Yeah, me too.
Ripley lets out a breathy snore, and I kiss his forehead and gently rest him back in the crib. Tucking the pirate skull printed blankets around him.
We talked about giving him a comic-book themed room. But Ripley doesn’t gravitate towards Batman action figures or the Spider-Man plushies. Sometimes Wolverine, but he’s more obsessed with the damn parrot with the eye-patch.
He chose this.
And I haven’t told Farrow, but I love that the whole pirate theme reminds me of him and his sparrow and skull tattoos.
I return to Farrow, who’s still sitting on the hardwood, and I extend my hand. His brown eyes ping to my palm, then up to my face. “Come on, man,” I say. “Don’t make me ask.”
He leans back on his elbows, amusement spreading across his lips. “Now I definitely want you to ask.”
I growl under my breath, still talking softly with Ripley asleep. “Fine, asshole. Come to bed with me.”
“When you say it like that…” He takes my hand, but most of his weight is on his legs when he stands. I don’t do much to help, and I think that’s just Farrow being stubborn like me.
Quietly, he snatches the baby monitor, and I flick off the lights. Arkham barely stirs out of a puppy slumber, so he stays behind. Ripley’s room is the closest to ours. Just a short walk down the hallway.
A calico cat prances behind Farrow’s feet.
“What the fuck.” Farrow stares down at the cat.
Walrus must’ve somehow escaped Thatcher & Jane’s bedroom, and he seems pleased with himself. Tail high in the air and not skittish in the least, he’s practically already acclimated to the house.
I slip into our bedroom, and Farrow nudges the cat back with his foot. “You’re not coming in, you little bastard. Go find your mom and dad.”
He shuts the door on Walrus.
Our new room is triple the size of the townhouse’s attic. Big enough to do deadlifts, burpees, and sprints. Not that we need to work out in this space. We have a home gym. Cardboard boxes are stacked against the brick walls, and the disassembled black bedframe leans against the bathroom door.
Something lies on the ground that we haven’t had in a while.
A queen-sized mattress.
Charcoal gray sheets and a lightweight knit blanket are thrown on for tonight.
It’s slowing sinking in—that this is ours. The attic bedroom used to be ours too, but he moved into my place.
Here. Now. We’re doing this together.
I shut the door behind us. “It’s the first night.”
His heady brown eyes stalk my movements and hang onto my words.
“We’re going to have to christen this place.” I pull my shirt up and over my head. Farrow drinks in my cut abs and chiseled build, and my gaze brushes his strong jaw and lip piercing.
His finger rubs over his mouth. Amusement dances in every beautiful inch of him. I swear he stockpiles enjoyment, and it overflows and peeks out of his smiling eyes.
I’m drawn in, and I’m highly aware that he’s about to annoy me.
“Maximoff.” He eyes me up and down. “You do know that you don’t have to make up reasons to fuck me.”
I growl out a load of agitation. “You’re right.” I back away from him, heels hitting the mattress. “Pretty sure I don’t want to fuck you anymore.”
Farrow steps closer. “Why’d you take off your shirt then?”
“It’s hot in here. Any other obvious questions?”
Farrow lets out a laugh and his gaze drops. “Yeah. Why are your pants still on?”
I shrug stiffly. Heat igniting across my skin the longer Farrow stares at me like that. Like I’m five-seconds from being underneath him. From pressure mounting and welling up. Friction building.
Anticipation is like a drug, and I’m eager to feed into it.
“Could ask you the same thing, man.”
Farrow, all cool confidence, unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his slacks, unzips, and slips his tattooed fingers under his elastic waistband. Keeping eye contact with me, he pulls off his black slacks and slowly steps out of them. Fuck, he’s hot. Veins pulse in my dick, blood pumping, and my pulse bangs in my eardrums.
“Wolf scout.”
“Yeah?” I’m breathing too hard. I try to layer on seriousness and wipe off an I’m so fucking attracted to you practically drooling stare.
“Your pants are still on.”
A rough noise catches in the back of my throat. “Really? Could have sworn I took them off about five centuries ago. Been naked ever since.”
Farrow smiles and nears. “Okay, smartass.” He looks me up and down. “You want me to undress you.”
No. Yes.
No. Definitely not.
Maybe.
Jesus Christ.
I’m unmovable.
Farrow is right in front of me, our eyes never detaching, and his gorgeous fingers slip the button out of the loop of my jeans. Undoing me quickly, figuratively and literally.
His hand—hands that have healed and cared and loved me—skates beneath the denim. He palms the swelling length of my erection that strains against boxer-briefs. Fuckfuck.