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)
Don’t look in love with the guy next to you.
I force myself not to turn. Not to meet Farrow’s strong gaze. I could be swept up in him. Fucking easily.
Once my exchange with the concierge ends, Farrow and I enter the nearest elevator. He stands right beside me, a fucking breath away. Don’t look at him. I press the highest number and take stock of the security cameras.
Don’t look in love.
The doors slide shut. Ascending.
My muscles flex; I can feel him shifting, his breath deepening. The elevator a sauna, his casual confidence radiates like molten sex. Don’t look at him.
Jesus Christ.
The numbers tic upward too unhurriedly, and alone, in this elevator, my willpower just plummets. And I look to my left. Right at Farrow.
His head slowly turns to me, and his eyes burrow into mine, our chests rising in a taut breath. Burning. Up. Tension winding to an unbearable, unsound degree.
I ball my hands into white-knuckled fists. Don’t move. Don’t touch him. Blood pools, pulse hammering in my cock. God, I want him.
I eye Farrow again.
He hooks his NYE sunglasses on his V-neck and then combs his fingers through bleach-white hair. “You’re fucking killing me.” He tries to look away, but after a millisecond, he looks back at me. “Fuck, Maximoff.”
I have no clue what kind of eyes I have. Kiss me, fuck me, love me—something greater than all three.
My biceps flex as I rest my palms on my head. I imagine Farrow coming up behind me. His hands raking down every damn inch of flesh: my arms, my abs and chest, lower…gripping me—and my head tilts back.
Fuck me. I blink out of a brief fantasy. I’m holding the back of my neck, and I’m actually, for real, staring up at the elevator’s ceiling. Glaring.
I glance at Farrow.
He smiles and gives me a slow-burning once-over. “Never thought I’d be jealous of the imaginary version of myself, but I’m getting there.”
Elevator dings.
The hallway is a blur. I tap into a one-track mind that says, door, unlock, fuck him, my cock, his cock, come.
So by the time we’re inside the luxury suite, Farrow kicks the door closed, and I instantly push him up against the wood.
“Fuck,” he curses huskily. Closer. More. Our fevered hands work like we’re dying and welding together is the only way to survive.
Body against body, our mouths collide like a car crash. He bites my lip, and a wolfish noise rumbles inside my ribcage. Fuck yes.
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 my shirt.
I touch his neck, his arms, his chest, his waist, his ass. My palms don’t know where the fuck they want to land anymore.
They just want all of him.
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 a switch.
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 my shoulder.
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 the suite.
No bed near.
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 the dark.
A sort of New Year’s Eve magic crackles the air.
“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-blue couch.
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 my lip.
We pass the mini-fridge, and I break our mouths just to ask, “Need a drink?”
Farrow smiles. “No. Do you?”
I skim him, fucking gorgeous sparrow tattoos on his waist. Drawing my attention downward. I lick my lips. “Replace drink with your cock.”
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 need yours.”
Fuck. I yank his Ramones shirt off his head. Our movements stronger, faster. Starved. My hand descends the ink along his chiseled abs, then I unbuckle his belt. Hurried.