Headstrong Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  “He stopped when you said stop?”

  “Yeah.” I frown, thinking. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Farrow repeats, unblinking and murderous at my hookup. He places the paperweight down.

  “Not like that,” I say firmly. “Jesus, it was five years ago.” I rake a hand through my hair. “I think I might’ve just shoved him off me and then I said stop or something like that.”

  Farrow stands off the desk. He closes the distance, and we’re suddenly wrapped up in each other. Muscle against muscle. His arms around me, my arms around him. Body sinking into body. I cup the back of his neck.

  Our pulses pound.

  When we drift back, he clutches my jaw and kisses my lips lightly before whispering, “I love you, wolf scout.”

  I nod strongly. “I love you more, man.”

  He almost smiles, but his glare finds the door.

  “He’s harmless.” I use one of his favorite words. And then, my brain short-circuits at a thought. “Kaden is in this building…” Our eyes meet. “He works for Hale Co.?” I can’t remember what he studied in school.

  Farrow thinks for a second. “I did a background check on him over a year ago. It didn’t mention him working for your family’s company. I can do a current search while you’re in the meeting.”

  “Sounds good.”

  And suddenly, the meeting feels like a breeze compared to this uncomfortable doomsday.

  8

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  He’s a therapist.

  That’s the first thing I learn about Kaden Simmons. Farrow gave me more details from the background check. Like how Kaden has his own private practice in Philly.

  I should be elated that Kaden isn’t a chief marketing executive of Hale Co., or a brand ambassador. Nothing that’d put him in direct contact with my dad on a weekly basis. But the uncertainty of why he was there is a frustration that I’m trying to ignore.

  I realize it’s highly possible that he knows someone from Hale Co. and was stopping by to say hi or maybe to be their ride home. I don’t know.

  At least he’s not my family’s therapist. My parents have had the same ones for years. Christ, if Kaden was working for my family in that capacity, I might actually need to be resuscitated back to life.

  All I know is that I can’t put any more energy into Kaden than I already have. There are more pressing things in front of me.

  At the current moment: a billion damn invitations to stuff.

  Batman & Robin plays on the living room TV, and Farrow and I half-watch the 90s movie while envelopes and cards lie before us, spread over my parent’s coffee table.

  We huddle close on the sofa, shoulder-to-shoulder.

  His tattooed bicep brushes my bare bicep as he slips a card in an envelope. My breath hitches. With two fingers, Farrow passes me the invitation. All the while his gaze is on the TV.

  I’ve been trying not to smile for the past hour. Clenching my jaw. Until my whole face is sore.

  I’m on envelope licking duty, which is just me running glue over the edge. I could’ve let an assistant handle these types of boring tasks. But stuffing invitations with my man is so fucking normal that I don’t want to hand it off or pass it up.

  Farrow doesn’t look away from the movie. “You’re slacking on your job, wolf scout.”

  My neck blazes. I twist off the cap to a new glue stick. “I’m not even behind.”

  Yeah, I have five invitations on my lap that need sealed and stamped.

  He holds out another envelope, his smile stretching with that annoying knowingness. And I imagine those inked fingers gripping me. From my jaw, sliding down my chest to the ridges of my abdomen, and our lips collide in heavy, synchronous desire and thunderous love. Until we’re out of breath, and he uses the last footholds of his strength to pull me under him.

  His muscles bearing on my body, and I clutch his hair and look deeply into—

  “Maximoff.”

  I blink too slowly out of a fantasy-daydream.

  Fuck me.

  Farrow is smiling just like James Franco’s character in Freaks & Geeks. Full-blown, cheek-to-cheek. “If you keep picturing my cock in your ass, you will be behind. Literally and figuratively.”

  I plant my eyes on Batman & Robin. “Who said I was imagining you inside me?” I seal the invite. “Maybe my cock was in your ass.” I force myself not to glance at Farrow.

  I can play hard to get.

  Though, I realize why he’d guess that I was picturing him inside me. I’ve been really into bottoming lately. I’m aware.

  Highly aware.

