Headstrong Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  I nod. “Alright.”

  I’m accepting what Farrow has already accepted. I can’t change Dr. Keene. I can’t make him value his son the way he should.

  But I can love Farrow for eternity. Love him with zero hesitation. Love him with no second-thought or condition.

  “Shower?” Farrow tips his head.

  I nod and kiss him, stealing one, before we pull away.

  We check the baby monitor. All good. And then we shed our drawstring pants. Our eyes tracking each other, hungry for carnal flesh, and Farrow begins to smile. “Who’s making the first move?”

  “Me.” I step out of the clothing—and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My course of action perishes.

  Boom, I forget to jump my fiancé’s bones.

  Because my brain is doing a double-take, side-step, and back-flip at the sight of my new tattoo. Black script is inked across my bicep. It still jars me that I have a tattoo.

  Still surges up in me.

  I eye the lettering. God, how infatuated do I look right now?

  And it’s not just his name.

  It’s his handwriting. Farrow drew on my bicep with marker, and the way his eyes flitted up to me and down to the movement of his hand as he scrawled on my skin—that stays with me.

  He wrote out Farrow in smooth, cool script, and underneath the “w”—a little off to the side—he drew a small heart. And inside the heart, he wrote a tiny, M + F

  And yeah, I got that tattooed too. Thanks to Donnelly, who permanently inked everything that was written in marker.

  “You’re drooling,” Farrow says matter-of-factly. He beats me to the shower and opens the door.

  “At the M part of the tattoo.” I stubbornly squeeze between his tattooed chest and the entry to the glass stall. Rotating the faucet on myself. Water pounds the marble tile. “And how the M comes before the F.”

  “Eh, it is accurate.”

  His agreement surprises me. But I play it cool. “Yeah, it is.”

  His mouth hikes up. “You do come before me 9 times out of 10.”

  Christ. The sexual innuendo rakes hot coals down my body. My cock likes that agitation. Blood pumping, and I grip the frame of the shower beside his shoulder. Neither of us steps inside the stall yet.

  Fog rises and cakes the glass. I’m about to tell him that I last longer than him. Always. Every time.

  But right when I go to speak, I catch sight of his collarbone.

  He has a new tattoo.

  When he finished writing on my bicep, he held the marker out to me. “Pick a spot.”

  That’s right.

  He wanted me to pick the tattoo location. On his body. Between all the other art that bleeds into his skin.

  I tried not to overthink. I knew he’d like wherever I chose.

  And with Donnelly’s expertise on placement, the line of his collarbone made the most sense. My name fit perfectly among the inked mast of the pirate ship and a red sparrow.

  So I’m standing here, buck-naked, a millimeter from my childhood-crush-turned-bodyguard-turned-doctor—and I’m staring at my inked handwriting:

  Maximoff

  Farrow has my name on his body.

  Somewhere, in another timeline, my sixteen-year-old self is hyperventilating.

  Heat cloaks the bathroom, and Farrow is full-on grinning at me. He touches my arm and inspects my bicep, his fingertips electrifying my skin. “My name looks good on you.”

  Fuck me. I seize his wrist, pulling him into the shower. “Mine looks better on you.” Water rains down our bare bodies, soaking our hair.

  Steam cocooning us, and our mouths meet with swelter and yearning. I hook an arm around his shoulders, his inked hand rising up my neck.

  We claw and kiss and wrench closer. Closer. His heart thumping against me and my heart drumming against him.

  I let him shove me up against the wall. Soap and a razor fall from the ledge.

  Fuck. Breath ejects, his strength and lean, muscular build bears down on me, and Christ, it feels good. Our eyes drown in each other: our love, our bodies, desire and need. Consuming every ounce of all that we possess.

  Farrow fists my shaft with the best grip in the world, and I jerk him off, my hand wrapped around his impressive length.

  Friction builds, the sensitivity mind-blowing, and I stretch my head back. Muscles flexing. “Fuck,” I choke into a gnarled groan.

  Pre-cum washes down the drain, while I’m losing my damn mind to his physical movements. Farrow is devouring my arousal, my parted lips and the guttural noise that tries to rip through me.

