Farrow returns the aroused, taut sentiment. Our short breaths are the only true noise.
The headiest exchange of my life. Undeniable.
He leans forward, his lips an inch from mine. And very deeply, very huskily, he whispers, “What do you want, Maximoff?”
In an instant, I close the distance.
My lips meet his lips, and the tension explodes. We thrust forward together. An invisible divide detonates, blown to pieces.
He deepens the strong kiss. Our tongues wrestling, breath caught in my lungs. I clutch the back of his head. With firm, possessive passion. Wanting more of him.
His muscular arm falls to my broad swimmer’s shoulders. His fingers skim lightly, teasingly against my burning neck. Rising through my thick hair.
Fucking Christ.
A low groan sticks in my throat while we kiss. His smile grows against my stinging lips.
I want closer, but the middle console is in our fucking way. I untuck the black shirt from his pants. My hand slips beneath. Discovering the warm ridges of his abs that flex against my large palm.
My other hand shifts to his jaw, his skin rough from a less-than-close shave. His masculinity pumps blood in my dick, turning me on inside out. I like men that can bench press as much if not more than me. The kind that tries to steer my ship in bed and then relents, ultimately.
The kind that kisses like a fiend but becomes a pleasured puddle while we’re fucking.
Farrow pulls me nearer to his six-foot-three build. Finding extra room to move. He breaks the kiss, only for his mouth to travel down my sharp jaw. To my neck.
Fuck me.
I twist his shirt in my fist and then I climb between the seats. Heading into the back, I pull Farrow in this direction behind me. He follows. Our asses hit the stretched leather seat. No physical objects in our way.
We breathe heavily. Sprinting towards something we’ve never chased.
I yank the shirt over his head. And he tugs off mine. Hot skin against hot skin, tattooed chest to bare chest—I pin him to the side door; his head gently touches the window.
He grins, panting for two breaths. “So it’s like that then?” His fingers hook in my waistband.
I need his hands on my cock. I grind forward, shifting his hand lower. His brown eyes pool with intrigue. And arousal.
“It’s like what?” I ask deeply.
One corner of his mouth curves. “You’re bossy every place, everywhere. It’s like that.” And then Farrow uses his strength and hooks his arms beneath mine. Swiftly, he turns me, my spine meeting the interior car door. Our positions reversed. The back of my head meets the window.
And his knee presses on the leather between my legs. Closer, he clasps my hand. He sucks my ear before whispering, “So am I.”
“Fuck,” I pant, oxygen barely leaving my lips. I’m fucking breathless. Lightning has been striking me on repeat.
I’ve never felt breathless in my life.
I’ve never been with anyone I’ve known. Not like this. Never have I had real feelings beyond physical attraction. Not until him.
Merging the two—the feelings with the physical, it catapults me to a new plane of existence. Farrow lets go of my hand to clutch my jaw. His fingers—on my face.
My neck arches back against the window, my eyes almost rolling but they fasten into a daggered look. Fuck. I need him lower.
When I train my piercing gaze on him, I see how he drinks in my pleasure. Getting off by my expression. He kisses outside of my lips, and I kiss him more fully. Tongues tangled.
He grabs my neck, our pelvises digging closer. Erections bound beneath fabric but fucking dying to meet.
I fist his hair. Tugging. Sitting up more to be at equal height. The handlebar protrudes into my back, but I wrench Farrow harder to my chest.
His lips part into a gruff groan.
I can’t wait anymore. I draw his hand lower. To my zipper. Unzip me, man. I want jeans off, boxer-briefs off.
Farrow palms my cock, then squeezes above the fabric with the perfect pressure—fuck me. Swiftly, he fishes my button through, unzips—and on instinct, I lift his head back up. To kiss me again. Farrow seizes my jaw in a strong but affectionate grip.
Ensuring that I stay still.
So he likes control. Not a new fact, but I wonder if he’d let go, just in bed. And then I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing about me.
The second our lips break, I put a firm hand on his chest. And I guide his back to the bottom of the leather seat. Until he lies supine.
