Page 125 of Lovers Like Us

“Fuck,” he curses huskily.Closer. More.Our fevered hands work like we’re dying and welding together is the only way tosurvive.

Body against body, our mouths collide like a car crash. He bites my lip, and a wolfish noise rumbles inside my ribcage.Fuckyes.

He clasps my jaw as I part his mouth with my tongue. Heat exploding inside and outside and everywhere between. Farrow fists the fabric of myshirt.

I touch his neck, his arms, his chest, his waist, his ass. My palms don’t know where the fuck they want to landanymore.

They just want all ofhim.

Farrow hooks his arms underneath mine. Spinning me in one movement, my back hits the door. A grunt expels from my throat, nerves lighting up like the flick of aswitch.

He stretches my arm high. Over my head, pinned to the door, and my fist unbinds to lace his tattooed fingers with mine. Farrow sucks on my neck, my jaw, and my head tilts.Fuckyes.

My free hand dives down his back, beneath his waistband and boxer-briefs. I grip his ass hard. He mumbles my name and a curse against myshoulder.

Gathering strength, I draw our arms downward and then walk him backwards. Slowing us, and we stay attached. My hand still on his ass. He clasps my neck, his mouth hovering close to mine. But his gaze drifts around thesuite.

No bednear.

We’re in the spacious, glitzy living room of the humongous suite. Oleanders perk in slender gold vases. A crystal chandelier hangs above two emerald chairs and a midnight-blue, velveteen couch. And a tinted window spans the entire wall, Dallas skyline glittering in thedark.

A sort of New Year’s Eve magic crackles theair.

“Wow,” he murmurs, then his eyes touch mine, and his smile takes shape. His tattooed fingers unbutton my jeans while I walk him backwards to the midnight-bluecouch.

Our tounges wrestle, and I slide mine sensually, slowly along his, and I hear his choked groan before I ask, “I’m the better view,huh?”

“You’re definitely the cockier view,” he whispers against my mouth. His piercing brushes mylip.

We pass the mini-fridge, and I break our mouths just to ask, “Need adrink?”

Farrow smiles. “No. Doyou?”

I skim him, fucking gorgeous sparrow tattoos on his waist. Drawing my attention downward. I lick my lips. “Replacedrinkwithyourcock.”

He unzips my jeans. “You need my cock?” Christ, his husky voice is practically stroking my erection. “Looks like we want the same thing, wolf scout. Because I needyours.”

Fuck.I yank his Ramonesshirt off his head. Our movements stronger, faster. Starved. My hand descends the ink along his chiseled abs, then I unbuckle his belt.Hurried.

His back hits the full-length window. He pulls off my shirt, collar tearing. We’re limbs and skin and breath slamming together as we both fight to make the otherbare.

He kicks denim down my thighs, and I’m going to lose this struggle because he has on high-laced boots that’ll take me a goddamn century toundo.

I slide my hand down his waistband. Finding him aroused beneath boxer-briefs, and I fist him with perfectpressure.

His muscles contract, and he grits down, hot breath through hisnose.

“Fuck,” he curses, his hand holding my face, then my throat. Careful, he’s always careful aboutthat.

Farrow palms my cock over my boxer-briefs, then squeezes—fuck me.I growl out a deep noise, my hand in a fist on the window by hisjaw.

He whispers against my ear, “You liked that.” He rubsme.

Fucking Christ.My waist moves. Thrusts. Wanting more. And more. Andmore.

“Fuck, Maximoff,” hegrunts.

I clutch the back of his head. “Just fuck me, man,” I groan.Dying.