  I kiss him hard. Rough, and he catches my bottom lip with his teeth. Fuck yes. I tear away from the kiss, veins pulsating in my hardening cock.

  “Fuck me,” I groan.

  Pleasure wells up in his gaze. He grits down on his teeth, breathing through his nose, and Farrow pushes more of his body weight on me. I clutch his perfect ass and feel his cheek flex beneath my palm.

  My neck careens back, eyes set on the ceiling. Fuuuuck. His hips plow forward, his erection sliding in my grip, and I want that movement in me.

  Farrow braces a forearm on the marble wall. He pumps his pelvis, teasing my brain and body to the brink of an edge. “You like that,” he whispers against my ear.

  Too damn much.

  I can’t bow forward or rock against Farrow. He has me pinned, and he completely, massively obliterates me.

  “Fuckfuck,” I groan and stake a glare before my eyes threaten to roll. But he eases back before I reach that euphoric peak. “Farrow.” I growl in fucking frustration.

  His lip quirks. “Calm down, wolf scout. You’ll have my mouth around your cock in a second.” He’s about to lower to his knees, but I seize his waist. Stopping him.

  “I want you inside me, man.” Vapor stifles breath. “Like twenty centuries ago.”

  “Twenty centuries,” he repeats, eyeing me from head to toe, and I’m already turning around. My hand pressed to the warm marble wall.

  I glance over my shoulder, staring slightly downward so water doesn’t drip in my eyes. But I still look up at him, the best I can.

  Farrow stands more under the spray, droplets gliding down his jaw, tattoos, and the ridges and valleys of his muscles. He’s undeniably so damn hot. And he’s entrapped by me.

  He holds my gaze while he clutches my waist. His rock-solid length pressing against my ass. Not inside me yet. He draws my feet back a step or two, so I’m at a better angle.

  I’m still on a bottoming streak, and I don’t foresee myself ending the trend today. I’m just breaking my own records.

  Maybe I should’ve let him blow me first. That intrusive thought tightens my muscles. My pulse is a sudden sledgehammer.

  “Shit. Maximoff, hey, what’s wrong?” Farrow runs a comforting hand along my ribs. He must’ve felt me tense up.

  I stand a little straighter. Raking my wet hair back, I speak to him over my shoulder. “When’s the last time you’ve blown me? I think it was two weeks ago, but maybe it was last week?”

  His eyes tighten in confusion. “What does it matter?” Our voices mix with the sound of water smacking marble tile.

  “I’m just thinking—”

  “No, you’re counting.” His brows spike.

  I’m holding onto his bicep, his hand still planted on my waist. “I should remember everything, though. The fact that I don’t feels like a major lapse in awareness. I’m getting complacent.” I’m fucking scared.

  He kneads my strained deltoid like, it’s okay. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve never wanted me to blow you while we’ve been together, or if you’ve wanted me to blow you every fucking day. Don’t torture yourself with that shit.”

  “I know.” I wipe water off my face. “I think what’s getting to me more is me not paying attention.”

  He nods. “You don’t need to create a sex spreadsheet. Even though it’d be entertaining as fuck.” His rising smile loosens my stringent posture. “Unlike you, I remember ev
erything.”

  My annoyance is faint. “So you can tell me how long it’s been since…” I trail off because he’s shaking his head.

  “Sorry.” He combs back his wet hair that’s being doused by the shower. “Again, you don’t need the number. It’s not important.”

  It’s not important.

  I hang onto that.

  Don’t obsess. “Alright.” I build up the swelter and kiss him roughly, his lip piercing warm from the steam. Magically, lube appears in his hand.

  Really though, he grabs the bottle off the ledge.

  And I obsess over something else: Farrow being able to tell when I’m not ready. When I’m super-glued inside my head and he needs to pull me out again.

  It’s a better obsession.

  When I glance back and we lock eyes for the millionth time, Farrow soaks in my expression—and his chest rises and falls like we’re climbing to annihilating heights.

  His hand grazes my back, diving down to my ass. I brace my palm to the wall once more, and I try to watch as his lubed fingers tease me open.

  “Holy…” Fuck. I breathe in. Pressure fists me more than a hand sheathing my length.

