Maximoff fixes his messy hair. A knockout sexual tension grips us both, his muscles flexing. My jaw clenching, hot breath brewing at ninety-degrees inside of me.
He probably wants to make the first move. But I reach out and massage his taut shoulder.
His breathing heavies, and our tough gazes bore into each other.
Maximoff leans forward, allowing me to go lower. For a guy that doesn’t trust easily, his permission to “go lower” is absolutely priceless. I want to give him more.
And more.
I knead his muscles, using my whole body to massage deeper. I run the heel of my palm down the length of his back.
“Fuck,” he mutters, blinking repeatedly to keep his eyes wide open.
If he weren’t tired, he’d flip me over by now. I like how hungered he usually is, but there’s something extremely fucking sexy about how he’s trying to battle his exhaustion.
I pull him between my legs to massage his back with two hands. I brace more of my weight against him, and my thumbs knead the base of his neck.
He swallows a wolfish groan, the noise almost fisting my cock.
I grit down and shift slightly.
Maximoff glances back at me, his fuck me, kiss me eyes in full blood-boiling effect. Before I even make a move, he rotates his body to take charge. And he yanks my leg, pulling me down—my head hits the pillow.
Damn.
My pulse hammers in my throat as I lie beneath him.
I clutch his neck and bring his mouth to mine. The starved kiss turns deep and heady as his tongue parts my lips. Fuck, Maximoff.
The way he uses his mouth is fucking killing me.
He falls to his elbows. Lowering his pelvis against my pelvis, thin fabric separates us, but he’s grinding while deepening a kiss.
Hot friction hardens him and me. Veins throb in my cock, and his dick pulses against mine. Fuckfuck. A gruff noise cages inside my lungs.
Maximoff shifts his head and scans me in a slow, thundering wave. One that clearly reads I want to fuck you.
His voice is more hollowed out as he says, “I don’t want to fucking sleep. Not yet.”
With him above me, I run my palm down his hard chest and the valleys of his abs. Our stinging lips brushing, I whisper strongly, “You want to fuck me?”
His mouth crushes against my mouth, and his hips buck against my waist before he grows more against my thigh. Fuck, I love feeling a guy harden.
Our muscular legs tangle; my ankle rubs his calf, and I grip his hair with one hand, our tongues wrestling. I could flip him to his back, but instead, my other hand travels to the waistband of his boxer-briefs. Dipping under them, I cup his perfect bare ass.
He grumbles an aroused curse against my mouth.
Huskily, I ask, “Did you like that?”
His gaze narrows in want.
I test something and edge my fingers towards his—he tenses. Badly. Enough to where I draw my hand back to his shoulder, and he stays rigid and catches his breath.
I have to ask. “You still want to try to bottom?”
Maximoff lifts his body off me a little more. His palm on the quilt by my shoulder. His eyes trace an inked skull pirate on my ribcage. “Yeah,” he says with a heavy breath. “I do, but I keep thinking about the tour bus and how the fuck this’ll work.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I say, confident about this.
He waits for me to add something else. A strategy or a plan. Maximoff likes to pack his survival gear, and I’m basically saying, just trust me with what we have on our backs.
He makes a face. “So we’ll figure it out in a million light-years.”
I roll my eyes into a short laugh. “I meant we’ll figure it out in the moment, not when we’re both buried six feet under the ground.” His phone rings and then buzzes somewhere on the bed.
He sits up. “I could be immortal.”
I sit up too. “You’re definitely not humble.” I find his phone beneath his pillow and toss it to him. “Here you go, beautiful.”
Maximoff catches his cell and looks thoroughly annoyed by me. Job well done. “Thanks,” he says. “Now I’m eternally sterile.”
“That’s not how that works,” I say. “Looks like you need elementary biology.”
His next words are garbled in a long yawn.
“And sleep,” I add as he pinches his tired eyes—he drops his hand, glowering. His forest-greens flit to my rock-hard bulge, then his bulge.
“I can tell you who’s bigger. And it’s not you.”
He tries hard not to break into a smile. “Funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
He glares. “Now I’m fucking limp. Thank you.”
I tilt my head. “Do I really need to point out the lie here?”
He ignores me by pulling the quilt over our legs. Then he unlocks his phone. “It’s probably Dari.” His assistant. “I emailed her about the tour.” A frown crests his face. “I missed a call. Maybe a butt dial since it didn’t ring that many times…and a text from the same person.” He straightens up.
I rest my elbow on my bent knee. “It’s not Dari,” I assume.
He flashes his cell, a text on the screen.
Can we talk when you have time? – Dr. Keene.
Fucking hell. My father is texting him. On a subject unrelated to his health.
Someone among the Hales, Cobalts or Meadows must’ve told my father that I’m dating Maximoff. It makes the most sense.
And instead of contacting me, his son, he’s reaching out to Maximoff. I sense the strain between me and my father all the time, but it seems to yank tighter.
Maximoff cracks a knuckle. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t care.” I’d rather he just lie back down and try to sleep than deal with this shit.
“You do fucking care,” he rebuts, “or else you wouldn’t look ready to uppercut a punching bag right now.”
“If that were true, then it’d mean my father pisses me off.” I’m about to swing my legs off the bed. “And when it comes to him, I feel nothing.”
Maximoff catches my bicep before I move away. “You seriously feel nothing?”
“It’s irritating that he’s texting you and not me, but that’s it. I didn’t start the cold war. It’s all him.” My father wants me to join the family legacy and be a practicing doctor. I have the MD, but I’m never finishing my residency. It’s just not what I want, and he hasn’t accepted that.
Maximoff nods. “I’ll call him back later.”
I try to slide off the bed again.
Maximoff pulls me back for a second time. “Where the fuck are you going?” he asks.
My lip quirks. He really doesn’t want me to leave him, and I struggle to look anywhere else but at him. Consumed. “Need my hand?”
“No,” he says firmly. “I just want you.”
That hits me hard. I almost crawl back. Do your motherfucking job, Farrow. I grit down and then tell him, “I have to get my phone. I haven’t checked social media threats tonight.”
Security’s tech team spends more time doing this tedious shit for us. But personal bodyguards are still supposed to “stay updated” and “aware” of the discourse about our client on social media.