WE RETURN to my townhouse at almost 4 a.m.—Farrow and I stayed with my sister for about three hours. He would’ve waited at the security’s house one street over, but he’s closest to Luna. I was glad she wanted him there.
Luna ended up feeling comfortable enough to tell our mom and dad. Tears were shed. Hugs were given. In the end, they made a plan to speak to the principal. She may not have to repeat the whole year if they learn about the shit-in-a-bag.
I thought I was pissed, but my dad almost woke up Jeffra’s parents at three a.m.—not by phone. That family lives in our gated neighborhood.
My mom spider-monkeyed his back to stop him, and he turned to complete affectionate mush in her presence.
I check my watch when I shut my bedroom door.
4:23 a.m. “I’m sorry,” I tell Farrow. I turn off my harsh lamp, and the strung bulbs on the rafters cast shadows and a soft, orange glow in my small bedroom.
Farrow unlaces his boots and tugs them off. “That’s the fifth time you’ve needlessly apologized tonight.”
I pull my crew-neck over my head and toss the shirt in my wicker hamper. “Every damn time we’re alone or in a conversation—actually, when we’re doing anything at all, something in my life swoops in and cuts it off. Your pockets are overflowing with rain checks.” I watch him walk to my sole window, gray curtains drawn shut. “I’m shit at this, Farrow. You should reconsider this whole thing.”
He’s so damn calm as he leans against the window ledge, half-sitting on it. “This whole thing?”
“Yeah, this whole thing.” I motion from him to me, then me to him. “I can fuck. Christ, I’m good at sex—”
“Who told you that?” His lips quirk.
I don’t miss a beat. “—but being someone’s boyfriend is so far out of my territory. It’s on another galaxy. My life can’t accommodate romantic relationships. At least not the kind you deserve.”
“Is that really what you think?” He frowns darkly.
“Yeah.” I nod several times. “You’ve had four other boyfriends, Farrow, and I can say I’m probably without a fucking doubt your worst. In terms of fucking—I’m number one though, sure.”
“Sure,” he adds, eyeing me, still not giving anything away. Maybe he’s processing everything I dumped on him. He shakes his head once. “How long have you been agonizing over this?”
“What?”
“Come on,” he says, still calm. Still cool. He crosses his arms over his chest more leisurely than serious. “You’re you. You fixate over the details, over every variable you can think of. You’ve most likely been wrestling with this for weeks, if not months.”
He knows me well.
Millions of people know me, but not like this. Not like that. I hang onto that fact like rope on a wall that blocks my view of everything. He’s how I see the other side. He’s made my life feel freer.
He made me believe I could actually have a relationship.
He made me believe I could experience more than just this fleeting, temporary thing.
And I have.
Christ, I have, but what is this for him? I give him halfway. Half of a relationship. A semblance of the real thing.
“It’s been on my mind,” I admit. “You’ve experienced what it’s like being with me. The constant interruptions that I won’t ignore. The lack of privacy that won’t change. The never-ending phone calls. The zero PDA. If you want to break things off now, I get it. Just…clean cut. You can go back to being just my bodyguard. I go back to being just your client.” My chest is on fire.
“Is that what you want?” he says, those words like a sling blade.
“No.” My eyes sear. “No. I want you.” More than I’ve ever wanted anyone.
Farrow never breaks my gaze. “And you’re assuming that the lack of privacy, the ‘zero’ PDA, and all the interruptions bother me.” He shakes his head. “They don’t. Would I like to touch you in the car or on the street or even in an elevator? Of course, but I get more by being with you than any PDA could give me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Maximoff,” he says, “the reason why this relationship works is because I’m your bodyguard. I’m with you almost twenty-four hours a day, every single day. One week with you is the equivalent to three months with anyone else. You know more about me and what it’s like to be with me than some of my long-term exes.” He laughs at a thought. “The fact that we’re sleeping together, around one another all the time, and not killing each other is a miracle. And it says something.”
His words extinguish the toxic heat in my chest. “What?”
“We’re good together. Really good.” Farrow smiles. “And you’re not a bad boyfriend. You’re not the worst. Or even second-to-last-place. You’re the most thoughtful, the most caring, and the media was right when they said whoever dates you would be the luckiest fucking human alive. I feel lucky to be with you.”
I inhale, but I don’t exhale yet. “I can’t give you more though. I know there may be a point where a crisis in my family may conflict with whatever’s happening in your life—and you’re not going to like who I choose.”
“You’re going to choose your family because that’s who you are,” Farrow says strongly. “And I will love you for it.”
I set my hands on the back of my neck. He’s not considering all the variables. Or am I just packing sandbags around my house before it explodes? “That’s not a relationship,” I combat. “I should pick my boyfriend.”
“If you keep weighing your morality with scales, you’re going to lose.” Farrow still sits at ease. “Just put down the hypotheticals and step away. Let go.”
I don’t know how. I want to give him as much as he’s given me.
Farrow licks his bottom lip. “Can we agree on one thing?” he asks. “We’re together. We’re doing this, and neither of us wants to stop.”
“Yeah.”
He pushes off from the window and crosses the room. Quickly, he’s in front of me, his hands on the waistband of my jeans. I hold his muscular shoulders, skin warm beneath my hands.
