“Boring him to sleep? Got it.” I nod. “And while we’re at it, maybe we should recall the day we introduced him to solid food.” Cheerios, to be exact. “I’m pretty sure he spit the cereal back up at you, not me.”
I meant to make a point, but we’re both smiling.
It was a good memory.
“He was laughing,” Farrow says matter-of-factly. Like I left out important details.
“At you.”
He tips his head back and forth, considering for a half second. “Maybe. But I’d rather him laugh than cry.”
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.
A groan strangles inside my throat, and I’m starved for him.
“Get over here,” I growl and grab the back of his head. I bring his lips to mine. Our kiss pushes us together and unconscionably devours me. Body and soul, and I can’t get enough.
Closer.
More.
“Fuck,” Farrow grunts against my mouth in a short breath. And then we’re back, connected. Lips against lips. Chest against chest. Tongues wrestling and hands traveling. Clenching hot skin.
Swiftly, I spin him around and push him hard.
Farrow collapses back onto the bed, his chest rising and falling heavily like I knocked the wind out of him. “Damn,” he breathes, arousal intensifying in his eyes and against his black boxer-briefs.
I climb on top of Farrow, claiming his jaw in my hand. We kiss again. This time deeper, hungrier, limbs sliding against slicked skin.
He yanks my jeans down off my ass and possesses the back of my skull. I rock against him in a rougher kiss, our lengths rubbing and hardening.
God.
I want more, and I’m very cognizant that I still haven’t topped. But I’ve tried to stop counting the days of my bottoming streak.
Stop overthinking. I just try to hold onto what I’m feeling in the moment, and right now, I crave him inside me. To feel his cock ride me until we’re both spent.
I break from his lips first. Standing confidently off the mattress, I cross the room to grab lube from a duffel bag. Not unpacked yet.
Intrigue gathers in Farrow’s gaze, probably not having a clue which way this could go tonight. I toss the lube on his chest. “Fuck me, man.”
The mattress undulates slightly as I crawl back onto him. His tongue wets his bottom lip. “It’s like that then?” He gives me the absolute hottest once-over of my life.
“Yeah.” I pin my hands on either side of him. “It’s like that.” I’m about to use an MMA move he taught me to flip us, but he’s quick.
His legs hook around my waist, and in a second flat, my back meets the mattress. And I’m out of breath. “Christ.”
He grins, his weight bearing down on me. “You’re too slow.” He kneels and wrenches the jeans off my ankles. Fuck.
I prop myself on my rigid elbows, watching him roll down my boxer-briefs. And F
arrow fists my hot erection in a perfect grip, one that forces my eyes in the back of my head.
“Fuuck,” I curse in a shallow breath.
He consumes my pleasure like this overcome reaction is his nirvana. His lips trail down my chest and abs, reaching the sensitive shaft he’s stroking.
Effortlessly, he replaces his hand with his mouth.
Fuck, the sensitivity and the way Farrow skillfully takes me to the back of his throat is mind-blowing. I grip a fistful of his bleach-white hair and arch my hips. Once, twice—oh fuck.
I come, so much faster than usual. Like a billion light-years faster. Like preteen days fast.
Muscles flexed, I can’t reverse what just happened, and Farrow swallows my load and pulls back.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I collapse back and rest my hands on my clammy forehead. “What the fuck,” I mutter to myself.
“Maximoff.” I hear his amusement.
I can’t look.
I’m dying. Shriveling. Bury me.
“Maximoff.” He’s now a heartbeat away from calling me pure. Great, and all of a sudden he hovers over me. He combs a hand through his hair before planting his palm beside my shoulder. His lips are quirked. “It happens.”
“You sucked my dick for a millisecond and I came like a fifth grader.”
“It was longer than a millisecond.” He’s trying really hard not to laugh, in case you were wondering. “It’s not a big deal. You get hard easily. We can keep going.”
I lick my lips. “I know, but sex is one of the things that I excel at. Like A-plus-plus-plus, top marks, gold stars, and fucking fireworks. I’ve never been a shit lay.”
His brows rise. “You are the most arrogant lay.”
“Thank you,” I say with a nod.
“You’re welcome.” He can’t restrain a laugh. “Just because you came fast doesn’t mean you’re bad at sex. It just means you really enjoyed my mouth around your cock.”
“Yeah, it’s been a while.”
Farrow hasn’t blown me in weeks, I think. Haven’t been counting. Still trying not to board the obsessive train.
“It wasn’t bad for you?” I ask.
He gives me a look like I’m way younger. Just six years. “Making you come is never bad. It’s one of my favorite things.”
I ease back at this reminder. “Alright.” I clutch his strong shoulder, and slowly, our lips collide again. He grinds against me this time, and we’re aching, shuddering flesh. We shed the rest of our clothes. Until we’re nothing but skin and sweat and pent-up, taut pleasure.
My muscular legs are on either side of his MMA build, and I feel the cold lube against my hole before his finger slips inside.
Pressure mounts, sensitive places light up and dizzy me, and a deep moan rumbles from my chest out of my throat. Jesus Christ.
“Fuck,” Farrow says, gritting down on his teeth as his arousal barrels through him. Our eyes connect with this love-fueled desire, want, and need.
We’re together. Intimately, territorially, domestically, and lovingly.
This is our home, but we’re hanging onto a dreamlike future that could slip through our fingers. Whisked away like a cotton candy cloud. The family we’re building.
That fact has been silent between us for a while.
In these moments when we’re alone and more vulnerable, I feel this rush up in me. Slight fear, and I just know that being with him has to be enough. In case it all comes crashing down.
Farrow nips my bottom lip, and sweat bubbles up across his muscles, my muscles. We hold each other, and his fingers pulse inside me.
