BLACK AND ORANGE Halloween streamers and pumpkin lanterns drape Maximoff’s kitchen cupboards. I line up bottles of liquor on the countertop. Tequila, vodka, and flavored rum. I also purchased two six-packs of beer, a jug of orange juice, and a liter of Fizz.
Maximoff scowls at the haul.
I arch my brows. “You told me to buy a variety.” I wave to the bottles. “This meets your requirements.”
Unsaid Rule #1: Maximoff Hale cannot, under any circumstance, purchase alcohol himself.
Not unless he’d like a front-page headline saying he broke his sobriety. To save himself that headache, he had to ask me to make a liquor store run.
His grocery list said: lots of different alcohol, Different types. & Chasers.
I already annoyed him about his bad punctuation and random capitalization. One of my favorite things to do. And I’ve pointed out that for a guy who’s overly precise, this was the vaguest list he’s ever given me.
Maximoff crosses his arms over his dark-red crewneck, a domineering presence in the cramped kitchen. At the sight of his shirt, my mind drifts for a second.
I’ve noticed he’s been ditching most of his green shirts for red. A deliberate, calculated change.
The public associates most of the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts with their favorite colors.
And his dad’s is red.
Ryke’s is green.
I’d never tell Maximoff to not care about his dad. Hell, it’d be impossible for him to even try not to care. But the more he attempts to prove his dad’s worth, he’s essentially more and more and more like Ryke Meadows.
It’s a shit Catch-22. There is no winning, and he’s smart enough to have already figured this out. Maximoff is just too headstrong to let go and do nothing.
“What about whiskey or scotch or bourbon?” Maximoff asks me. “You didn’t buy a single dark liquor.”
I lean a hip against the counter, our bodies naturally close due to the small space. Maximoff draws even nearer, our knees knocking. We’re alone in his townhouse.
For the moment, at least.
I hook two fingers in the waistband of his dark jeans. “Remind me,” I say, voice husky, “what’s the goal tonight?”
Maximoff stares at my long tattooed fingers, lost in his head all of a sudden. He uncrosses his arms. And he clasps my wrist.
He drives my hand down his jeans. My mouth curves, and I gladly pull us closer, chest-against-chest, and I slip my palm beneath his boxer-briefs.
His heady forest-greens rise to my mouth. His ravenous, forceful expression sears my body and contracts my muscles. I can practically see all the ways he wants to fuck me in the reflection of his eyes.
“Besides the obvious goal,” I whisper. “My cum in your mouth.”
He hardens beneath my firm grip, but his hand is still wrapped around my wrist. “You mean my cum, your mouth.”
So that’s how it’s going to be tonight. Playing for the lead. I smile, not giving into his demands that easily. “I said what I said.”
“The goal…” he remembers. “The real goal tonight…” Maximoff pulls my hand out of his jeans. To clear his head for a second. I comply and rest my elbows on the counter.
I help him verbalize the “real” goal. “Is to get your cousin drunk.”
Maximoff scowls at the whole scenario. “Or like she said, ‘I want to know what it feels like to be fucking drunk.’ Which could be one beer or three or twenty vodka shots.”
“Twenty shots,” I repeat flatly. “We’re trying to get her feel-good wasted. Not kill her.”
We’re not talking about Jane Cobalt.
His nineteen-year-old cousin Sullivan Meadows asked him for advice about partaking in a “quintessential adolescent party night” with booze included. Something she’s never done since she dedicated her time to competing and swimming as a professional athlete.
For three hours, this was all security could talk about. Our coms convo went something like this:
Donnelly: does Moffy know anything about booze?
Me: he knows vodka is clear.
Akara: don’t get me started.
Oscar: someone convince Jane to convince Charlie to go so I can be there.
Me: or we could just have fun without you, Oliveira.
The younger Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts all refer to Maximoff for advice, help, anything. And while the guy is great at many things, he’s not great at everything.
Like alcohol.