  “Fuck,” Farrow grunts, his hips thrusting forward but his fingers do the work. Rubbing the most sensitive place—my mouth breaks apart, a knotted moan trying to escape.

  Please, Christ, more. “Farrow.” My voice is demanding.

  “I’m not ramming my dick in you when you’re this tight.”

  I try to relax and just ride the wave. Fuuckfuck. He rubs the spot with his finger, perfectly, and he pulls out right as I near another climax.

  Jesus Christ.

  I slip him a glare. “Thanks for the edging, man.”

  “You’re welcome,” he teases, and before I can reply, his cock pushes against my asshole. His inked hand grips his shaft and he careful flexes deeper into me.

  Only a couple inches and I feel the pinch of being filled. My breath catches, and Farrow stops. “Relax for me.”

  I face the wall, unable to look at him. But the less I strain my neck, the more the rest of my muscles ease.

  He rocks in. Deep, deep. “Fuck,” Farrow groans.

  I blink, headiness washing over me. Dizzying me with the vapor. He’s inside of me. Farrow arches his hips, rocking, and I reach back and feel his ass as he thrusts.

  The movement is pricking my nerves. I moan, and my head tries to loll backwards. He clutches my jaw, our faces close, and we kiss the fuck out of each other.

  Fuckfuckfuck. I break from his mouth, another moan escaping, and water leaks out of my eyes, washed away with the shower. My palm splays on the tiled wall, and he threads his fingers through mine. Hand atop hand.

  Farrow groans, “Fuck, Maximoff.” I’m a fucking goner.

  Just lost in him. Feeling his chest flush against my back. I reach down to stroke my throbbing cock, but he smacks my hand aside and fists me himself.

  Fuck me.

  The force of his body thrusting and thrusting drops me from my hand to my forearm against the wall—and I bathe in each second with Farrow.

  Our eyes collide as he pounds into me. Mouths open, lips a breath away, and a whimpering, low cry of fucking pleasure releases from my body.

  Farrow groans and rams harder, deeper. Fuckyesfuuuuck. He nails my prostate in a rhythmic succession, and my muscles contract. Until I come, all the tension exploding in one blinding wave.

  My eyes roll back, and Farrow milks my climax, pumping me with a skilled fist. He feeds the last of his own orgasm, thrusting slowly in me. Slow, in and out. Slow, in and out.

  His action mimics our breaths, coming down on a slo-mo free-fall.

  “Fuck,” I breathe, blinking out of that haze. I barely see my cum slipping down the drain. I glance back, and Farrow kisses me on the lips before he eases out.

  He smiles. “Shit, I enjoyed that.” He’s eyeing me to ensure that I’m okay.

  “It was alright.” I downplay.

  He lets out a short laugh. “I think you mean it was a top ten.”

  “Bottom hundred.” I toss him the shampoo bottle.

  “Wow, you’re really lighting that honesty merit badge on fire.” He opens the shampoo, and I can’t help it—I’m smiling.

  And then I remember… “Ripley.” I pry open the door and check the baby monitor without stepping out. “He’s still sleeping.”

  Farrow relaxes, scrubbing shampoo through his hair. Tonight is a big night—what we have planned. But instead of obsessing, I’m taking in these simple, little moments with him.

  Showering with my fiancé.

  Washing our hair.

  Painfully normal.

  Dear World, let this last forever. Best regards, a hopeful human.

  15

  FARROW KEENE

  Ripley has been fed, burped, changed, and he’s caught blissful hours of sleep. I even took his temperature, looked into his ears with my otoscope, and bought and read shiny new books on pediatrics.

  I know my shit but being updated doesn’t hurt.

  Logic says there’s no reason he should still be wailing like the sun is dropping out of the motherfucking sky. But babies don’t exactly adhere to logic.

  And this kid has been put through who-the-fuck-knows-what the past four months of his life. The counselor said he’s going to take time to adjust. So the fact that he’s treating everyone but Maximoff like they have leprosy, I’m not taking to heart.

  In the Hale’s living room, Ripley bursts into a sob, cradled in my arms. I bounce him softly and pat his bottom. He calms a fraction (barely), and then I secure him in a dark gray sling against my chest. Maximoff showed me once how to do it, and that’s really all I need.