  I sense Farrow giving me a once-over in interest. Blood pools south, my dick straining against my jeans. I crave to see his expression, but I’m trying to ruffle him a bit.

  I tear the new invitation out of his clutch and make a show of doing my job better than he’s doing his. “Maybe you should take your own advice, man. So you don’t get behind.”

  One corner of his mouth curves. “We can pretend that I’m with you straggling behind if that’s what you really want.”

  I growl. “It’s not what I want. Because I’m not straggling behind.” I finish my stack pretty quickly and wait for the next one.

  Farrow holds out another envelope, and I risk a long glance at him.

  His concentration is half on the movie, half on the next invitation. Zero percent on me. Disappointment bites at me, and I try to bottle that sentiment.

  I should be happy that he’s actually watching Batman & Robin. I’ve been slowly introducing Farrow to the classic Batman flicks, and this is one of the last ones on the list. He was dying laughing when Mr. Freeze appeared on-screen.

  And at Batman’s suit, which has bat-nipples.

  Honestly, this is one of my favorites, right behind Batman Returns, but I get that it’s not a blockbuster hit. Which is why I left it towards the end. I told Farrow all of this too, and I think ever since I said, “It’s one of my favorites,” he’s been watching the movie more closely.

  His hair color has changed, by the way. Like epically changed. The roots are still his natural ash-brown hue, but Farrow dyed the white strands sherbet orange. The color fades like a sunset, and somehow, some damn way, he still looks cool.

  “Like I was saying.” Farrow lifts his brows, his gaze falling to the invite that I haven’t taken from his fingers yet, then back up to me.

  A smile breaks through my face. Dammit. I rake a hand over my mouth. I’m happy that he didn’t forget me, alright. “I have no clue what you were saying; my brain sets your voice to mute.” I grab the invitation.

  He slips me a look like I’m full of shit. “Sure.” He stuffs another envelope. “Jane really wants this hassle?” He raises a card, referring to a line printed on the invites.

  Location: please call 215-555-3949 for details

  We’ve asked guests to kindly not post photos of the invitations—but as a precaution in case of a leak, we decided not to print the location of the wedding.

  Guests have to call the number to a burner phone—a phone that Janie bought and will be personally answering.

  “It’s a ton of work,” I tell him, “but she’s pretty adamant.”

  Now that she’s thinking of being a wedding planner for other couples in the future, any extra work that she keeps collecting for our wedding makes me feel a little better. It helps knowing she does really enjoy the planning and organizing.

  I glue another envelope. “At least if a mailman or random person dumpster-dives for the invites, they won’t have her real phone number.”

  He nods. “Okay, but if the burner’s number is leaked and some dipshits start pranking her and making answering the phone impossible, I hope she’ll pass the task off to Thatcher or me.”

  “Or me,” I add.

  Farrow shakes his head. “No, see, you and Jane have a tendency to accept harassment because you think it’s normal. I just want to make sure that doesn’t happen here.”

  The fact that he’s protect
ive over Janie just amasses my love for this guy. Into the tallest mountain on Earth. My chest swells, and I have trouble taking my eyes off Farrow.

  His lips slowly rise like I’m on my knees. Blowing him.

  I seize the envelope out of his hand. “Now I’m ahead of you.”

  He curses lightly, “Shit.” He glances at the movie. “Rewind a few minutes.” He missed a part during our conversation.

  I find the remote in between the sofa cushions.

  He asks me, “You’re still okay with the wedding destination?”

  I press rewind. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Farrow meets my gaze. “We didn’t have time to visit the venue, and it goes against your favorite merit badge.” He widens his eyes playfully. “Preparedness.” Despite his teasing words, he actually looks more concerned in the next quiet second.

  I think he’s just checking in with me since this wedding prep is on hyper-speed.

  I pause the movie. “I’m okay with just seeing videos and pictures. It feels like enough.” I start to smile thinking about July 9th. “I want to marry you in Capri.”

  He grins. “Technically, it’ll be Anacapri.”

  “Still the Island of Capri,” I combat.