Apparently his cousins and siblings don’t care about good advice. Just his advice. It speaks volumes about their sheer love for Maximoff. And their lack of common sense.
Maximoff returns to his first point of contention. “Feel-good wasted can include dark liquor.” He glares as my amusement brims to the surface. “What?”
“Thank God for my drunk adolescent behavior. You see, we want to start her with the basics, not level her up to a graduate degree in drinking.” I count off my fingers, staring with my thumb. “No whiskey, no bourbon, no scotch, no puke.”
He blinks slowly into a no-nonsense glower. “You’re getting off on this.”
“Getting off on what?”
“The fact that you know more than me about something.”
My brows ratchet up. “Wolf scout, I know more than you about a lot of things. If I got an erection every time this happened, I’d be walking around with a constant hard-on.”
“And I was just about to offer to help you.” He gestures to my cock. “Seeing as how I would’ve been the cause. But now…” He places a hand on his chest. “I’m not feeling so generous.”
I roll my eyes and lick my lips, smiling. “Is that right?” I sweep our builds, still pushed up against one another, my hand on his waist. His hand on my ass.
Maximoff makes a show of taking one step back. Our hands dropping. “All the altruism in my bones has withered and died.”
“That’s dramatic and impossible.”
“Whose to say that I’m not already a selfish fucker? I sped on a freeway with you in the car. Putting your life at risk. Christ, knowing that Jane refused to ever ride in the same car with me if I was behind the wheel. I did that. And I’d probably still be doing it if I had my license.”
He’s not proud. His jaw tics, eyes darkened.
I’m used to the deep tangents. From blow jobs to life meaning. It’s how Maximoff operates. Everything has greater significance to him. Every action has soul-bearing subtext that he tries to unload. His mind is fucking intriguing as hell, and I more than willingly follow every thread, every line of thought.
“You have your flaws,” I say bluntly. “And you need to remind me and the public, the media that you’re human and you’re not perfect because you’re so afraid to let us all down.” I lean closer and whisper, “That makes you less of a selfish fucker.”
Maximoff steps near, his muscular frame colliding with mine. My hand glides against the sharpness of his jaw. His deep breath mixes with mine before his warm lips nudge my mouth open. Our tongues unite, and his hand clenches my hair.
Damn, Maximoff. Heat gathers, a groan in the pit of my throat. He instinctively thrusts forward, pelvis against pelvis. He searches for harder contact on his cock. Something I notice he does often. Something that turns me into a throbbing rock.
I pin his back to the counter. Grinding my erection against his, and he breaks our hungered kiss to let out a strangled moan, “Fuck.”
I want him naked. Bare. Bent over the kitchen table.
I bet he wants me the same way.
I bear more of my weight on him. Maximoff curses out in a throaty groan, his daggered glare on the ceiling. His heartbeat pounds rapidly against my hard chest. I hold his jaw protectively, my fingers sliding over his mouth, down to his neck.
“Fuck,” he breathes. Every look, every word he utters fists my dick.
Maximoff turns the tables. He grabs my ass and uses his strength to straighten up. Not letting our bodies separate, he holds us together and walks me backwards.
My spine hits the refrigerator.
He unbuckles my belt and then slides his coarse hand down my black pants. Only the thin cotton of my boxer-briefs act as a barrier. As he strokes my length, I grit down in arousal, blood pumping hot.
Fuck, I bow forward, my head spinning for a second. “Looks like you’re back to being charitable,” I breathe.
Maximoff removes his hand.
I almost laugh. “And then he leaves to prove a point.”
“I’m checking the time, asshole.” He rotates his wrist, his cheap watch-face in view. “We have ten minutes before everyone gets here. Maybe.”
“Only one of us is getting head then.”
Neither of us forfeits that quickly for most things. Maximoff already has a solution and pulls a coin out of his pocket. “Let’s flip for it.”
“You carry quarters in your pocket?” I raise my brows at him. “What else is in there? A floppy-disk?”