  “You don’t have to act so repulsed by me, you know,” I whisper to the little man. “You’re giving wolf scout way too much ammunition.”

  Ripley cries harder. Big, glassy crystal-blue eyes fill with tears. With the edge of my shirt, I dry the wet tracks off his chubby cheeks.

  Last time he was in Maximoff’s arms, he was giggling and smiling this goofy baby smile. It was cute as hell.

  Not going to lie though, it sucks watching him sob and not being able to soothe him. I’m a doctor. Healing is kind of my thing. His tears almost entice me to pass him off to Maximoff.

  But I don’t give up that easily.

  Bright lights shine against curtains, and I pass the sofa and pry the fabric aside with two fingers. Security vehicle. The SUV rolls slowly up the driveway.

  My radio is on, much to Thatcher Moretti’s pleasure. I haven’t gone rogue in a while, and I’ve been more inclined to tune into comms lately.

  My gut gnaws at me to stay alert, so I can protect the Hales.

  I heard from comms and from Maximoff that Kinney went to see a movie after school. Most likely, her bodyguard is dropping her off right now.

  See, all the Hales usually have family dinner every night, and they’re supposed to be home by 6:30 p.m. or else Lo blows up their phone with calls and texts.

  Mostly to annoy the hell out of them.

  But tonight is a little bit different. The smell of meatloaf permeates around the house. Maximoff has been cooking for the past couple of hours, wanting this to be memorable.

  Meatloaf is one of Luna, Xander, and Kinney’s favorite meals.

  I swerve towards the staircase. Feet pad down the steps. Donnelly emerges, prying out his earpiece and slinging a backpack on his shoulder. His shift on Xander’s detail just ended.

  Even with Donnelly at the Hale house most days, we don’t hang out unless Xander and Maximoff are together. He’s on-duty, and protecting the famous ones is why we’re in this field.

  Donnelly nods to me on his way to the door. Barely glancing at the baby attached to my chest. “See ya.”

  “Hey, wait up.” I follow his stride.

  He stops in the foyer, septum piercing in and tattoo sleeve visible, wearing a ripped Duran Duran muscle tee. His gaze descends to Ripley. “Does the little
dude have an off switch?”

  “He’s a baby, not an electrical appliance.”

  “Looks the same to me.”

  My lip wants to rise, but Donnelly squints at the ground, then the wall. “Been meaning to tell you somethin’…”

  “Yeah, me too.” While Ripley sobs, I dip my head to him and whisper a deep, calming, “Shhh,” and his cries soften a little bit. To Donnelly, I say, “You first.”

  He steals a furtive glance at the living room. Like he’s checking for any famous ones eavesdropping.

  And then he steps closer. “The police report about the fire—it coulda been arson.”

  “It was electrical,” I say under my breath. “It’s a closed case.” As of last week.

  Donnelly drops his voice too. “I don’t believe that, man. I’ve been thinking…and I think my dad started the fire.”

  Oh my God. “No, he’s not that stupid, Donnelly.”

  “He got out of prison before the house burned. He could’ve torched it.”

  I shake my head, but it’s extremely easy to empathize with his rationale. Back during the FanCon, I thought my father was capable of posting death threats towards Maximoff Hale. My boyfriend.

  I created a monster in my head, and Edward Keene has done far less heinous shit to me than Sean has done to his son. So I understand how Donnelly could jump there, because I’d fucking leap there too.

  If it weren’t for the phone calls over the years.

  “He didn’t burn down the house,” I assure my friend. “Think of all the times he’s called you, and what has he wanted?”

  “You’re the one who talks to him.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Yeah, Donnelly would pass me the phone whenever Sean rang him from prison. He knew his dad would pressure him like fucking hell, and I could easily tell Sean to back the fuck off.

  I say, “Man, you know what he asks for.”

  Donnelly nods, eyes on mine.

  We don’t speak the heavy unspoken shit. How Sean used to pressure him to turn tricks for drugs and smuggle them into the prison. He would also badger him for money. Then Donnelly became “famous” and in reach of three extremely famous families.