“One day,” he tells me, his voice gravel in silk. His mouth on the base of my neck, sucking and biting up to my ear. My muscles slacken, unwinding. I edge even closer. His hot breath throbs my cock. “I’m going to be inside of you.”
One day. I still like fantasizing about the idea. It’s a vulnerable place I eventually want to reach with him.
Just not tonight.
I WAKE to the worst beeping 5:40 a.m. alarm—too damn early. Farrow’s head is on my shoulder, our muscular legs tangled. I reach over and slap the snooze on his phone.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’s stayed longer in my bed. We’ve both been lenient on this one precaution. Later, he’ll return to his townhouse, hopefully without Quinn noticing anything strange.
Farrow yawns in his fist and sits up on his elbows. His white hair is a mess, his lips reddened from rough kissing barely an hour ago, and the beginnings of a know-it-all smile work their way across his mouth.
It’s undeniable.
Farrow Keene is unadulterated sex in the morning. I have more than a small hard-on for him. Like currently. Right now. I crave him, blood rushing to my dick.
He stares at me like I’m a regular fixture to these 5:40 a.m. wake-up calls. Like no matter how tired, I’m the first face he wants to see.
Fuck me. My cock aches beneath my sheets and orange comforter.
Without saying a word, Farrow stretches to the nightstand and grabs a condom and lube. He passes the bottle to me but keeps the condom.
He tears the wrapper, and I kick down the comforter and sheets. I watch the movement of his fingers as he covers my erection. His grip is light. Closer.
More.
His mouth curves upwards, and he lies back on his elbows.
I lather myself while I eye the inked skull pirate on his ribcage. And the lavender sparrow nearby. I lift my gaze to his barbell nipple piercing—fuck. My waist arches slightly.
I turn towards Farrow, and I pull him up higher, aligning us. He drops off his elbows when I position him on his side. Not fucking gentle.
He lets out a rough, throaty noise and palms his cock twice. His round ass brushes up against me.
My mouth touches the back of his neck. I grip his thigh. Stretching his leg over my waist to spread him more. Erection grazing his hole.
His nose flares in desire. “This is the only way you’re getting me to be the little spoon,” he reminds me. “You better fucking enjoy it.”
He turns his head back to me. Enough that I kiss him, my tongue parting his lips and sliding against his. He reaches up and holds my jaw. Fuck me. I ache to rock forward right now. I break the kiss early and breathe, “Trust me, I already am.”
We never spoon each other at night. Neither one of us can give up that lead. Most nights while we sleep, our arms and legs end up tangling.
I clutch my shaft and slowly push inside of Farrow. He buries his head into his pillow, mouth opened. A garbled noise escapes.
I watch him for a second, my ass flexing. Yes. Fuck yes. He’s pretty fucking tight for my cock. Every time I sink into him, it’s top-notch, eye-rolling pressure.
My movement is unhurried. Achingly temperate. Trying to milk every damn second for its total worth.
“Fuck, Maximoff,” he almost gasps, his breath shallow.
I groan, all the way in. Yesyes. I rock deeper into him, my arm hooked around his abs. I wrap my hand around his fucking huge erection, and I sync my thrusts with my hand.
Farrow grits down for one second before his mouth is forced open by the pleasure again. He curses into the pillow, face reddened. Holding breath. Neck muscles taut.
Fuck, holy fuck.
I thrust harder, ass flexed more. Banging up against him. My chest is welded to his strong tattooed back. Farrow reaches behind him and grips my ass. Pushing me firmer into him. Yesyesyesyesfuckyes. He rocks backwards into my cock when I rock forward into him.
We move together in unison. Like a slow, thundering wave.
He moans a deep, raspy moan. Like the sound was unearthed from his core. “Fuck,” he moans again. “Fuckfuck.”
“Farrow,” I groan, sweat built. I’m rising towards an intense peak. I quicken my pace in a final sprint—fuckyesyesyesyesfuuuuckkk. My orgasm ripples through me and his covers my palm. I eek the climax. Staying inside of him, slowing in and out.
In and out, my hot breath on his neck.
Farrow is trying to catch his breath in the pillow.
Then he turns his head. Watching me ease out of him completely. Then I kiss him.
Sex with Farrow is incomparable and immeasurable. I’m pretty much a goner. Totally and utterly obsessed with the before, during, and after—it’s ridiculous. In the best damn way.
I sit up, discard the condom, and grab a towel from my nightstand’s drawer. Tossing it to him.
Farrow leans up against the headboard. “Are you ever worried about becoming a sex addict?” He catches me off guard, and he waits for me to process.
I blink a couple times. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my feet cold on the hardwood. I glance back at him. “No.” It’s a flat definitive word.
“No?” Farrow seems surprised. “For how much you avoid drinking, I just thought…”
“I’m careful,” I say, standing. “I don’t let sex interfere with my daily life. Ever.” I’m highly aware of the warning signs of unhealthy behavior. Highly aware.
I can have a lot of sex and not be a sex addict. The minute sex ruins my relationships or my job—then it’s a goddamn problem.
As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have one.
“Fair enough,” Farrow says, balling the towel.
He drops the topic too fast.
I rotate to face him. “Do you think I have a problem?” As my mom’s bodyguard for three years, he was near a sex addict a lot longer than most people.
“No,” Farrow says. “No, I don’t, but being around you all the time, you do have addictive tendencies.”
I don’t ask for specifics. “I know.”
“Good,” he says into a nod.