“Shut up and call it.” He tosses the coin.
“Heads.”
He slaps the quarter on the top of his hand. Then, he lifts his palm to heads.
“You can’t beat me at everything,” I tell him.
“I’m starting to think that’s your favorite phrase.” He lowers to one knee, already manhandling my body by wrenching me forward—damn.
I lean my shoulders on the fridge, pulse in my throat. “It’s definitely one of them.”
In one pull, my pants are at my thighs. My fingers weave through his thick hair. Knelt before me, he still seems godly and statuesque, worthy of adoration. His hands trace the muscular curve of my waist that draw him towards my cock.
“I think I like you down there,” I tease.
“Most people do.” He slowly sinks my boxer-briefs down my thighs. My erection springs out, and his chest falls in a desirous breath. He looks at me once to say, “I give great head.”
Great may be an understatement, but I tell him, “The amount of people that call you humble, I’m beginning to think are all liars.”
“Or I am humble. Just not when it comes to sex.”
That comment really stays with me for a second, and then he grips me and languidly licks my tip—fuck. A blistering knot builds in my throat. My head hits a fridge magnet as soon as his lips wrap around my shaft. Fuckfuck.
Shoulders on the fridge, my waist bowed forward, I rock into his mouth, pushing deeper. I know he can take all of me. I tighten my hold on the back of his head.
Maximoff clutches and squeezes my bare ass, and I reach back and place my hand on top of his.
He sucks and licks, doing most of the work, but my breath heavies like I’m the one running the marathon. I bite down, a groan stuck inside of me.
Fuck, I let out a heavy, strained breath. “Maximoff.” His hair tangles in between my fingers. My muscles are on fire.
And then Maximoff lifts his eyes, my erection all the way in his mouth. His gaze alone nearly makes me come. He wears a look I’ve never seen him given anyone.
It’s one that firmly.
Confidently.
And effortlessly says…
This is my kingdom.
My entire body responds, my world lit to the core. He takes my cum in his mouth, licks the remainder off my cock, and he swallows. When he eases onto his feet, like every action he just made is the most natural thing in the world, I almost harden again.
Maximoff looks utterly consumed by me. His breath heavy, gaze roaming every limb, every inch of my flesh. I pull my boxer-briefs and pants up, and he catches my hand before I zip.
One breath, he says, “I need inside of you.”
Need. He’s dying to come. I let go and surrender to his desires. Whatever he needs, I’d offer him. With the smallest window of time, we urgently slip into the tiny walk-in pantry.
Maximoff shuts the door and yanks my pants and boxer-briefs back down while I unbutton his jeans, freeing his erection soon after. Our hot and heavy breaths mix together.
“Condom?” I ask him.
He pulls one out of his pocket. Of course.
We kiss in rough, hurried waves, and I steal his condom and roll it on his shaft. Faster than he would be. He spits in his palm for lube, the image sticking in my brain. Pulsing blood in my veins.
I turn, put my forearms on a shelf next to jars of peanut butter and jam, and bend slightly over. I feel his strong grip on my waist.
His deep, edged voice kills my fortitude. “I’m going to fuck you fast.”
I press my forehead to my arm, stifling a gnarled moan.
“Good,” I say, choked. “Fuck me fast.”
Maximoff eases into me, the pressure nerve-blistering and fucking…fuck. He sinks full in and starts thrusting with a quick, hungered pace.
I try to seize the wooden shelf, but my mind ascends to a place with zero common sense and just body-numbing feelings. Good fucking God. The pleasure wells up inside of me.
I grit my teeth, breathing hot, ragged breaths through my nose. I glance back, his gaze devouring the way his dick enters me in deep and fast repeated succession.
His satisfaction grips me in a stronger vice. Sweat coating his biceps, he quickens, holding me closer. My jaw aches, gritting down hard, and I let my lips part. A raspy groan barreling through.
