I wake early and forage for cereal in the first lounge. Yawning into my bicep a fucking ton.

I think Oscar is behind the wheel, but the privacy door is shut. So I can’t see into the driver’s quarters.

Near the bathroom door, a coffee pot sits on a granite counter. I bend down and open a cabinet, finding most of the dry foods.

I hear movement from the narrowed hall. Where the bunks are located.

Farrow climbs out of his. Feet hitting the cold floor. I watch him rub his eyes roughly with the heel of his palm. Hair messy, he’s shirtless, and his drawstring pants hang low on his sculpted waist. Tattooed sparrows peeking out of the elastic band.

God, my chest rises in a shallow breath. My body, brain, and everything in between is begging me to abandon my cereal hunt and push him up against the wall.

I’m used to fucking Farrow morning and night—and that routine has been shot to hell with the bus set-up.

Don’t think about jumping his bones. Don’t think about his dick rubbing against your dick. Don’t think about his arms wrapped around you or his hand sliding down your chest and up to your throat.

I’m obviously thinking about every position, every embrace—every nerve that wants pricked and lit. I stare off and imagine all of it.

I blink a couple times to tear out of a fantasy.

And his eyes are on mine, his know-it-all smile slowly rising. I kid you not, I have to look away like I’m in fifth fucking grade and worried I’ll spring a boner in class.

Focus.

Cereal. Right.

I push aside a box of Cocoa Crispies, which belong to Sulli, and that’s when I sense his presence like overwhelming lightning. Raw voltage strikes my body. Head-to-fucking-toe. It ripples down my arms, legs and chest.

Scorching me.

He leans on the damn counter, his feet right up against me. I have a fantastic view of his bare calves, an inked ship on the left.

I rub my jaw, my muscles blistering with a million desires. Focus. My gaze narrows to fired pinpoints, and I purposefully ignore him. Continuing my search.

“Someone looks like they’re having fun,” he says.

I’m afraid if I respond it’ll be with fuck me. Right now, that needs to be more of a fuck you and not the sexual fuck you.

Like a real fuck you, fuck you.

“I’d help you,” Farrow tells me, “but I kind of like this view.”

I push around a box of Cheerios. “You do love to do that whole towering over me thing.” I don’t even know what the hell I’m trying to find anymore.

This just seems like the best distraction.

Fuck my high sex drive.

“You usually don’t let me do it unless you’re about to blow me,” he says casually.

Yeah, I’ve been trying not to imagine taking him in my mouth.

“But you haven’t even looked in my direction once,” he continues. “Blow jobs are off the table then.”

“Kitchen blow jobs in front of everyone are definitely not happening.” My voice is more serious than I intended.

“It was a joke, wolf scout,” he says coolly, calmly—like his entire world resides on a beach somewhere sipping Mai Tais with zero stress and zero irritations.

Finally, I swing my gaze up to him.

Sure enough, he’s doing the whole towering over me thing. Elbow on the counter, lips curved, and head slightly tilted. It’s sexier than what I pictured in my head. He seems taller.

Older.

Stronger.

His silver rings lightly drum the granite with a click click click.

And yeah, I’m in a perfect position to blow him. Every bone in my body screams at me to clutch his ass, suck him off, and watch him come.

I’d like to do a lot of damn things that can’t happen on a crowded tour bus.

My muscles burn. “Your jokes aren’t funny today.”

Farrow lets out a low whistle. “I’d ask who pissed in your Cheerios, but you’re still looking for them.”

“Again,” I say and then snag a box of Raisin Bran. Rising to my feet, we meet at eye level since he’s slouching. “Not funny.”

Our eyes catch and hold. Fuck me hard, man.

“Noted,” he says, and he reaches out, about to touch my neck—I jerk away.

“Don’t touch me.” My voice is firm. For Christ’s sake, I need to be a hundred feet from this guy. No eye contact. Definitely no skin contact. Not until we reach the next hotel.

Farrow straightens up almost instantly. Worry shades his face. “Okay, now I’m going to ask,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I tear open the Raisin Bran and walk stiffly towards the couch. “Walk” is honestly an exaggeration. The counter and the couch are barely three feet apart—and I’m fixating on stupid shit on purpose.

“Maximoff.”

I turn.

His barbell rises with his brows.

I breathe out an agitated breath. “Fuck, man. We haven’t had sex in a while. I can’t look at you.” I recognize that I can go masturbate, but I’m dying for him.

Not for my hand.

He rests more against the counter and fixes his bed-head hair. Back to being cool, calm and collected. It’s like a switch that I apparently don’t possess.

“Because you want to jump my bones,” he adds and eyes me up and down. “How are you unable to keep my company now, but you did fine when I was just your bodyguard? You weren’t having sex then and that was two months.”

I don’t know.

I honestly don’t know.

I start shaking my head. Maybe it’s because I have access to him. Because my imagination satiated me back then. Now that I have him, God, I want him.

“I don’t have the answers,” I say seriously. “I just listen to my body.”

“And what does it say?” His voice is a graveled whisper.

I rake a hand through my hair. “Need. Want…You.”

Farrow nods slowly, as though repeating those words over and over. His thumb skims his bottom lip, and he glances over to the bathroom door. “So there’s a shower here—”

“That has thin walls,” I cut him off.

“We’ll be quiet.”

“And when we walk out of the bathroom together, people will just think we were in there knitting sweaters,” I say, sarcasm thick.

He steps away from the counter. “They’ll think we were fucking, wolf scout.” A smile plays at his lips. “And you have to be okay with that.”

Privacy in my sex life is like a rope I’m hanging onto while suspended over a bridge. But today is different. Today, I’m far willing to loosen my grip on that damn rope.