I want your cock inside of me. I sent my childhood crush that text tonight. In this reality, not a dream or some alternate universe or as a fucking joke.

Legit, I told him to fuck me.

I’ve been mostly into topping him, but this night, I’m mentally on a carnal loop. Where I can’t break from imagining his cock pounding in my ass for the first time.

My muscles beg and plead with me to be beneath Farrow Keene, and after all the build-up to bottoming, I know I’m ready. Prepared.

My room. I’ll fuck you hard. – Farrow

Goddamn.

My dick strains against my jeans. My body and my brain are desperate for him, but I take about ten minutes before I leave.

I enter security’s townhouse through the adjoining door. Lucking out on not seeing Thatcher or Quinn. I climb the narrow staircase to the attic bedroom, the one that mirrors mine.

As the stairs end and I face his door, I just realize I’ve never slept in his room. Never fucked on his bed.

Not once.

I think about that first combining with the other first, and I may self-combust. My blood pools, body craving rough friction and strong pressure.

Fuck me. Muscles taut, I open the door and step inside. His small room is pretty bare: dresser, end table, bed, and a short bookcase with nothing shelved.

Farrow leans so damn casually on the brick wall, just watching a video on his phone, but as soon as I enter, he looks up.

I soak him in. His nonchalant and confident demeanor, the tattoos that crawl up his neck. His earring. The piercings on his nose and lip, his muscles outlined in a black V-neck. And his platinum hair, a few pieces brushing over thick brown brows that slowly rise. Knowing I’m turned on beyond human recognition.

His gaze rakes my body in an even hotter once-over.

I lick my lips, wanting him on them. On me.

In me.

Fuck me.

Tension wrings the air. His eyes meet my eyes and it snaps. We move closer, a fucking boiling urgency pulsating inside me. I pull my green shirt over my head.

He yanks off his black V-neck.

And somehow, some damn way, my gaze drifts. To his full-sized bed, the black sheets visible beneath a pulled-down black comforter. Heat brews in the attic, even in April, and whenever he’s here, he probably doesn’t sleep with more than a sheet.

That’s his bed.

My brain fixates on that obvious fact. This is his room. I can imagine, way too well, Farrow driving his erection into me on that bed.

Fuck. I blink a few times. I’ve been staring faraway. I grimace and focus on a six-foot-three Yale graduate who rests an elbow on the dresser. Watching me.

His mouth curves upward. “Welcome back, space cadet.”

I scowl and unbutton my jeans. “I barely spaced out.”

His smile widens. “Let me ask you something. How many times have you fantasized about me fucking you on my bed?”

Christ. Am I that fucking obvious? “Zero,” I say flatly.

He whistles. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Maybe once,” I correct and near.

Farrow unbuckles his belt. “Maybe once?” he repeats like I’m still lying. I’m just way underestimating here.

“More than once,” I amend, my muscular legs knocking into his. I grip the dresser beside his bicep, and he unzips my jeans, our eyes not detaching.

We both step out of our pants, and my gaze drops to his black boxer-briefs, his cock long against the fabric like mine—fuck me.

I almost instinctively arch my hips forward to thrust. My grip tightens on the dresser, my breath already ragged. I palm him above the fabric, and he grows harder beneath my hand.

Farrow grits down in arousal, biceps flexed. And then he clutches the back of my head, the masculine force something I fucking crave.

He sucks the sensitive skin on my neck, his teeth biting—fuckyesfuckyes.

My muscles contract. “Fuck,” I growl.

He pulls back and our eyes hit as he says, “Tell me what I did to you more than once.”

I heat. “You want details?” About my fantasy.

Farrow eyes me with an edging smile. “Yeah. Give me the details, wolf scout.” He lowers to a knee, rolling my elastic waistband down with him. I’m buck-naked, my rock-hard cock begging for force, but more than that, I want to see his.

“Take off your clothes and maybe I will,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “Maybe you will.”