“Fuck,” Maximoff growls into a low moan. “Farrow.” The words I’m about to come are all over my name. His hand shifts from my waist to my muscular shoulder.
Cords in my neck pull taut, heart rate elevated, and then a feminine voice shouts, “Moffy!”
Jane.
Dammit.
“We’re home!!” she blatantly announces her presence. I assume to give us time to “collect” ourselves if we’re indecent.
We are very fucking indecent.
“Finish or pull out,” I tell Maximoff, voice hushed.
He’s surprisingly the one who toys with the risk, staying inside of me. All for that climax—fuck, I swallow another moan as he rocks forward. I bear hard on my teeth again. Especially now that footsteps sound through the living room and kitchen.
Maximoff pulls out and tosses the used condom in a small trashcan beneath the shortest shelf. We both catch our breath and dress hurriedly. He’s armored like he’s ready for gunfire, rarely panicked. When he buttons his jeans, he turns to me.
And he fixes the wild strands of my white hair. I stand an inch taller and buckle my belt, then I tuck my V-neck into my pants and fit my earpiece back into my ear. I run my thumb against his reddened lips.
Maximoff lowers his voice. “The shade is called My Lips Against Your Lips, and it’s not coming off. Stop rubbing and let’s form a plan.”
“I can give you a plan.” I unpeel a piece of gum and pop it in my mouth. “We exit and say we were gathering food for the party.” I collect a handful of shit off the shelves: peanut butter, crackers, a pack of Lightning Bolt! energy drinks.
Maximoff grabs two rolls of paper towels, and we both step forward to be the first out. We glance at one another, and then race for it. I grab the knob first and slip out.
I laugh when I catch sight of his scowl, and then my lips pull in a line when I notice Jane rifling through the kitchen drawers.
“There you are,” she whispers, her curious blue eyes pinging to the pantry, then to us. Mainly Maximoff’s hair. I flatten a few of his askew strands and then unload all the food next to the liquor bottles. I take the paper towels from Maximoff.
He gives Jane a genuine, warm smile. “Bonsoir, ma moitié.” He’s about to kiss her cheeks, but he freezes midway. Catching himself.
He grimaces.
Because he blew me. Very, very recently.
Jane cringes, putting the pieces together. “You should go…freshen up. I’ll sort through this spread before Sulli and Akara arrive.” She motions to the entire countertop.
“Thanks.” Maximoff cracks two of his knuckles, and before he leaves upstairs, he asks me, “You alright?”
I frown and chew my gum slower. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I read his gaze: did I go too fast for you? Did I hurt you? It’s cute, but I’m the last person that needs a consoling hand. “I would’ve told you in the moment if I wasn’t.”
His shoulders noticeably unbind. And he disappears through the archway. I hear him greet Quinn, but the exchange is normal. I focus on the girl in the kitchen.
“What do you need?” I ask Jane and swivel the knob on my radio. Soft chatter returning.
She searches through a drawer, dressed in what Maximoff lovingly calls “granny jammies” for the party: flannel cat-printed pants and long-sleeve collared top. Jane checks over her shoulder and then whispers to me, “You two were almost dangerously loud. I had to send Quinn back to my car to find chocolate bonbons that I didn’t even buy.”
I’m more than appreciative of the cover. “Thanks, I owe you.”
“Don’t break Moffy’s heart. That’s payment enough.” She shuts the drawer and opens another. “Or as my mom would say, you break his heart; I’ll break your dick.”
I whistle and remove liquor bottles from paper bags. That was a mild Rose Calloway hyperbolic threat. “No chopping off my dick and flinging it at the sun?”
Jane crouches to a low cupboard. “Moffy is the one who likes grandiose, embellished warnings.” She shuts the cupboard empty-handed and stands. “You can go. I know you’re only lingering out of obligation to Moffy.”
I’m not about to lie and say, oh no, Jane, I’m really here for you. I’m not. I stay in the kitchen because Maximoff would want me to. The only thing Jane Cobalt and I have in common is Maximoff Hale. Take him out of the equation, and we’re a number and a letter that can’t be added together.
