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)
I lick my lips. Goddamn, I crave that.
I exit the bathroom.
A champagne-colored comforter fits a king-sized bed. Nothing else in the modest-sized hotel room besides a desk, chair, dresser, and television.
Farrow winds the wire around his radio and tosses it on the chair. As soon as he turns, our gazes latch like magnets. We inhale the tension, built from constant, nonstop teasing on the bus. The air could snap.
My body says go, go, get him.
In a second, we both saunter forward and bridge the distance—our bodies collide, our mouths crush together. Instinctive and starved.
Holy fuck. I hunger for his touch, his love.
I breathe deeply into a kiss. Gripping his bleach-white hair in a tight fist.
Farrow cups my jaw, his masculine grip driving me closer. Nearer. Fuck me. We’re pushed up against each other. Muscle to muscle. Heart hammering against heart.
The corner of his mouth curves upward knowingly.
Newsflash: I’m more aggressive. In a powerful kiss, I walk him backwards into the hotel dresser.
“Fuck,” he curses, his gaze rakes my build like hot coals.
Closer, my body demands. Fucking closer. I grind forward. Our cocks confined behind the fabric of his pants and my jeans—they rub. Hot friction hardening us.
I pull off his leather jacket, and I yank off his black shirt over his head while he lifts off my sweatshirt and tee. Our mouths return like a firestorm. Wild, crazed. Never ceasing.
When my waist bucks against him, he curses huskily. His large hand drops to my throat, fuck me. His fingers add force, and he carefully chokes me. His eyes dance all over my face. “You like that?” he whispers into a kiss.
Fuck yes. Veins pulsate in my cock, and my eyes almost water in desire. More.
Fucking more.
I grip the dresser on either side of him, his back digging into the wood. So close, our foreheads nearly press together.
“Harder,” I order, breathless.
Farrow tightens his grip a fraction. Air lunges from my head, dizzying me—fuckyesfuckyes. My mouth parts, and he whispers in my ear, “You want it hard and rough?”
I could come to his voice, day and night.
He nips my ear.
Desire and need tauten my whole body. “Fuck,” I swear and grasp his jaw. I throb for greater, harder pressure.
His silver-ringed fingers dive down the ridges of my abs. He sucks the nape of my neck, bites my shoulder, my bicep—I growl out a guttural noise. Beyond fucking aroused.
I hook my fingers in his waistband and pull him off the dresser. I watch his fingers unbutton my jeans, moving effortlessly and precisely.
We quickly undress to our boxer-briefs, and we start wrestling for the lead. Hands everywhere, our forceful movements light up my nerves and boil me alive.
Farrow gains an advantage. With a hand to my chest, he shoves me on the king-sized bed. I catch his wrist and bring him down next to me. I top him—he flips me.
Easily. Fuck.
Now he’s on top, and Farrow puts me in some kind of MMA lock. His forearm across my collarbones, knee splitting my legs open. And he imprisons my hands behind my back.
Our mouths a literal millimeter away, his smile rises. “Never forget,” he whispers, “I’m stronger than you.”
I try to combat that. And I use my strength and attempt to rip out of his grip. He bears his body down on me, and I practically fucking melt under his weight.
Oh fucking Christ. This feels better than good.
My chin tilts upward. And my eyes nearly roll back, but I breathe through my nose. Pulse pounding. Get it together, Maximoff. Combat him. Wrestle him. Don’t melt already.
“Fuck,” I growl into a fucking groan. Fuckfuck.
He kisses me, my groan lost in his mouth. Even without my hands, I slide my tongue along his, always deepening the kiss, and Farrow curses, “Fuck, Maximoff.”
His lips descend to my jaw, my neck. Sucking again, and I mutter French and Spanish in his ear. Extremely fucking dirty. NC-17.
And Farrow understands not a single damn word. Still, his muscles contract and a low noise breaches his mouth.
We make out in this same position for a long while. I’m practically bursting through my fucking boxer-briefs. I try to move my hands, but he still cages them behind my back.
I’m too pent-up to untangle and flip him. I let out a heady breath. “I was thinking about jerking you off, and now…”
Farrow runs his tongue over his bottom lip piercing, smiling. “And now, I’m taking you in my mouth.” He lets go of my hand, and I prop myself on my elbows. Comforter soft beneath my back.
My chest rises and falls in shallow breaths while I watch him suck and bite my flesh. Down to my elastic waistband.
His feet are on the floor, and he pulls me further down the mattress, my legs hanging off the bed. My ass close to the edge. God. Fuck me.