn’t bail on Akara after he stuck his neck out for us. Not because of me.” I quickly add, “I’m fine on my own. I always am.” I cringe at my choice of words, ones that remind me of Charlie on that yacht.

Fuck.

Farrow notices. “Your face says you’re not fine.”

I try to pull my features. “Then stop staring at my fucking face.”

Farrow tilts his head back and forth. “No.”

I rock at the firmness of that no. “What?”

“You heard me.” Farrow taps the doorknob with his thumb ring, the click click filling our short silence. “You’re smiling.”

Fuck me. I rub my mouth a couple times. Yeah, I was smiling like a damn idiot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.”

I swear he’s one second from pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. I breathe hot breath through my nose, and my muscles almost unconsciously flex.

I’d like to say that my body isn’t listening to my brain, but both have bought and made Team Farrow T-shirts against better fucking judgment. There’s some place in me—a pinky…a microscopic nerve-ending in my frontal lobe—that tries to resist.

I backtrack the conversation. “I promise you, I’m fine. I can survive two hundred decades without you.”

His smile is out of fucking control. “With or without me, you’re not going to survive to be two-thousand-twenty-two-years-old.”

“I didn’t realize you could see the future.”

Farrow laughs once. “Such a smartass.” He shakes his head in thought. “Need wasn’t the right word then.” He holds my gaze. “Do you want me with you?”

Yeah.

Something wells up inside of me. I let go of any and all emotional barriers, and he sees that affirmation a thousand times across my face.

Farrow steps off the door. And in a swift, seamless move, he clutches the back of my head—and he kisses me. Fuck.

Me.

I part his mouth, hunger driving my tongue against his, and our bodies instinctively thrust together. Like we’ve been teasing for a damn century. Every explosive kiss detonates my body. My brain.

I grip his hair in a tight fist; his low groan barrels against my mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathes and nips my lip.

Christ yes. Heat sweltering, building, scalding—he stops first, drawing back.

Farrow fits in his earpiece that must’ve fallen out. “You want me, you have me. Let’s go, wolf scout.”

I’m still winded, my head on a tilt-a-whirl. I lick my stinging lips. I feel like he just fucked me in multiple positions.

He combs his hands through his ruffled hair, his mouth curving upwards. “You need a minute to catch your breath?”

“Not if you don’t,” I retort and stop breathing heavily. “Follow me.”

I can feel his eye-roll and grin behind my back, and I rub my mouth again and realize I’m smiling. Even in the face of what could be a serious, real doomsday.





2





MAXIMOFF HALE





Surprise, I’m not the late person here. Jane texts that she’ll be in the kitchen in a second.

Proactively waiting isn’t my thing. I can admit that. So when Farrow unwraps a piece of gum and tugs open the fridge, I ask him, “Need help?”

He chews his gum slowly and glances at me in a way that reminds me he’s twenty-seven. I’m twenty-two, and he’s more than capable to do shit himself.