“He wants us to get along,” I tell her the truth.
She opens a nearby drawer and narrows her eyes. “Did he tell you that?”
“Not in words,” I say. “But you know, Maximoff, he’s so over-prepared. I’m waiting for a contract. Sign on the dotted line I’ll be friends with Jane Cobalt type of thing.”
She removes a cheese grater from the drawer, and her lips draw into a thin line as she looks at me. I said something wrong. I feel it before she even opens her mouth.
“So the only way you’d be friends with me is if Moffy made you sign a contract?”
“No,” I say quickly. Fuck. “I’m just saying Maximoff is so practical and meticulous with everything. It was a joke.” I run a hand through my hair. “Did he mention anything to you about us?” I motion from her to me.
“No, but I’ve noticed the same thing as you.” She sidesteps to the fridge. “He’s nervous we’re not going to get along.”
“And we both agree that we want to make him less nervous?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says and snatches a hunk of cheddar cheese from the shelf. She kicks the fridge closed with her slipper. “There’s nothing I want more than for him to be happy.”
“Me too,” I say holding up a hand. “See, we’re already making progress here. Okay, what else do we have in common?”
Silence suddenly thickens in the room. She slices a piece of cheese slowly.
“Are you thinking?” I ask her.
“Yes, it’s difficult.”
“It can’t be that difficult.”
“Then do you have anything?” she shoots back.
“You love animals,” I tell her. “And I don’t hate them.”
She slices a piece of cheese and lands her eyes on me. “I’ve heard you call Walrus a little bastard about thirty times.”
“With affection,” I say.
She pops the slice of cheese in her mouth. “So we have two things in common. With my calculations, we should have enough commonalities to be friends in about five-hundred and sixty-four years.” She reaches for her beer, and I don’t know what to say without putting my foot in my mouth.
I don’t want to give up on this, but I feel the air tensing around us. Awkward silence piling on. I tap my thumb ring on the kitchen counter to fill the quiet. She watches me for a second before popping the cap of her beer on the side of the counter.
“You’re supposed to disagree with that,” she says casually, placing the beer to her lips.
I stop tapping my ring. “With the five-hundred and sixty-four thing?”
“Yeah,” she nods and motions the bottle to me. “You’re supposed to say no, Jane, we’ll be friends in a couple years.”
“I don’t have a fucking crystal ball,” I say.
“Okay, then just tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong,” I say. “Because skeletons aren’t making friends in their graves.”
“Wow.” She shakes her head.
“Wow. What?” I can’t say the right things, and correcting course is just driving myself further into a ditch.
“Wow, you want to be my friend but you can’t even have any confidence that it will happen,” she says. “Not in five-hundred years. Not in two years. How about ever?”
“I have confidence in myself, but friendship is a two-way street,” I reply.
Her brows furrow. “So you think I’m the one not trying?”
Fucking hell.
“You’re right,” I say. “This is difficult.”
“Agreed.”
Something nags at me, and it’s not going to bring us any closer since it’s about Maximoff. I scratch my jaw. “So Maximoff doesn’t have a license anymore,” I say. “I thought the only reason you didn’t ride together was because of his driving.”
“It was,” she replies. I pick up on the past tense.
“But it’s not anymore?”
“You two don’t get much time alone…” She shrugs.
I want to tell her not to worry about that. To do what she’d normally do, if I wasn’t around. But fuck. I love my one-on-one time with Maximoff, and those car rides are a big part of it. No piece of me wants to give that up just to be nice.
My earpiece buzzes. “Akara to Farrow,” Akara says through my mic. “We’re driving into the garage now. Are the doors unlocked?”
I step back from Jane, realizing that this conversation went from pleasant to painful in a matter of minutes. And honestly, it’s not her. I don’t even know if it’s me. It’s just this intangible, unquantifiable thing.
