Finally in my hotel room with Farrow, I prep in the bathroom for something I haven’t tried since I was eighteen.

I’m a pro at sex. But being a bottom is new for me, and there’s a pretty good chance I’ll be a terrible lay.

I try to shelve any doubts and just focus on the fantasy. Of Farrow Redford Keene—a twenty-seven-year-old sexily tattooed guy—driving his cock into me.

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.

His mouth skims the outline of my erection. Boxer-briefs wet from pre-cum.

“Farrow,” I snap into a groan, pissed that he’s teasing. I can’t handle it, and I almost fall back off my elbows.

He nearly laughs. Then he pulls my boxer-briefs off—way too goddamn slowly. My cock springs out, and I try to sit up to tear off his black boxer-briefs. But he pushes my chest back.

“Relax,” he says in that graveled voice.

I glare. “And you call me bossy?” I reach down to a nearby duffel on the ground and unzip to find lube.

“You are bossy.” Farrow is standing and takes off his boxer-briefs. His hardened dick comes into full view, and I pause. Soaking in his chiseled muscles and cascading ink, not to mention the mouth-watering erection that’s supposed to be inside of me.

Don’t get fucking nervous now.

“Never said I wasn’t.” I lick my stinging lips for the millionth time. “But maybe you are too.”

“Maybe?” he repeats, his barbell lifts with his brow. “I am bossy. Lie back.”

I chuck the bottle of lube at him. He catches it with one hand. Jesus.

“Let’s do this fast,” I say, “because I’m on a fucking ledge, man.”

Farrow strokes his length while he lowers to his knees. Then he grips mine, licks the tip, and he sucks me—holyshitholyshit. I clutch my thigh with one hand and clench his hair with the other. He devours my reaction, and I bite down, a mangled noise in my throat.

I pay attention to how his lips wrap around me, and the pressure—Christ, the pressure. He slows, and he lubes his fingers. This is it.

He pops his mouth off my cock. “Lean back, Maximoff.” He lifts my foot onto the edge of the mattress. I’ve done this enough to other people, so I’m highly aware I need to set my other foot on the bed to let him in.

But I’m fucking frozen.

He tries to distract me, his hand rubbing me. And he stands and leans down, kissing me strongly. My heart rate is elevated. I slide back more into the middle of the bed, and I bring him down. Not liking when he’s standing and I’m not.

Farrow clutches my jaw. “I’m not going to hurt you. Trust me.”

I take a deeper breath. And I try not to tense, but my muscles cut sharp. While he’s on top, face-to-face, we make out; he strokes me, I stroke him, and he whispers, “Relax.” His voice soothing.

And his other hand descends.

His fingers brush against my puckered hole. I do my best to focus on my pent-up arousal, and one finger slides into me. Deeper, finding my prostate.

He massages, and I tighten, the nerves killer. Almost too sensitive.

“Wait, wait.” I put a hand on his chest, and he’s out of me in a millisecond.

I’m honest-to-God shaking. And I can’t tell if it’s from being too wound-up, teasing overload, or anxiety.

Farrow studies my body language, his hand holding my waist protectively. “Talk to me, Maximoff.”

I rub my face a couple times. Frustrated with myself. “No more edging; I just need to come.”

His smile stretches too far. “It felt good then.”

“Too good.”

“That’s the point, wolf scout.” He leans forward and hovers over me, his earring dangling. I clutch the back of his head, and I’m about to say what I feel but I lose sight of the words.

He reads me. “I think you’re scared.”

I think you’re right. I’m quiet, not combatting him like usual. Sex is uncomplicated for me. It feels good, and I go full-force. This feels fucking good, but it’s a level of intimacy that I couldn’t give strangers. I tried.

I failed.

And now, as I try to reach this place with a guy I love and trust, the last guard I’ve raised will drop. Being that bare with someone is fucking terrifying and exhilarating—and I want it, but can I let myself get there?

Farrow places a kiss on my shoulder, and he asks, “Have you used any sex toys before?”

“Yeah, all the time.”

His brows spike. “All the time?”

“Sometimes,” I correct.

He eyes me. “You’re going to have to spell it out.”

I give him a look like he’s flown to outer space. “I like sex.”

“No shit.”

I glare, pretty weakly. “So I’ve used dildos and prostate massagers before we got together, maybe a few times a week.”

A satisfied smile edges across his mouth. “This is good news.”

I’m not following. “How?”

“You’re going to let me put a dildo inside of you,” he says casually, but I heat from head-to-toe in want. “It’s something you’re already used to, so you won’t be afraid.”

“I’m not that fucking scared,” I refute now.

“Sure,” he says, eyeing my lips. “Just like I currently don’t have a hard-on for you.”

“What gave you a boner then, the ceiling or the floor? No wait, let me guess, the pillows.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re such a smartass.” He stares at me for a long beat, almost asking me if I agree with the plan.

I nod. “Not today though.” It’ll have to happen during another hotel stop. I already told him that I’m not bottoming on the bus. I want more privacy to prepare. He agreed.

Right now, I’m way too fucking impatient to be teased for another hour or two. I push him to his side, and I turn on mine to face him. Our mouths meet again and again, bodies grinding. Hands seizing each other, escalating an intense friction.

Then I shift on top, and his muscular legs break apart on either side of my frame. I use lube and tease open his hole with a finger.

He mutters a pleasured curse, and after another deep kiss, I whisper, “I’m going to fuck you.”

He seizes the back of my neck, his hot gaze narrowed into me. “Good, fuck me.”

I find a condom and rip it open. He grips my bare ass while I sheath my length and lube up. I like most positions, but mainly doggy-style. So does he, but every now and then, we’ll do missionary. Like now. Mostly because it’s easier to look at each other.

Achingly fucking slow, I push my erection into him.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hand tightens on my neck, lips parted, and he strokes his length once, twice.

I rock forward, the pressure and tightness out of this fucking world. I thrust in a hypnotic tempo, in, out. In, out. Deeper.

Deeper.

Our mouths meet, making out roughly, aggressively. The heady sensations flick my nerves. Sweat coats our skin.

He breaks a kiss and grits down. Containing a moan that rumbles his throat. “Fuck,” he barely gets out.

I throb inside of him, fuck yes, and I arch deeper, our chests pushed together.

“Fuck, Maximoff,” he curses, mouth broken completely apart. He rakes his fingers down my back, and he clutches my ass in the strongest grip and bucks his hips. It drives my cock deeper into him. Practically fucking me.

God.

My eyes almost roll. Nearing a peak.

Hot skin against hot skin, I quicken my pace. Harder, faster—I clasp his face. My ass flexes beneath his palm. He holds me just as strongly. Like he’s two seconds from riding me and finishing the job.

JesusChristfuck. I rub his erection, timing my thrusts with my hand. One more hungry kiss later, I drive so fast and deep that we’re white-knuckling each other to hang on.

I’m blown to fragments, and he comes in my palm. Breathing heavily, I milk my climax. Slowly, slowly descending with him.