  “Fair enough.” His lip inches up even higher, and I wish you could see the way he’s staring at me. With utter, eviscerating love that deserves fanfare and centerfolds and documentaries just focusing on that one look.

  And God, the way he makes me feel.

  My eyes burn with emotion, and I swallow a knot in my throat. “Jack still needs to know if we want the wedding to be filmed for the docuseries.”

  Farrow sucks in a breath, looking indecisive. “You want to?”

  “I don’t mind sharing our wedding with the world, man. I’m comfortable being in the spotlight. And there’s a high likelihood at least one paparazzi squirms in and captures something anyway, and with the docuseries, we’ll be able to share our footage. Which is better than grainy video clips from telephoto lenses.”

  As soon as tourists snap pics of my family and us in Italy, paparazzi will flock to the area like locusts. The benefit of Capri is the amount of time it’ll take media to reach the island. Right now, most fans think we’re returning to Greece, and Kinney has been “liking” those speculation tweets, so she’s helping throw off the scent.

  He’s still hesitant. It’s not like he grew up imagining being married to me. The son of an infamous sex addict and alcoholic, a celebrity who’s wrenched him into a life of zero privacy.

  “If you’d rather this be private for us, I totally get that too, Farrow. There’s no pressure.”

  He nods. “Let me think about it.” He steals the remote and presses play. And then leans back beside me. I have a hard time averting my eyes off him, okay?

  But I succeed.

  “You can keep staring, wolf scout. I already know you think I’m hot.”

  I blink. I’m taking my win, however short. And I let out a rough breath. “I don’t think it. Never even said it, and I have no clue where you’re getting that idea from.”

  Farrow rests a hand on my knee. His large palm skates down my thigh towards my crotch. Jesus Christ. My body responds, stirring. Heating.

  Wanting.

  Aching.

  Pleading.

  I breathe through my nose. Doing my best not to give him fuck me eyes. I’m not looking at him, or speaking. But I do shift back, somewhat.

  I’m about to finally reply with something sarcastic, but I turn and my gaze is on his lips.

  His grin only explodes.

  “Fuck off,” I say playfully, pushing his hand away.

  Farrow laughs, and when he passes me another envelope, he winces. “Shit.” He shakes out his hand.

  “What happened?”

  “Paper cut.”

  “You need a Band-Aid?” I stand up to find him one, but Farrow tugs me down by my waistband.

  My ass hits the sofa cushion.

  “Slow down, wolf scout. Don’t open your survival kit for me.” He hates being coddled as much as I do.

  “I didn’t even crack it open.”

  “Good.” He sucks his stinging finger, his lip curving.

  I zone in on his movements, and my muscles contract. “Maybe I should look at your finger. You might need amputation STAT.”

  “And this is why I’m the doctor.” He drops his hand, and I take it in mine and inspect the paper cut on his pointer finger. Our knees knock together, turned towards one another.

  “Not too deep.”

  He tilts his head. “Your medical assessment sounds exactly like something a Harvard Dropout would say.”

  I give him a middle finger.

  He takes my palm in his. Now we’re both holding each other’s hands, and my pulse thumps in my ears.

  Like a crack of lightning, Farrow closes the distance, and our lips crash together. Our bodies thrust closer, and I grab a fistful of his black shirt. Kissing stronger. Possessive and needing more of him.

  Only him.

  Farrow deepens the kiss, our tongues wrestling, and his hand grazes my burning neck, then rises into my hair. He holds the back of my head like he’s claiming me. Like his hand is saying, you’re mine.

  It feels better than good.

  I’m lit up. Alive.

  My palm explores his abs beneath his shirt and dives towards his waistband. He tries to draw my back on the cushions, but I brace my weight forward to pin him.

  He smiles against my mouth. Our breaths come short and heady. We’re a buoy in an ocean, swaying back and forth with his strength and my force. Until one of us leads the other under.

  And strangely, I’m more than okay to let him take me.

  I clutch his jaw, the less-than-close shave turning me on like always. His masculinity stroking my cock, and he tugs my hair, sending a shockwave through my veins.

