“She’s asleep,” Maximoff says, voice hushed. “I left her room. I’m in mine now. Alone.” His hot impatience strokes the long length of my erection.
Aroused knot in my throat, I stand, bare feet on the floor. I use my shoulder to free my hands and push my phone to my ear. Just so I can wrap my wire around my radio and collect my holstered gun. I’m about to say I’ll be over, but I want his voice in my ear.
“Is this your first booty call?” I ask.
“Is this your first time being propositioned by a celebrity?” he effortlessly flings back.
I smile. He’s such a little smartass. “I think you mean Harvard Dropout.”
“No, I mean celebrity.” He could easily add: internationally famous, overwhelming adored and revered, but he just stops at celebrity.
I joke about Maximoff dropping out of Harvard, but I know the true reason he quit. It wasn’t because he couldn’t hack it. He needed three bodyguards during his first and only semester. Students bombarded him. Snapchatting. Instagraming. Taking selfies before, during, and after the lecture. The disruption his presence caused wasn’t just pissing off his professors, he felt like he was ruining the education of his peers.
So he quit.
And he could’ve finished out his degree with online courses like Jane, but instead he threw himself into his career. It’s all public knowledge.
I pull on my black cotton pants, and with my gun and radio in one hand, I’m out of my room faster than Maximoff probably thinks. Descending the narrow flight of stairs. Quietly passing the second floor where Quinn is passed-out asleep.
I reach my living room, and I open my mouth to speak. But he fills the line first.
“Try not to come before you get here,” Maximoff says and then hangs up.
Damn.
I slip my phone in my pocket, my neck pricked hot. I subconsciously palm my dick, up and down twice. I want him.
Shit, I want him badly.
By my fireplace, I open our adjoining door.
“Walrus, you little bastard,” I whisper and snatch the scampering kitten. Gently, I kick the door shut and then release Walrus in Maximoff’s dark living room. No lights on.
The hot tea aroma is pungent tonight, the Earl Grey scent reminding me of him. I’ve seen Maximoff fill 16oz thermoses with hot tea like it’s black coffee.
I quietly ascend the stairs. Careful that they don’t squeak beneath my weight. I pass the second floor where Jane’s room, a guest bedroom, and the only bathroom lie, and I ignore the two or three cats that stalk me.
At the very top of the staircase, I reach his door. And I enter his attic room, just as sweltering as mine—I use my leg to block two furry bastards from following.
No pussies allowed. I shut them out. Before I even look up, Maximoff says, “Lock it.”
Maybe I should change his contact name to Bossy in my phone. I do lock the door. I’m not that big of an asshole.
I turn, and my pulse pounds in my cock. Maximoff stands in drawstring pants, hung low on his cut waist, shirtless, abs chiseled like marble, but more than that—more than the outline of his erection and his beautiful cheekbones—his unshakable, staunch demeanor overpowers the small attic room.
Basically saying, I’m going to fuck you good.
My blood cranks from a simmer to a boil, and I give him a slow-burning once-over. Likewise, Maximoff. I set my holstered gun and radio on his dresser.
In my peripheral, I survey his room out of habit: closed gray curtains, a low-standing bookshelf, all deep red brick walls, a full-sized bed and burnt-orange comforter. Tiny white lights are strung around the wooden rafters, a dim glow. No other light source but that one.
Facing one another, I comb my hair back with two hands, and his gaze trails over my tattooed abs and barbell nipple piercing.
I nearly smile. “Why are your clothes still on?”
His lips ache to rise. “Come here and take them off me.”
With two lengthy steps, I bridge the distance between our strong builds—and I clutch the base of his neck, my hand running to his sharp jawline. My mouth teasingly close. Our locked gazes exhume the deepest depths, as though whispering furiously: I know you. I know you. I know you better than most ever do.
The intensity tightens my muscles, prolonging a kiss. I don’t close my eyes. I don’t look away.
Maximoff fists my hair, his other hand diving down my abs while my second palm ascends his chest. He reaches my length and massages above the cotton—he squeezes.
Good God. A rumble vibrates my throat, I throb twice as hard. Fuck, he knows what he’s doing.
As my tattooed hand reaches the hollow of his neck, his eyes flit down for the first time. Watching me, his breath falls heavy.
Discovering what turns on Maximoff Hale has to be my greatest turn on. I want to make him come. Hard.
I lightly—very, very lightly—wrap my fingers around his neck. Slowly, I add pressure, faintly choking him. I study his reaction and the way his chest collapses.
I breathe against his mouth, “Do you like that?”
His groan sounds like a hollowed, wolfish growl. It’s pure, raw sex.
Then his mouth meets mine, and his skillful, sensual tongue parts my lips. In such a languid, scorching wave. His aggression never disappearing—fisting my hair, tugging down my cotton pants. I step out and hold his jaw steady, deepening the kiss.
He walks me backwards, and my shoulders hit the brick. Our mouths don’t break, and I cup his firm ass, and pull him against me, yanking down his drawstring pants. No boxer-briefs, his erection frees. I break our kiss, and my lips upturn at his size.
I’m not surprised that he has the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen, thick and long. Our chests melded, our pelvises grind, and he fits his fingers in the waistband of my boxer-briefs.
His whisper warms my jaw. “That’s going to be inside of you.”
My head tilts back on the brick, fuck yes. My muscles flex, and I’m out of my boxer-briefs next. He looks down, and his reaction to my equally beautiful dick is a deep, “Fuck.”
Yeah, you’re not a winner in every arena, wolf scout. Not when I’m in contention.
With one hand, I grip the back of his neck. With the other, I stroke his shaft, my fingers tightening around him. My shoulders dig in the brick wall. He watches my hand with daggered eyes that want to roll back.
I grin as his hips buck forward, his mouth against mine again, and he takes over, aligning our erections, hot, sensitive flesh rubbing together—and he jerks both of us off with one calloused, hard hand that feels fucking…I groan, my parted lips falling to his jaw.
I hold his face and then nip his lip, his moan tearing through his mouth. You liked that. I scrape my teeth down his jaw, sucking the nape before biting lightly.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
He really likes that. I rake my fingers hard down his back, and he thrusts forward, wanting to pound into me. I see that clearly. He drops his hands, and I swiftly rotate him, his back to the brick. Me facing his chest. I’m dying to watch him come.
I’m about to kneel, but he seizes my waist, his hand rising up my ribs. “Wait.” His jaw tenses, and he kisses me again, slowly, and against my mouth, he whispers, “Come on me first.”
Did I hear him correctly? One of the most straight-laced men I’ve ever met wants me to come on him?