Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(83)

Body against body, our mouths collide like a car crash. He bites my lip, and a wolfish noise rumbles inside my ribcage. Fuck yes.

He clasps my jaw as I part his mouth with my tongue. Heat exploding inside and outside and everywhere between. Farrow fists the fabric of my shirt.

I touch his neck, his arms, his chest, his waist, his ass. My palms don’t know where the fuck they want to land anymore.

They just want all of him.

Farrow hooks his arms underneath mine. Spinning me in one movement, my back hits the door. A grunt expels from my throat, nerves lighting up like the flick of a switch.

He stretches my arm high. Over my head, pinned to the door, and my fist unbinds to lace his tattooed fingers with mine. Farrow sucks on my neck, my jaw, and my head tilts. Fuckyes.

My free hand dives down his back, beneath his waistband and boxer-briefs. I grip his ass hard. He mumbles my name and a curse against my shoulder.

Gathering strength, I draw our arms downward and then walk him backwards. Slowing us, and we stay attached. My hand still on his ass. He clasps my neck, his mouth hovering close to mine. But his gaze drifts around the suite.

No bed near.

We’re in the spacious, glitzy living room of the humongous suite. Oleanders perk in slender gold vases. A crystal chandelier hangs above two emerald chairs and a midnight-blue, velveteen couch. And a tinted window spans the entire wall, Dallas skyline glittering in the dark.

A sort of New Year’s Eve magic crackles the air.

“Wow,” he murmurs, then his eyes touch mine, and his smile takes shape. His tattooed fingers unbutton my jeans while I walk him backwards to the midnight-blue couch.

Our tounges wrestle, and I slide mine sensually, slowly along his, and I hear his choked groan before I ask, “I’m the better view, huh?”

“You’re definitely the cockier view,” he whispers against my mouth. His piercing brushes my lip.

We pass the mini-fridge, and I break our mouths just to ask, “Need a drink?”

Farrow smiles. “No. Do you?”

I skim him, fucking gorgeous sparrow tattoos on his waist. Drawing my attention downward. I lick my lips. “Replace drink with your cock.”

He unzips my jeans. “You need my cock?” Christ, his husky voice is practically stroking my erection. “Looks like we want the same thing, wolf scout. Because I need yours.”

Fuck. I yank his Ramones shirt off his head. Our movements stronger, faster. Starved. My hand descends the ink along his chiseled abs, then I unbuckle his belt. Hurried.

His back hits the full-length window. He pulls off my shirt, collar tearing. We’re limbs and skin and breath slamming together as we both fight to make the other bare.

He kicks denim down my thighs, and I’m going to lose this struggle because he has on high-laced boots that’ll take me a goddamn century to undo.

I slide my hand down his waistband. Finding him aroused beneath boxer-briefs, and I fist him with perfect pressure.

His muscles contract, and he grits down, hot breath through his nose.

“Fuck,” he curses, his hand holding my face, then my throat. Careful, he’s always careful about that.

Farrow palms my cock over my boxer-briefs, then squeezes—fuck me. I growl out a deep noise, my hand in a fist on the window by his jaw.

He whispers against my ear, “You liked that.” He rubs me.

Fucking Christ. My waist moves. Thrusts. Wanting more. And more. And more.

“Fuck, Maximoff,” he grunts.

I clutch the back of his head. “Just fuck me, man,” I groan. Dying.

His cock stirs beneath my hand. “You want to try? Tonight?”

I nod, assured. “Yeah.”

A smile edges across his mouth.

I’ve been impatient at the other hotel stops, and we’ve needed sleep. Though, I’m aware that I usually wake up to him working. But we haven’t progressed me warming up to bottoming in a while. Not since back in Cleveland.

Tonight, that changes.





30





FARROW KEENE





Maximoff’s humility ends in bed, but damn, his ego is warranted. Just kissing him is like a divine awakening.

But I’m here for more than the mind-blowing experience. He’s never trusted anyone how he’s about to trust me, and I take that seriously.

Lying naked on the midnight-blue couch, I bear my weight on Maximoff beneath me. Our mouths crush together, and to keep him relaxed, I don’t rush. Breaths heavy, our hands and mouths explore one another in prolonged, boiling minutes.

Even under me, even more vulnerable, his headstrong confidence doesn’t wane. His entire body bucks up into mine, hand fisting my hair. A hot rock lodges in my throat.

We kiss rougher, and chest-to-chest, pelvises grinding against pelvis, I grip our erections and stroke us together—his calloused hand moves mine away. Taking over, he rubs us. Adding intense friction—fucking hell.

This can’t end before it begins.

I shift my knee and spread his legs apart. Tendons in his neck and thighs pull taut.

“Fuck, man,” he mutters, eyeing my movements more fixatedly. He inches his broad shoulders up the armrest, slightly angled and raised.

I cup his jaw and kiss his cheekbone. “Relax,” I breathe.

He exhales a ragged breath. “Thank you, I didn’t think of that,” he says, all sarcasm.