His ravenous gaze swallows me whole.
I expect him to protest about the new position, but he clutches my shoulder and pulls me down on top. Our movements quicken, feverishly. Our legs intertwining. Our dicks grind before I stroke the outline of his length, rock-hard. Fuck.
Me.
I unbutton his black pants. He yanks my jeans halfway down my thighs, revealing my green boxer-briefs. We exchange hard, rough kisses in every free second.
His lip piercing no longer cold but warm against my mouth. I unzip him—we stop.
We suddenly freeze as my phone vibrates in my pocket. Loudly.
Incessantly.
Someone’s calling me. Our chests visibly rise and fall. His lips reddened from my force, and before I tell him I have to answer, he’s already digging into my jean’s pocket. Retrieving my phone.
He remembers that calls are more important than texts. I never ignore phone calls. I can’t. Not if family may be in trouble.
I just realize his earpiece is out. And also his radio. He left both on the passenger seat up front.
Checking the caller ID, Farrow says, “It’s your dad.”
15
MAXIMOFF HALE
MY DAD IS CALLING ME. Greaaaat.
I sit up off Farrow, and he sits up with me. Turned towards one another still, our arms are on the back of the same seat.
I steady my breath. Used to the worst timing for most things.
Farrow presses the green accept call button and hands me the phone. Basically saying, I’m okay with you talking to your dad, wolf scout. Do what you need to do.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, putting the call on speaker for Farrow.
Almost subconsciously. Throughout the years—but also while he’s been my bodyguard—he earned my trust, and now I can reciprocate. In my life, that’s monumental.
Farrow combs a casual hand through the just-tugged strands of his white hair. His lips quirk when he catches me staring longer.
I made out with my bodyguard.
Officially.
I’m in the no-takebacks fly zone. While I hover here, I just want to do so much fucking more. My brain is zeroed in on him.
And as far as I can tell, he’s just as honed in on me.
“Hey, Moffy.” My dad’s naturally sharp-edged voice fills the car, but he can’t see anything. Thank God. “I’m the bearer of shitty news tonight.”
My brows knot. “How shitty?”
“Hold on…” He must pull the phone away, his voice harder to hear. “What are you doing awake—no, never mind. Bed. Now.”
“Dad.” I know that voice and her serious tone like he’s unconscionably destroying her favorite pair of boots and gothic makeup. It’s my little sister Kinney. “You don’t understand. The witching hour is at 3 a.m.—I need to commune with my people.”
“Wait…are you dead? Did I forget to print an obituary of my own thirteen-year-old daughter? Let me think about this.” My dad’s dry voice definitively says I’m not thinking about this. His thick sarcasm makes Farrow’s lips upturn even more towards me. Knowing exactly where mine originates.
“Dad,” she huffs.
“Kinney Hale,” he refutes, “I banished ghosts from this house millenniums ago. They’re all afraid of me. You’re wasting your time. So bed. Now. You have school tomorrow.” He must put the phone to his ear. To me, he sighs, “Kids.” Just to piss her off.
“I’m not a kid, you troll.” I can actually h
ear her stomping away.
My dad laughs. “I love you, little Slytherin!” he shouts after her. And to me, he asks, “Sorry, where was I?”
“Shitty news,” I say, hesitant to pull off my jeans in case I need to go home for whatever reason. Farrow stays as motionless as me.
“Are you in your car?”
“Yeah. You’re on speaker by the way.”
“Farrow, is he speeding? If he is, you have my full permission to ground him. Take away his phone. He hates that.”
Farrow is smiling like a Cheshire cat. Loving this too much. I glare and flip him off. He clasps my hand. “He’s only five-over,” he says easily, still smiling. I bring our hands down, examining his tattooed fingers that spell k.n.o.t., the other hand reads: t.a.m.e. in black ink. Farrow watches me fixatedly but adds to my dad, “Let’s blame traffic.”
It’s more than a good lie. It’s one that’s meant to help me first and foremost. Not my parents. Not the security team. Me.
He’s on my side.