“Farrow, look here! Look here!”

I’m not looking at these fuckers. Paparazzi try to be blood-sucking ticks, but for me, they’re more like gnats. Cameras swarm me and my parked motorcycle while I pull off my helmet.

“Look here!!”

“What’d you do at the hospital?!”

“How are you, Farrow?!”

Pissed.

That I’m not on time for this mixology thing. When I say I’m going to make it, I’ll make it. But shit, I don’t enjoy being held up. Especially when I could’ve been with Maximoff.

My favorite part of the day is returning to my tight-laced, strong-willed boyfriend, and traffic had been bad. But it’s not what made me an extra half hour late.

I run a hand through my messy hair and leave my new Yamaha on the curb, right outside the Philly bar.

“LOOK HERE!”

Still not looking, I make my way to the entrance of Killer Gatsby and send a quick text to Maximoff: here.

Before I push into the bar, the door starts cracking open. Maximoff wedges himself in the entrance, and the first thing I notice: his marbleized, impassive face.

Something happened.

My pulse spikes. And I immediately skim him, up and down, jumbled emotion slamming into me from all angles. He’s okay.

He’s okay. But something must be wrong with his family. I clutch his hand the same time he grabs for mine, and Maximoff pulls me inside.

I shut the cameras out behind us, and I frown at my surroundings. “Where is everyone?” Fringed lamps cast dim light on crystal bottles shelved behind an empty bar. All the tables are bare, but if I strain my ears, I can pick up muttering.

“In the back lounge area.” He brings me in that direction.

I stare hard at Maximoff. Concerned about him. He’s bottled up, but if this were a 9-1-1 severe crisis, he’d be running. He’s walking, so I’m guessing he’s settled this storm and I’m here for the aftermath. “Is it Jane?” I ask.

“Sulli.” His body is stringent. “I need you to check on her.”

“Okay.” I squeeze his hand. I’m here, wolf scout.

His chest tries to rise.

We turn a corner near an old record player. Gold and black beads drape an archway, and once we walk through, I hone in on an extremely passed out Sullivan Meadows.

On a dark-green buttoned couch, all six-feet of her athletic frame slumps lifelessly against Akara’s side. Her squared jaw starts sliding off his shoulder.

Akara pulls her closer and holds her waist to support her weight. Seriousness hardens his gaze, and he looks up at me like she needs your help. “She’s been out for the last fifteen minutes.”

“How much did she drink?” I let go of my boyfriend’s hand and rest a knee on the couch. Leaning over, I put my fingers to her carotid artery. Akara brushes Sulli’s thick hair off her neck for me.

“Not a lot,” Maximoff answers, his left hand clutching his slinged-elbow. An attempt at crossing his arms. I’d joke about how he’s inexperienced with alcohol, but time and place, and plus, he adds, “I think.”

I’m about to double-check with Akara.

“I’m calculating her blood-alcohol concentration level,” Jane chimes in, voice unnaturally high. She’s upset.

I turn my head and see Jane seated on a Queen Anne velveteen chair. Right next to an unlit fireplace, she presses a pink calculator with guilt-ridden urgency. I ignore Thatcher who towers three feet away from Jane.

Jack Highland is on a chaise nearby. His camera is powered off and lens turned away from Sulli. Any footage of her passed out won’t be aired.

I focus on Sulli and talk to Jane. “I don’t need an exact BAC, Cobalt. Just tell me what drinks she had.”

Jane speaks so quickly in her breezy-as-hell voice that I can’t understand a fucking thing.

I raise my brows at Akara.

“Two shots, two cocktails,” he answers. “A single shot was in each cocktail.”

“Okay, that shouldn’t knock out a six-foot girl who weighs…one-sixty, one-sixty-five?”

“Around there,” Akara nods.

Her BAC has to be low, but she’s not a regular drinker. “How much sleep has she had?” I step back since her pulse is normal. I stand next to Maximoff.

“Not much,” Akara says, adjusting Sulli again.

There you go. “That’s most likely why she passed out after four shots.” I glance back at Jane who’s stuck calculating. “She’ll be fine, Cobalt. People pass out from drinking. Shit happens.”

Jane raises a finger at me. Not a middle finger. A pointer finger to shut up.

Maximoff whispers, “It’ll make her feel better.” I assume that Jane was the one supplying and mixing Sulli’s drinks.