Fuck. I groan against his jaw, and I rub his thick, warm length. Headiness swathes us like we’re swimming in bottomless pools.
“Farrow,” I moan. “Just fuck me, please. Fuck.” Tears crest the corners of my eyes. I harden, my cock standing at attention.
He carefully pulls his fingers out and positions himself against me, kneeling. He lifts my leg over his shoulder, spreading me. I’m not the most flexible guy ever, but I get the job done.
With a hand on his shaft, he guides his erection and fills me achingly slow. My muscles vibrate. I bite down at the pinch, but really, my head is spinning in eagerness and impatience.
Farrow places a palm on my flexed abs. “Relax for me.”
“I am.” I’m not.
I’m just so fucking turned on. Anticipating.
He skims my body and shifts, bringing my other leg up against his chest. My ankles rest on his shoulders. The vulnerability in this position seizes every damn inch of me. Fuck me. I have a hand on my head, the other clutches his waist.
My heart is thrashing in my ribcage. I’m on the ascent and dying for the free-fall. He slides in, and my breath hitches. He quickly leans forward, my thighs still his. Our foreheads press together.
He’s close enough that I clutch onto his biceps. My calves now on either side of his neck.
And he thrusts.
“Holy fuck,” I groan.
Deep, hard, purposeful pumps that roll my eyes back.
“Farrow,” I cry for him. Our breaths unite. Our lips only brushing, groans and breaths too loud and heavy to kiss.
“Fuck, Maximoff.” His jaw tenses, gritting his teeth while arousal pounds into him like he’s pounding into me.
We’re two bodies melding into one. Souls fusing, and he cups my face, our eyes excavating to the core. I’m pinned to the mattress. His arms wrapped around the back of my neck in a tight hold. The peak nears as his thrusts quicken. My cock sliding against his stomach with scalding friction.
He hits the most sensitive spot of nerves, teasing them and building them up towards an eruption. One more second and I’ll—
He goes still. Fuuuuck.
I growl and Farrow silences me with a kiss. He starts back up again, this time slow. Pumping his hips in a rhythm that frustrates every part of me. But it takes less work to ride me to that place again. He quickens his movements. Deepens them. I’m right there.
He thrusts. In.
Out.
In. One more…
He stops again.
“Farrow, I swear to God,” I groan. “Stop edging, man.” Water pricks at the corners of my eyes from being denied a climax.
Farrow eases back into a slow pace. “Stop being so impatient. I’m taking my fucking time with you.”
Fuck.
He does just that. Repeating the process of tormenting me again and again. And when I can’t stand it anymore, when I’m a second away from fisting my own cock, he starts thrusting at a maddening rate. Driving into me so hard that he rises on one foot, lifting my ass with him. The angle sends me off.
“Fuckfuckfuck,” I curse into his bicep, my fingers digging into his back.
He grunts, and the sound of his aroused about-to-come noise sends me over. I release with him, my waist bucking forward, and my cock twitches in absolute relief. He reaches down to stroke me, eking out every bit of pleasure.
We share a few tender moments together. Not moving. Just breathing. Our bodies still flushed up against each other.
He runs a hand through my damp hair, and I trace the inked wings on his neck. Farrow watches me, and then slowly, he eases my legs back down. I stretch them out further, the muscles tight in my calves.
“Fuck,” I whisper with one more deep breath, and I roll onto my side, grabbing the towel beside the mattress to clean up.
He leans over and kisses me on the lips. I can tell he’s assessing me, making sure I’m not cracking open Overthinking for Dummies, apparently my favorite textbook.
I’m good, and I just feel the need to say, “I love you.”
He smiles. “I love you too, wolf scout.” His cell suddenly starts vibrating on the hardwood.
I watch as he steps off the mattress, buck-naked to retrieve the phone. He frowns as he reads the caller ID.
“Who is it?” I ask.
He looks up. “The police.”
&
nbsp; 30
FARROW KEENE
Empty bookshelves line the library walls. Emerald-glass lamps cast soft light and shadows around us. Maximoff crosses his arms over his bare chest, readiness cemented from head to toe. We both had enough time to throw on some sweatpants and walk down the hall.
That’s it.
Whatever the police have to say—bad news or good—I just don’t need to hear the words spoken in our new bedroom.
I answer the call on the last ring and quickly put it on speakerphone.
“This is Farrow Keene.”
“Dr. Keene, I’m Sergeant Collins with the PPD.” His tone is stern and direct. “You’re the legal guardian of Tina Ripley and Scott Donnelly’s child. Correct?”
Shit.
I glance at Maximoff, and his cheekbones sharpen, jaw clenched. My head spins a little, and I clutch the phone tighter.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I’m the guardian.”
“There’s no easy way to say this…” Sergeant Collins takes a deeper, strained breath. “An officer found Tina’s body. She died this morning.”
My chest caves in. Maximoff turns around and walks to the window, dark drapes pulled closed.
I blink to focus my searing eyes. Not wanting to stare in the distance.
I’ve been around death enough to be used to these kinds of calls. Ones that end with simple facts: time of death, cause of death.
You leave the hospital and you don’t want to carry grief home with you, that’s what my father taught me. But I also never wanted to become desensitized to a life ending too soon, sometimes violently, sometimes unjustly. And there’s nothing I could do but try and save them, and when that didn’t work, I had to back away.
Maximoff likes to help people. I like to heal people, and knowing that Tina was out there suffering and we couldn’t find her—that’s going to stay with us.
And this will change Ripley’s life.
I intake a breath, calm as I reply to Sergeant Collins. “Is there a cause of death?” I wonder. “Where did they find her?”
I know the questions Ripley will ask when he’s older. Because I remember the questions I asked my dad about Cassidy Keene, maiden name Walsh.
My mom.
What’s her name?
How did she die?
Headstrong Like Us Page 28
