Lovers Like Us (Like Us #2)(85)

I whistle. “Now he’s really lying.”

Maximoff looks straight into me, his defenses lowered but an iron-willed strength toughens his eyes. “I couldn’t have done that with anyone but you.”

That gets to me. I inhale. “I’d say…” I kiss him, tender and brief, and he returns it, just as soft and quiet, our pulses slowing together. “…‘imagine what it feels like when you have the real thing’ but I’m sure you’ve already imagined it a thousand-and-two times.”

He grimaces. “I like how you just picked a randomly specific number out of your ass.” His sarcasm is clear.

“Good, I’ll do it more.” I rake my hand through his thick, disheveled hair. “That was easily in my top five.”

“The sex?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

His mind is reeling, and it’s hard to guess where his thoughts just spiraled. He’s partially sitting up against the armrest, and his arm hooks around my shoulders.

His focus returns to me, and he asks, “You prefer to top?”

Maximoff. “I like both, equally.” To make it clear, I tell him, “But I could be fine with just doing one or the other.”

He thinks hard.

I give him a confused look. “If you don’t want to bottom ever, tell me now.”

“I want to,” he says, voice firm. “Obviously.” His jaw sharpens, his abs tight. “I’m thinking about which one you prefer more and if I’ve ever been selfish—”

“Let me stop you there,” I say, and I quickly figure out a way to explain this. “You’re bisexual—”

“I am?” he jokes.

Such a smartass. I roll my eyes, but I continue on, “You commit to me. You don’t need a girl. But you’re attracted to girls. Same thing. I like both, but I’m fine with one forever. Make sense?”

“Yeah.” But he stares off. Thinking again. Fuck.

I retrace my words. Okay, I said “forever” and I’m not sure he ever thinks that far ahead. He’s young, and I’m his first boyfriend. I’m not trying to scare him off. At all.

“I didn’t just propose to you,” I say casually, “calm down, wolf scout.”

Maximoff growls, “I’m calm.” He hears his edged voice, then sighs out his frustration. He almost smiles when he catches sight of mine.

He nods once, eyes on me. A look that lights me on fire. We sit up fully at the same time, and he seizes the back of my head. Our mouths crush together again.

Fireworks explode in rapid succession for a finale, but neither of us are ready for this night to end.





31





FARROW KEENE





After a quick shower in the suite, we hurry out. I throw a towel at him, both of us dripping water. Our phones started buzzing at the same time.

I check mine.

Turn on your radio – Akara



u need ur radio, boss is getting mad – Donnelly



Radio. – Thatcher



bro, get your radio. – Oscar



Everyone told me to text you to get your radio – Quinn



Could be serious or unimportant. I’m not panicked. I glance at Maximoff who reads his own texts before I leave for the living room. Finding my radio beneath a tufted chair. I crouch and grab the thing.

Maximoff appears, phone in hand. His shoulders are squared like he could join a rescue team. I almost smile. Because this is his posture when he’s just brushing his teeth.

“And?” I ask while I untangle the cord to my earpiece.

“The girls left the club.” He uses his arm to rub water off his temple. “They’re at a 24/7 diner and asked if we wanted any food to-go.”

“Shit,” I curse, flicking a switch to my radio. “It’s dead.” I stand quickly and collect my pants, digging in the pockets. No batteries on me.

See, if SFO changed locations and they believe Maximoff will eventually meet-up with their clients, then they’ll want to stay in touch with me via radio. Hence, the onslaught of text messages.

I step into a new pair of black boxer-briefs. “I have more batteries on the bus,” I say, grabbing my pants and belt. We parked the tour bus at the nightclub’s VIP parking. Only a ten-minute walk from this hotel.

I’m not going to be fined for pointless shit, and losing a grand for a dead radio is about as pointless as it gets.

Dressed fast, Maximoff and I breach the crisp night. He draws the hood of his Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt, and I zip up my leather jacket.

Dallas still alive as the New Year rolls in, drunken people cheer on the sidewalks. Gold top hats on heads and feather boas on necks. More fireworks crack, but less frequently.

I love high-strung cities that never sleep.

Maximoff drinks in the frenzied atmosphere. No paparazzi or screaming fans interrupt the moment yet.

We walk step-for-step in sync, edging close to each other. He almost catches a yawn, but it escapes with a soft, “Fuck.”

My mouth upturns. The suite was a secure room, so I say, “You could’ve slept back at the hotel. I’m capable of grabbing batteries alone.”

His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and he stuffs his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. “You’d probably get lost,” he says dryly. “Directional skills are the first thing to go after I make someone come.”