And I don’t need to ask why they’re all tense.

From an outsider’s standpoint, having a friend facedown drunk is a nuisance at best. I’ve lugged Donnelly’s ass up a flight of stairs at 4 a.m. before, and we cracked jokes about it the next morning.

From a security standpoint, having a celebrity pass out—one who is female and has a family history of alcoholism—is a fucking PR nightmare. The moniker Drunken Heiress will follow Sulli around for the rest of her life.

From a friend and family standpoint, none of us want Sulli to have to deal with bad shit.

I turn to Maximoff, sweeping his sharp features again. “Who’s carrying her out of here?”

“Akara already picked her up, and she looked dead.” He shakes his head once, neck stiff. “She can’t be carried out, and there’s no way outside without a camera catching us.”

Not good.

Akara says what I’ve realized. “We’re staying here until she wakes up.”

Maximoff tries to crack his knuckles. The longer I stare at him, the more I know something is eating at my boyfriend, and fuck, I just want to be alone with him. It’s the only way he’ll unwind.

“Follow me, wolf scout.” I take his hand and try to lead him to the men’s bathroom. He ends up next to me, step-for-step, and he opens the dark wooden door.

I easily let him have that lead. Teasing him isn’t a good idea right now.

The bathroom is as elaborate as the bar: gold fixtures and faucet, three obsidian sinks and urinals, two varnished wooden stalls.

Maximoff puts a hand to his neck and glares at the fringed chandelier.

“What are you thinking?” I lean casually against a sink and grip the granite counter behind me. To be honest, I want to hold him. Badly. But I have to wait until he’ll let me. Until we talk this shit out.

And I love driving along the weaving and crisscrossing roads of his ever-turning mind. The fact that he lets me in means everything to me.

He tries to blow out a breath. “My chest is on fire.”

Just watching him, my chest is burning alive too.

Before I respond, he adds, “And I almost hit Akara.”

I quickly replay Akara and Maximoff’s interactions in my mind. They seemed normal. “He didn’t act like you swung at him.”

“Because I stopped myself from even moving my arm.” Maximoff tugs at the collar of his Philadelphia Eagles crew-neck. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel, but all I could reach was anger when Akara said this has happened before.”

I frown. “When?”

He tries to roll his taut neck. “A few weeks ago at Charlie and Beckett’s apartment. Apparently Sulli thought it was some fluke happening since she only drank three beers and conked out. Not asleep, but fucking unresponsive.” He holds my gaze in a tight vice. “And I keep thinking…Maximoff…” His eyes redden. “You had a chance to keep her away from alcohol. You stupid fucker. Why’d you let her drink at all?”

I take the strong breath that he can’t take. Staying at ease when he can’t be at ease. “Because despite loving to be in control, you’re not a controlling fucker, Maximoff. You don’t make other people’s choices for them. You’re just there for them.” And when he needs to be reminded of that, of anything, I’ll be the first to tell him every time.

He pinches his eyes.

I move off the counter. Please let me wrap my arms around you. I stop when he backs up for a second. “Maximoff.”

He lowers his hand. “And I keep thinking about how you just spent forty-million hours working nonstop to come back to this.”

I almost smile. “Thirty hours,” I correct.

He scrutinizes my unruffled state of being. “I don’t get how you’re okay with this.” He gestures from his chest to my chest. “I’ve taken so much away from you, and I can’t stop it. I can’t change the fact that my family is chaotic, messy, and bizarre-as-fuck because I love them as they fucking are, and I feel selfish wanting you to be a part of that.”

I inhale. “The media took my privacy; you haven’t taken a thing from me, Maximoff. You’re giving me something so fucking precious: your chaotic, messy, bizarre-as-fuck family, and I also love them as they fucking are. Plus, I look forward to coming home and putting out wildfires with you. It’s not that complicated.”

I knew we’d need to talk this through again. It’s different now that I’m finishing my residency and not working directly for his family yet. He thinks he needs to give me peace and quiet away from the chaos.

But I want everything that comes with him.

Maximoff stands still, taking deeper breaths. His gaze fastens tight to me, and love is written all over his eyes. “I was excited to see you,” he admits. “Like stupidly excited.”

I picture that, and the corner of my mouth rises. “Your infatuation is showing.”

