Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136025 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 680(@200wpm)___ 544(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
His mouth starts rising in a drop-to-your-knees smile. “Or she could just want to talk.”
I hone in on his piercings: the hoop around his lip, his nose ring, and dangling earring—I’m dating a twelve out of ten. For more than just his looks. He’s standing here, entertaining my hang-ups, and I know he’ll only give me honesty in return.
“Or Jane wants to move out.”
“You’re overthinking.”
“I’m preparing for the worst,” I rebut and motion to the door. “Since that stupid fucking article, she’s been spending most of her time with her brothers. I have no clue where her head’s at.” For the first time in…maybe forever, Jane and I aren’t on the same page of the same book.
“You’re about to find out,” Farrow reminds me and checks the time on his phone again. “And you’re going to be late.”
“So,” I say without thinking. Such a genius. I rub my sharpened jaw.
“So,” he draws out the word and nears me, his knowing gaze raking me from head-to-toe.
My muscles contract and burn, fucking aroused. Everything about him has become a turn on. I’m happy that he’s only two feet away now, but a bit irritated that I didn’t initiate that movement first.
“You’re stalling, Maximoff. So either you’re really nervous to hear Jane out,” Farrow says in a deep, rough whisper, “or you’re obsessed with me.”
For Christ’s sake. His words fist my cock.
His satisfied smile stretches from cheek-to-cheek. Somewhere in some alternate universe, I’m a philosopher writing dissertations on that fucking smile. And its sheer effect on me.
Farrow says, “I’m flattered.”
I groan out my agitation. Blood pumps south, my cock still not understanding. “I’m mildly, somewhat attracted to you,” I tell him. “That’s so far from obsession, I can’t even reach the word in five millenniums.”
“Mildly, somewhat,” he repeats softly, his gaze dancing across my features. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and silver piercing. The air is headier.
My chest rises in a deeper breath, and I close the two-foot distance.
Farrow clutches my sharp jaw, his large palm warm. I clasp the back of his neck, my hand rising to his black hair. Our mouths teasingly close but not touching.
I walk him backwards. Until his muscular shoulders hit the door again and our legs thread. He lets me take the lead for now.
I breathe, “Did you hear the part where I said I’m not obsessed with you?”
His brown eyes flit to my mouth, then back up.
Kiss me, man.
“Did you hear the part where I said you’re nervous?” His graveled voice wraps me up like safety.
I nod. “Yeah.” I’m kind of fucking anxious. In a lot of ways, I want this guy by my side, but reality slams hard.
And I pull back.
Our hands drop.
We both look disappointed, but I just tell him the truth, “You shouldn’t be late to your SFO meeting.”
He rolls his eyes. “It isn’t a formal meeting. If you need me, I can be with you while you talk to Jane—”
“No,” I cut him off and take another step back, a knife in my ribs. “You shouldn’t bail on Akara after he stuck his neck out for us. Not because of me.” I quickly add, “I’m fine on my own. I always am.” I cringe at my choice of words, ones that remind me of Charlie on that yacht.
Fuck.
Farrow notices. “Your face says you’re not fine.”
I try to pull my features. “Then stop staring at my fucking face.”
Farrow tilts his head back and forth. “No.”
I rock at the firmness of that no. “What?”
“You heard me.” Farrow taps the doorknob with his thumb ring, the click click filling our short silence. “You’re smiling.”
Fuck me. I rub my mouth a couple times. Yeah, I was smiling like a damn idiot. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.”
I swear he’s one second from pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. I breathe hot breath through my nose, and my muscles almost unconsciously flex.
I’d like to say that my body isn’t listening to my brain, but both have bought and made Team Farrow T-shirts against better fucking judgment. There’s some place in me—a pinky…a microscopic nerve-ending in my frontal lobe—that tries to resist.
I backtrack the conversation. “I promise you, I’m fine. I can survive two hundred decades without you.”
His smile is out of fucking control. “With or without me, you’re not going to survive to be two-thousand-twenty-two-years-old.”
“I didn’t realize you could see the future.”
Farrow laughs once. “Such a smartass.” He shakes his head in thought. “Need wasn’t the right word then.” He holds my gaze. “Do you want me with you?”
Yeah.
Something wells up inside of me. I let go of any and all emotional barriers, and he sees that affirmation a thousand times across my face.
Farrow steps off the door. And in a swift, seamless move, he clutches the back of my head—and he kisses me. Fuck.