Our eyes hit, and he sees the shock in mine. For one, I never thought he’d be this experienced. Despite saying that he has a lot of sex, that he loves sex—to me, he’s still five years younger. Five years less experienced.
For another, I thought he’d be wound-tight and vanilla. But he likes to be bit. Possibly scratched and choked. Now this.
Maximoff Hale has his kinks, and they make him really vulnerable for a few seconds. Yet, he commands every action, too. I dizzy in thought, and I run my tongue over my stinging bottom lip.
He rubs my cock fast, fuck. I lean forward, forearm on the brick by his head. I hold his face in a tight grip. “You want me to come on you?” I ask huskily.
His head tries to arch back against the brick. He growls out a groan, “Goddamn.” His breath is ragged and spiked, and I’m only grasping his face.
His large hand squeezes around me—and I grit down, my muscles ablaze, my tendons pulling taut. My head thumps, blood rushing downward. I breathe hard through my nose. His hand changes speed, slower and tighter. The perfect pressure wells up inside of me, mind-numbing.
My head wants to loll back, but I remain eased forward, my forehead nearly against his forehead. He changes his pace and clutch again.
Fuck.
I’m going to—I jerk forward, coming by his fucking hand. His abs glisten, and with a breath knotted in my throat, I drop down to my knees.
I stroke his hard length a couple times with a skilled grip. He watches my fingers intently, and he pushes my damp hair out of my face.
I smile before I slide my tongue down him and cup his balls. He shudders and curses, “Fuck, Farrow.” That fuck said, stop teasing. I try not to laugh.
I suck his tip and then wrap my mouth around him completely. I go all the way, in and out, back and forth, his cock between my lips. Gripping his shaft at times.
I love having him in my mouth, but even more than that, I’m hooked by the way he’s staring deeply at me. Like I’m a fantasy. Like I’m something made of heaven and stars that he’s dreamt of—and I never thought to ask what a celebrity who could have anyone in the fucking world fantasizes about.
And I wonder how long it’s been me.
I feel myself hardening again. I clutch his ass and take him to the very back of my throat. I taste him on my tongue. He mumbles a curse, his eyes rolling back and then set into a glare at the ceiling. It’s the hottest cum-face I’ve ever seen.
I pull back and swallow.
When I rise, we start kissing feverishly, our arms hooked around each other, and I hold his muscular back against my chest and suck the base of his neck. He moans as I bite his flesh, and then he spins. We keep wrestling for the advantage, more compatible than most would believe—like two men playing for the lead. Not fighting.
I smile wide as he guides my hand to the brick, his chest up against my back now. We’re caked with sweat. His hands roam down my waist and ass, tracing the inked lines of my scattered tattoos.
I crane my neck over my shoulder and hold the back of his head. We kiss twice before he says, “Don’t move.”
Maximoff leaves to his nightstand. I lean on the brick with my forearms, almost in a relaxed lunge, watching him grab a box of condoms and lube.
“He bought my favorite,” I tease.
Maximoff wears his irritated, pleasured smile like a champ. I could stare at that face all day, every day. I basically already do.
“This is your favorite?” he says, sarcasm present, breath still heavy. “I would’ve returned it, had I known.”
I whistle. “Be careful. You’re seconds away from losing your honesty merit badge.”
He can’t hide his smile, but as he comes up behind me, our gazes devour each other again. The air strains, and I don’t even need to work him up. He’s hard as a rock again.
Damn. He collects a condom, tosses the box aside, and tears the wrapper off with his teeth. I watch him sheath his cock, then lube himself and his fingers.
His confidence wounds a hot ball in my throat—I want him inside of me. Now.
I face forward, my head hanging slightly, and I relax my muscles. He clutches my waist, and then he slides one finger along me until he pushes inside.
My jaw just unhinges, the pressure enough to cage breath in my throat. He grazes against my prostate. I moan, “Fuck, Maximoff.”
I try to breathe full, deep breaths. He pushes another finger inside, teasing me open for a while. I glance back when he retracts his fingers.
Maximoff grips his shaft and pushes up against me. His warm breath heats my ear. “Do you need me to go slow?”
I’d smile if I weren’t burning up alive. “No.” I look back and seize his gaze hard. “Take me however you want.” That idea fists my erection.
Both of us still standing, he gently eases into me, and my head turns towards the brick, my eyes nearly shutting at that body-shaking pressure. When I take all of him, his chest welds to my back, and he starts thrusting.
Fuck…I let out tangled, low moans. My hand in a fist on the brick. His fingers dig into my hips, his pace is deep and fast and hypnotic.
I lose myself to the rhythm. My mind floating off without my fucking body. With my free hand, I reach down and stroke myself. Only twice because his right hand drops off my waist, and he grips my hard shaft. Maximoff adds friction everywhere.
I extend my arm backwards and grab his ass. His muscles flex beneath my palm with each thrust deeper.
I moan and grit down. Fuuuck.
Our bodies buck forward with the intense rhythm, and I clench my teeth, the pleasure rippling through my red-hot veins. Barely even looking at the brick in front of me—my eyes are in the back of my head.
I come, and his groan thunders low in my ear, “Farrow.”
His body rocks against me, milking his climax while I catch my breath. I rest my forehead on my bicep, sweaty palm on the brick.
He wraps his arm around my abs, very compassionately and comfortingly. I can honestly say that I’ve never been fucked that well.
Maximoff Hale is something else, and from start to finish, I can’t imagine anyone else having him but me.
19
MAXIMOFF HALE
Multiply my fantasies times a fucking gazillion and that’s how I’d describe last night.
It surpassed anything my mind could conjure.
Farrow set his phone alarm for 5:40 a.m. before we fell asleep in my bed. Just so he could leave before Quinn notices he’s missing. Somehow we wake an hour earlier.
Must be the newness, excitement—or my idiotic brain thanking me repeatedly for giving into its six-year-long demands.
I lie on my side. Beneath my white sheets and orange comforter. Turned towards my bodyguard. Buck-ass naked, both of us. Farrow is propped on his elbow, and he runs his hand through my hair. Inspecting the roots.
“You need to dye it soon,” he tells me.
I lick my lips, thinking. I have a routine with one-night stands. I never talk about myself. Never ask them anything too personal, not about to lead them on. I walk them downstairs and call a private driver to take them home safely.
I never see them again.
This is so fucking different.
Farrow’s hand drops when I sit up against my headboard. He follows suit and studies my sharpened cheekbones and downcast eyes. I’m staring at my knuckles. And I realize, I’m nervous.