“I don’t care.”

It swells my chest, and my eyes burn. I give him a once-over before I move closer.

He steps back. “Wait.”

I stop a few feet from him, and I comb my hand through my hair.

Maximoff pinches his eyes one more time, then stares upward like he’s wracking his brain. When he looks down at me, he asks, “Did April call back?”

“Yeah.” My older stepsister never used to dial my number, and in the past few days, April has bombarded me with phone calls and texts. “It’s why I was late.” I run my tongue over my molars, almost wincing.

“That bad?” he asks. Now Maximoff looks like he wants to hold me.

But we wait a little bit longer to bridge the space.

“It’s not good,” I say. “She said she still doesn’t feel safe at her house. Someone threw a bouquet of flowers over the gate.”

Maximoff shakes his head. “We can hire more private security for her.”

“We’ve already hired three around-the-clock security guards, plus installed security cameras, plus we had a gated fence put up.” It all happened after April called me. Panicked about how people kept ringing her doorbell and asking her questions about me and Maximoff.

My stepsister’s home address in Palo Alto was leaked when I was doxxed.

Maximoff nods. “Then she needs to move houses if she still doesn’t feel safe. I’ll pay for any costs.”

“That’s exactly what I told April.” I raise my brows. “And she started screaming at me about how I don’t have to move out of my house, and it’s not fair since I did this to her.”

His eyes flash hot. “Jesus Christ, you didn’t ask to be doxxed. This isn’t your fault.”

“No shit,” I say, and I catch him smile-grimacing at that. I almost laugh, and after a short pause, I tell him, “I don’t feel that guilty anymore. Right now she has more protection around her house in Palo fucking Alto than your townhouse in Philly.”

Maximoff nods again, and it’s taking all of my energy not to walk forward and close the gap that separates us.

I feel my lip piercing beneath my tongue. “Still stupidly excited to see me?”

He smiles, his eyes welling. “You have no goddamn idea.”

It overwhelms me, and I move forward.

Maximoff moves forward. Our arms find each other, and our mouths crash together, hungry and starved—I clutch the back of his head, and his arm hooks around my shoulders. Pulling me closer. And closer.

With passion that builds hot tears and spurns all types of heartbreak. I live and breathe inside this emotion. He pins me to the outside of the stall, a sink on our right. My back slams to the wood with a thud.

And we break apart to breathe, keeping our hands on each other. We both look at the door.

Locked.

Maximoff tries to unbuckle my belt with one hand. “We have time to kill.”

I thread his hair with my fingers. “We do,” I agree.

He pauses his mission and lifts his forest-greens to me, commanding kiss me, man. I don’t yet, and he tries to come in for one.

I shift my head out of the way, and then I turn back and kiss him myself.

He groans against my mouth, “Fuck.”

My blood cranks to a swelter.

Maximoff palms the outside of my pants. Fuck, that feels good. He pulls his head back and orders, “Unzip your jacket.”

Okay, Bossy. “Someone loves my fingers,” I say and slowly, slowly unzip my leather bike jacket. He watches my hand, and I use my other to unbutton his jeans.

My palm dives down his pants, his boxer-briefs. I fist his gorgeous cock, and he bucks his hips into me. More than once. More than twice. Fuck—a deep noise is trapped in my throat. And I devour his arousal that narrows his eyes to burning points.

We kiss again, pulled into a rough, ravenous undertow. And I’m always careful of his collarbone. I even look for signs of pain, but he’s so far gone in pleasure.

I drink in his expression that’s pure sex, pure love. Wound hot together.

We rub each other with mind-numbing pressure, our pants low on our waists. As a rough sound escapes his lips, I ask, “Have you been fantasizing about my dick?”

“More like my dick in your ass.”

My nose flares, blood pumping. “You want inside me?”

“Hard,” he whispers against my mouth.

I’m roped into him. “Good.” I kiss him, then I bite his lip, and he arches into me again. Fuck, Maximoff.

He’s simultaneously melting and hardening. His erection grows in my tight grip. My fucking muscles strain, our bodies pushed up against each other.

I’m about to rotate us, but he presses a firm hand to my chest. Keeping my back to the stall. His thumb flicks over my nipple ring, which is caught underneath the fabric of my black shirt.

We stare each other down, and more and more arousal pools in my blood and bones.

