Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Honestly, it’s because the first time I ever saw this guy—he didn’t have white hair. Or blue. When I first met Farrow, his hair was jet-black. Like right now.
Today.
Farrow kicks a pillow aside and props his shoulders against my headboard. I imagine joining him, and he’ll pin me to the bed, then I roll him over, his stomach to the mattress.
Gripping his waist, tugging down his black pants enough to expose his perfect round ass, my mouth trails along his neck. And descends to the spot between his muscular shoulders—
“Maximoff.” His deep voice pitches me from a fantasy.
I lift my eyes.
He smiles.
“What?” I combat.
Farrow bends a knee. “Are you thinking about the philosophical meaning of the world or are you thinking about fucking me in the ass?”
Christ. I lick my lips, wanting my mouth against his mouth. Badly. I near the bed. “I wasn’t inside you yet.”
“Yet,” he repeats, his gaze sweeping my body in a boiling wave. He gestures me closer, until he stretches over and catches my wrist. He wrenches me onto the bed with him.
I’m on top of Farrow, my hands on either side of his head, but he hooks his legs around my waist and swiftly reverses me like I’m an MMA opponent. My head hits the pillow. He’s on top.
Farrow brings his mouth near mine. “You may dominate in the pool, but when it comes to submission moves and grappling, I’ll always have you beat.”
I breathe heavily. Chest rising and falling beneath him. One night, I asked Farrow to show me a submission move. True to his nature, he didn’t go easy. Not even on his boyfriend. I had to tap out of the chokehold in less than twenty seconds.
Farrow straddles my waist and sits up to reach into his leather jacket pocket. I’m about to say we can’t fuck here, but I stop myself when no condom appears.
He holds a black box.
The same black box I once gave him. The asshole merit badge is stitched to the back of his leather jacket. So I know he’s not returning my gift.
Farrow discards the box behind his back and clutches the object in a closed fist. He leans closer to me. In an affectionate, deep breath, he whispers, “Hold out your left wrist.”
He’s put a fucking spell on me. I never hesitate. I raise my wrist, our eyes melting against each other. Farrow opens his tattooed hand. Revealing a gray paracord bracelet, which can be unwound into rope for survival.
We watched Mad Max: Fury Road the other night, and I mentioned how the paracord bracelet on Tom Hardy’s wrist was cool.
That feeling, one that I’ve only felt with him returns like a tidal wave. Welling powerfully inside my chest, and also weightless—light enough that I could fly.
His fingers buckle the bracelet around me. “Just so you understand, you’re much hotter than Tom Hardy.”
I laugh, my eyes burning with emotion.
Farrow drinks in my reaction, his chest collapsing in a strong breath. “Didn’t I tell you?” he whispers, his gaze nearly glassing. “It’s the little things.”
This is what I missed in my life, and I can’t imagine never discovering this feeling. Never having him. I clutch the back of his head, my mouth nudging his open. We kiss deeply, intensely—enough to raise my back off the mattress and my chest to meet his.
We part so I can whisper, “Pretty sure you called it stupid, ordinary shit. Not the little things.”
He laughs against my mouth. “It’s all the fucking same.”
“MOFFY!” my brother screams from down the hall.
Fuck.
Farrow quickly climbs off me, and we’re both on our feet. The second time Xander screams my name, his voice sounds less panicked. More demanding, like get your ass over here.
“I’m being summoned,” I tell Farrow on the way out into the long hallway. His stride matches mine. I stop in front of my brother’s room. A sign hangs on the ajar door and says in Elfish: turn back you fools.
I hear more than just my brother’s voice. All three of my siblings are inside.
Before we enter, Farrow asks, “Do you want me to wait downstairs—”
“No,” I cut him off. “I want you to be here.” I pause. “Unless you don’t want to—”
Farrow kicks the door open wider in response. We go in together, the room a mess of fantasy trade paperbacks, video games, oversized beanbags, and a six-foot-four armored knight stands next to his four-poster bed.
I zero in on Luna waving a piercing gun at our brother. She wears a crop top that says Space Babe and black joggers.
Xander towers above her, already six-feet at fourteen. “I said I would do it, I didn’t say you could do it for me.”
“Come on, Xander, I’m an expert now.”
“What? You got a fucking infection in your tongue.” Disbelief coats his words. He swings his head and sees me and Farrow watching. “Good. You two—tell her to back away with the weapon.”