“Fuck, Maximoff,” he curses, mouth broken completely apart. He rakes his fingers down my back, and he clutches my ass in the strongest grip and bucks his hips. It drives my cock deeper into him. Practically fucking me.
God.
My eyes almost roll. Nearing a peak.
Hot skin against hot skin, I quicken my pace. Harder, faster—I clasp his face. My ass flexes beneath his palm. He holds me just as strongly. Like he’s two seconds from riding me and finishing the job.
JesusChristfuck. I rub his erection, timing my thrusts with my hand. One more hungry kiss later, I drive so fast and deep that we’re white-knuckling each other to hang on.
I’m blown to fragments, and he comes in my palm. Breathing heavily, I milk my climax. Slowly, slowly descending with him.
14
MAXIMOFF HALE
“Hey, everyone. It’s morning here in Cleveland.” I hoist my phone, camera pointed at my face for an Instagram Live video. Janie films twice as many live videos as me, but I thought I should do one before the event. I smash a couple pillows against the headboard.
I’m buck-ass naked, but I stay beneath the champagne comforter. Plus, my abs are barely in frame.
I slouch on the pillow mound. More comfortable. “My cousins and I are pumped to meet some fans today at the meet-and-greet,” I tell the viewers, “and we can’t thank you all enough for buying tickets. We sold out of today’s FanCon within thirty minutes. You all are amazing. Seriously, this is going to help a lot of people.”
I was on the phone with the H.M.C. Philanthropies board this morning, and we all agreed to allocate the money raised to our College Merit programs and LGBTQ+ initiatives.
I yawn into my bicep. “Someone have any hot tea?” I smile tiredly at the viewers. Then I glance at the hotel door, but Farrow hasn’t returned. He left about an hour ago.
Hearts flutter nonstop on the right side of the Instagram Live video. Comments scroll fast, new ones pushing old out of view. 94.4k viewers and counting.
I catch a few comments:
I’ll give you tea in bed!!!
wait for me, boo <3
What kind of tea??????
DID YOU GET IN A FIGHT?!
I purposefully didn’t put on sunglasses. Bruises are in full black-and-blue glory under my eyes.
“Earl Grey tea,” I say and brush a hand through my disheveled hair. “Or green tea. I’m not that picky.”
WHAT HAPPENED?!
Are you okay? omg maximoff!!
“So some of you already noticed my face. I didn’t get into a fight. Shocker.” I lick my dry lips. “It was a total fluke accident. Got elbowed in the nose on the tour bus.”
Get better soon!!
Be safe OMG
I love u Maximoff
I wanna be those sheets so bad
“Love you all too,” I say with another sleepy smile. I prefer being open. And while I like privacy in my relationship and sex life—I’m more used to being public in every other area. Keeping up some charades isn’t worth the headache and trouble.
And telling the truth on an Instagram Live is better than a tabloid creating an elaborate fake story off a paparazzi photo.
Where’s the next tour stop?!
“We haven’t revealed where we’ll be next, but keep checking the FanCon website for updates. We could be in your city soon…” I trail off as the hotel door clicks and Farrow waltzes inside. Carrying a Wendy’s bag in one hand and a cardboard tray with two drinks in the other.
Yeah, he left to get us breakfast. My internal alarms blare in warning. I have rules. Safety measures. Protocols.
Don’t look in love.
Don’t act like I’m semi-obsessed with someone off-screen.
Don’t appear fucking interested in the six-foot-three maverick who’s about to bring me breakfast in bed.
You can’t know about Farrow Redford Keene.
“So anyway,” I say to the viewers and sit up more.
Farrow nears the bed and hands me a paper to-go cup. The exchange off-screen.
I sip the hot liquid. Earl Grey. “I have my tea—” He chucks the Wendy’s bag onto my lap after he takes a bowl and spoon and his coffee. I soak in his assured gait, the way his hands shift. I could watch him move around a room in silence for hours. Is that weird?
That’s weird, right?
Jesus, I’m so fucking weird.
Farrow climbs on the bed beside me. Still out of frame and completely aware that he can’t talk. He arches his brows at me and cocks his head.
Dammit. I’m literally ogling him.
I glance at the comments.
Who are you looking at???
Omg someone brought him food!
Watcha eating?
I can’t catch the rest. Too many comments. I’m up to 99.1k viewers. “Plan is to eat some breakfast,” I tell them, “take a shower, and I’ll be meeting some of you soon. Stay safe, everyone.” I end the Instagram Live at that and dig into the Wendy’s bag.
He smiles into his coffee.
“What?” I ask, unwrapping a chicken biscuit. We unconsciously draw closer together, side-by-side, one of my legs hooking his.
“You had fuck me eyes,” he says matter-of-factly.
I grimace and do my best to smother a smile. I want to be an asshat to him for once, but I’m struggling. “Thanks for stating the impossible.”
“It’s possible.” He sets aside his coffee and stirs his oatmeal. “I saw it.”
No way. “I wasn’t thinking about fucking you, so I couldn’t have had fuck me eyes.”
The corner of his mouth upturns. “I’m fucking with you, Maximoff.”
I blink and blink. “It’s like you want to be kicked out of the bed.” I bite into my chicken biscuit. “You get a pass for bringing me breakfast. You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say thank you,” he tells me.
I shake my head. “I swear you get off on pissing on my sarcasm.”
He lifts his brows in a wave, but his smile slowly and surely morphs into a real frown. I realize he’s been stirring his oatmeal. Not eating. Farrow pretty much always eats hurriedly in case SFO needs him.
I straighten even more. Then I take a larger sip of hot tea. “What’s up?”
“We need to talk.”
My stomach nosedives, and my brows cinch. “What about?” I jump to the worst conclusion. This is the end of my short-lived relationship. He woke up this morning and realized he couldn’t bear to spend another day with me.
I think about last night. I think about sex. Did I hurt him? Was I somehow selfish? Is that it? No…no, that can’t be it.
Even assured about that, something raw and cold impales my chest. Like an iron fist banging against my ribs. I solidify to stone.
Dear World, did he just bring me a “break up” breakfast? Is that even a thing? Worst regards, a broken-hearted human.
My guards skyrocket.
I mortar my face with nothingness. Pushing out the hurt. Preparing myself for anything and everything. Bones rigid, shoulders squared.
I can handle this.
Farrow scoots around to face me, his knees casually bent. He keeps a hand on my leg. I can’t tell if it’s in pity or comfort.
“Generally,” I say in a flat voice, “when someone says they need to talk, they talk.”
“I’m getting there.” He’s not looking forward to this conversation. That’s for sure.
Appetite lost, I wrap up the chicken biscuit and shove it into the Wendy’s bag. I can’t sit in tense silence. “If you want to break up, just do it—”
“Whoa.” He raises a hand, eyes narrowed. “I never even considered breaking up with you. It’s not what I want.” Farrow sweeps my blank face. “…do you want that?”
“No, no. Not at all.” I’m fucking confused. “We’re still good together.”
“Really good,” he says, his confidence fortifying those words.
“Then what?”
Farrow stretches forw