I roll his boxer-briefs further down his ass and then free his large, swelling erection. Damn. There is no cock I’d want more inside of me than that one.

He does the same to me, and he hones in on my dick and spaces out like he’s imagining the feeling of it inside of his mouth and ass.

I snap my fingers at his face. “You can suck me off later, Space Cadet.”

“I barely spaced out,” he combats. “Like not at all.”

“Okay,” I say with a smile, and I distract him by stroking his erection. He stares fixatedly at my inked hand that moves up and down his hardened shaft. I spit in my palm for lube and return course. That one action draws a breathy guttural noise from him.

My body tightens.

His chest rises and falls heavily.

That’s enough. I stop here. Not wanting him to come by my hand. “You have lube?” I ask.

Maximoff digs in the jeans bunched at his thighs. Finding his wallet in a pocket. He tosses me a travel-sized packet, and then he watches me warm it in my hands.

I rip it open with my teeth and hand it back. “Be careful with your shoulder.”

He rubs the lube, glistening his length. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind while I’m pounding inside of you.”

I let out a short laugh, turning around to face the stall. “Always a precious smartass.”

“Always a know-it-all asshole.”

I nod. That’s definitely true. I place my hand on the wood to brace myself. And I reach back with my other to hold his waist. His skin is warm beneath my palm.

Before he pushes inside, his arm curves around me and he pumps my erection—fuck, my neck pulls taut, breath trapped in my lungs.

“Maximoff,” I groan.

That pressure disappears to carve room for a new one. I careen my head, looking over my shoulder to see his hand wrapped around his shaft.

Lubed, Maximoff sinks into me. Fuckfuckfuck.

Pleasure explodes my nerve endings, and he kisses me as he pushes deeper, deeper. The fullness dizzies me.

“Fuck, Maximoff,” I moan a low, graveled moan that burns my insides. My nose flares again, and I turn my head forward. Fuckfuck. He thrusts in and out.

In and out, the hypnotic, blistering pace lights me up. My muscles tighten, his heavy breath against the back of my neck.

He kisses my deltoids with another thrust in—fuck yes, I seize his ass. Feeling him flex beneath my palm.

“Farrow,” he grunts, rocking his hips. “God.”

Fuckfuckfuck.

He plants his hand on my waist. Steadying me while my palm slips on the stall. Not getting good traction, I take my hand off his ass. Both hands to the wood.

Our bodies rock together with each thrust forward, and he hits my prostate, the intensity like a sudden burst.

“Fuck,” I moan, biting down.

He hits the spot again.

My mouth breaks apart.

Again. I can’t breathe.

Again. I’m rock hard, my balls aching to detonate. Thoughts flit out of my mind—again, he nails my prostate. Fucking.

Hell.

Every muscle in my body pulls taut, ready to snap apart. He quickens his pace into me. Deep, hard thrusts that thunder my body.

It feels…fucking incredible.

I turn my head back, and our eyes fuck as hard as our bodies. I let go of the door to hold the back of his head. He thrusts forward—a deeper, overcome noise breaches my lips.

“Fuck me,” Maximoff makes a wolfish, hot-as-sin groan.

I kiss him, only once.

He pushes quicker, faster, like he needs that climax now.

But then he hits the spot again—and every muscle snaps, every nerve bursts. I am fucking gone.

“Fuck,” I groan, a climax roaring through me. I sheath the head of my erection with my hand, cum warming my palm. I pulsate in long, pleasured waves.

It takes me a second to reorient my mind. But I do. Maximoff is already pulled out, coming in his hand, and we clean up with paper towels. When he returns, we kiss strongly, and Maximoff tries to hide his smile.

But I feel his lips rise against my mouth, and I pull back. “Are you going to say it or are you just going to dream about it?” I tease.

Confidently, he says, “I made you come hands-free.” It’s what he’s been obsessing over, and his tone says, I’m better than you at sex.

I don’t tear from his gaze.

Shit, he’s hot and cute. And I love him hard. “You realize I made you come hands-free the last five times I fucked you?”

“That’s different. I’m a billion times easier to get off on prostate stimulation than you.”

I can’t deny that truth, and he moves away from me to use the sink, turning the gold faucet. I watch him while we get dressed, boxer-briefs and pants back on our waist.