  My lips break apart, a deep groan stuck in my lungs. And I feel his muscles flex beneath my palm. Farrow bears his weight on me, and I fall back this time.

  Deltoids meet Cushion, Cushion meet Deltoids.

  A few invitations slide to the floor, and I tear his V-neck shirt off his head.

  Our mouths find each other again and again. I clutch his ass, pushing him into me, and his hand—his hand is on my neck, my jaw.

  Fuckfuck. I grind up into him. He rocks against me, and I harden an incredible amount, my head swelling. Even with clothes separating us, I feel his erection grow against my hardness. But it’s not until a deep groan fights its way out of me that I immediately plummet into my brain.

  I go rigid.

  My muscles tense up, and I tear my lips from his mouth.

  Farrow hoists his body off me. “Maximoff?” He searches my eyes.

  I don’t sit up. I have my hands on my head, breathing hard. “Fuck.”

  “What’s wrong?” He cups my jaw.

  “We’re in the living room of my parent’s house.” I’m still catching my breath.

  Farrow frowns. “Yeah. We haven’t teleported anywhere, wolf scout.”

  I groan. Frustrated. Sexually. Mentally. Physically. All of the fucking above. There’s a lot of frustration inside of me right now. I lick my stinging lips. “My little sisters and brother are upstairs and could walk down any minute.”

  He’s smiling.

  “What?”

  “You’re just so pure.” He kisses me lightly. “It’s almost like you’ve never made out in the living room of your parent’s house before.”

  “Because I haven’t.”

  “I know.”

  I sit up, forcing him to sit up more. My chest against his chest. My legs are already on either side of Farrow. Practically wrapped around his waist. So I’m sort of on his lap now that I’m upright.

  This is where I would shove him backwards. I’d brace my weight on him and split his legs apart. We’d make out and he’d try to flip me, but he’d relent, ultimately.

  Right now, that scenario doesn’t sound as
good as this other one. So what I actually do: I clutch the crook of his neck and shoulder, and while I lie backwards, I bring him back on top of me.

  Farrow smiles wider. “You like being—”

  Screams suddenly echo from upstairs. Shrill, blood-curdling screams. Raising the hair on my arms and neck. Farrow and I share a single look before we’re both untangling and on our feet, racing up the staircase.

  9

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  “NOOOO!” Kinney yells at the top of her lungs. Farrow and I skid to a halt at the opened door. A camcorder is stationed on a tripod, aimed at the foot of her black-laced, four-poster bed. She’s standing right in front of the lens. She glances over at me, her round face a mixture of snot and tears. “GO AWAY!”

  My little sister storms over, seconds from slamming the door on us—but she’s small. I grip the frame with an iron hand, forcing it open. “What’s going on?” I laser focus on that fucking camcorder.

  Why is she recording herself?

  Why is it directed at her bed?

  She’s fourteen.

  Farrow reaches above my head and pushes the door open wider.

  Kinney stumbles back in surrender. “Just go away! You can’t help!” She throws herself on the bed and screams into a sparkly black Deathly Hallows pillow.

  I share a hardened look with Farrow, but he whispers to me, “No one is bleeding or dying.”

  I gesture to the camcorder, and he noticeably grinds his teeth with the tilt of his head. Yeah, he’s not excited about that either.

  “What’s going on?” Xander asks from the hallway. Rubbing at his eyes like he just woke up. “Is she alright?”

  I nod. “We’ve got it covered.”

  Xander pushes hair out of his eyes, concern in them. “Is it Viv?” Ex-girlfriend #1. Moved away to California.

  Farrow leans on the doorframe. “Doesn’t seem like it.” His gravelly voice is a deep whisper. “She’s not breaking shit.”

  His brows bunch. “Holly?” Ex-girlfriend #2. Moved away to Nebraska.

  I chime in, “We don’t know.” Kinney hasn’t become too jaded on romance, thankfully. But she’s said if one more girlfriend moves across the country, then she’s legitimately cursed. Right now, she’s single, so this could easily be about an ex or a crush.