I tuck my black shirt into my pants. He’s gone eerily quiet. Almost dazed.

My pulse skips a beat. I buckle my belt and then near him after he zips up his jeans.

“Maximoff?”

He trains his faraway look onto me. “I did this wrong.”

My ribs tighten, and I fish his button through the hole, helping him. “We just established that you fucked me really well.”

Maximoff hangs his head.

He almost never hangs his head like this.

“Hey.” I tilt my head sideways and bend a little. “Wolf scout, look at me.”

His chest collapses, and bloodshot eyes rise up to me. He looks conflicted, and I try to trace the paths back to what happened. What happened?

I shake my head. My stomach is in knots, and I hold the back of his neck in a protective grip. “Talk to me.”

He swallows hard, brows cinching in deep, anguished thought. “After thirty-hours apart, I saw you and I just really wanted to fuck your brains out. God, I didn’t even ask how your day was at the hospital.”

I see where this is going, and I knew we’d be here one day. But my chest hurts seeing him wrestle with this shit.

Maximoff explains more, “And I don’t know if that means something’s wrong with me. Or if I just love sex. Or if I’m overthinking everything because my mom is a sex addict, and even if I think I’m in control, there’s a part of me that wonders, what if I’m not? And I can’t get out of my own goddamn head.” His voice actually cracks.

I cup his cheek. “You’re okay.” Each word is like a knife in my gut because I feel how tormented this whole thing is for him. “You’re just overthinking.”

“Which part?”

“All of it,” I whisper and kiss him tenderly.

He’s still pained.

When we first started having sex, I asked him if he was worried about being a sex addict. He said no. But before he was with me, he tried to control his sex life with parameters. Hookups at night. Never the same person. Never in public.

See, our public relationship has opened the door to public sex. We can come out of a bathroom together and not give a flying shit if anyone catches us.

We can also fuck at any hour, any day. Unlike the controlled one-night stands before. I figured at some point, he’d reevaluate everything and question what’s normal.

I just didn’t realize how much it’d pain me to see and feel.

Interlacing my other hand with his, I say, “There is no handbook, wolf scout. You’re not docked stars because we decided to fuck now and talk about boring shit later. We do what feels right, when it feels right. That’s it.”

I need him to understand that this was my choice too.

He looks into me. “What if it’s different for me because of her?” Guilt obliterates his features, even blaming his mom. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know. And you’re not a sex addict,” I tell him. You’re not like your mom.

He shuts his eyes, taking a smoother breath. “I just fucked you in a bathroom.” He opens his eyes to the shake of my head.

“This might hurt you to know, but I don’t give a shit right now—I have fucked other men in bathrooms,” I say bluntly. “I’ve had sex on beaches, sports fields, bleachers, other places outside, and it was fun. Like what just happened was fun and healthy, and it’s all been done before by plenty of people. You’re not the first person to enjoy public sex, Maximoff.”

He thinks hard, and he lets go of my hand. He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’ve never questioned it like this before. Not once.”

I nod.

He breathes. “I can’t drive. I can’t swim. I can’t throw myself into work. And I love sex, but for the first time, I’m terrified that I could take it too far and I wouldn’t even notice.”

“I’d notice.” I brush his cheekbones with my thumb. “You trust me?”

His eyes toughen, not soften. “Of course.”

“If I see that you’re changing to a point where it looks bad, I’m going to tell you. We’re together. We fuck each other. Your doubts are always my concerns, and I’m here for you anytime, every time.”

Maximoff inhales. “I must’ve missed that page in the Boyfriend Manual.”

I look up at the ceiling in short thought, then back to him. “If manuals for this shit existed, we’d be on a much different edition by now.”

“The Son of a Sex Addict Manual.”

I let out a short laugh. “I was definitely thinking of a word that’s stronger than ‘boyfriend’, but sure, we can go with Son of a Sex Addict.”

The bulb burns out of a gold light fixture above us. Cutting into our banter, and then Maximoff tells me, “I need you to know that I don’t regret fucking you here.”

“Good.” I nod. Thank God.

“And I don’t want you to have sex with me and think in the back of your head that I’m an addict—”

“Man, that’s the last thing I’ll be thinking about while we’re fucking.” I zip up my leather jacket, and this time, his eyes are only on my eyes. “I’ll be enjoying myself. Like always. Hopefully you will too.”