“I will,” I say firmly. I rake a hand through my thick hair, dying for pressure. “Or I could go take a nap, find the meaning of life alone—”

Farrow stands, just to remove his boxer-briefs. Fuck. His erection seems larger than I last remember. I’m staring. Hard.

His knowing smile returns. “That’s going to be in you.”

My breath shallows, and we kiss twice before he breaks from my mouth and kneels again. I clutch the dresser while he grips me, the pressure on my shaft torching my nerves. A coarse noise scratches my throat.

Farrow almost pauses.

Tell him my fantasy. “You push me on your bed. Not angrily. Just in the moment…” My head tries to tilt back, his mouth wrapped around me. Moving back and forth, back and forth. “Fuck me,” I groan, my knuckles whiten on the dresser, sweat built on my skin.

My waist bucks forward.

His hand replaces his mouth before I choke him. “And then?”

“It ends,” I lie.

He’s about to stand up, but I clutch his shoulder. Keeping him on his knees. “Then we wrestle for the top, and when you beat me, you fuck me how you usually fuck all guys.” Any other detail bursts in my brain.

Farrow rises to his feet, an inch taller, amusement behind his eyes. “Man, you don’t know what I do when I usually top.”

I stare at his mouth, my sarcastic retorts dying. “What do you usually do?”

His tattooed hand clutches my jaw, and his mouth brushes my ear, whispering, “You’ll see.”

I release my grip on the dresser and hold the back of his neck. He walks me backwards before I unglue my feet. Tonight, I don’t fight to be the one to guide him.

I just steal a deep kiss, and my legs hit the mattress. His palm to my abs, he shoves me down hard. My spine meets his black sheets. Breath knocking out of me.

Farrow climbs on top, and we’re all limbs and muscle, sweat and speeding heart beats. We wrestle for the lead, his strength all over me.

I’m burning up at a million degrees. Our mouths slam together, a fucking kiss that pushes my body against his. Closer. We tangle, then untangle, and Farrow pins me down. I’m lying on my chest, my knees digging into his soft sheets.

His pelvis is in line with my ass.

This position sends signals to my nerves to prepare for ultimate intensity. One last effort, I try to flip Farrow and hook his ankle.

Yeah, that doesn’t work.

I just concede.

My forehead almost touches the mattress. Breathing heavily.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

Farrow stands off the bed, and I fixate on his movements while he walks bare-assed to the end table. His tattooed build is carved with lean muscle, and his fingers gently open the drawer. Pulling out condoms, lube, and he tosses a couple towels on the bed.

When he looks back at me, he smiles. “You love this.” His voice is a hundred percent gravel tied in silk.

Yeah.

I love how he moves. How he speaks, how he acts. Who he is. Just him.

I love all of him.

“Maybe,” I say confidently.

He checks me out like I just did to him. How I’m on my knees, my forearms, and I’m waiting for him. The bed undulates as he climbs back. Staying behind me.

I relax my muscles. It’s easier for me since we’ve led up to this point. Especially after New Year’s Eve in the hotel. My body trusts him. I trust him, and I’m not even partially afraid.

God, I just want him.

Craning my neck over my shoulder, I watch him rip open a condom and then sheath his erection. He places his knees on either side of my waist, his confidence like a hammer to my pulse.

He clutches my ass with that tattooed hand, and then teases me open with two fingers, the lube warm. God. My chest tightens, breath twisted in my lungs.

Farrow studies my body’s reaction. That felt fucking good. Not bad. He sees, and slowly…slowly, he starts to push into me.

My head swings forward, the sensations gripping my nerves. Not able to watch, I bite down, nose flaring at the build-up—oh fuck. I growl into a groan as he goes deeper, deeper.

“Fuck,” he mutters, letting out a shallow breath. “I didn’t think you’d be this tight.” He shifts his knee slightly, pushing even further into me. Fuck me.

Farrow rocks forward, thrusting in a perfect rhythm. I can’t concentrate on words. My vocabulary dwindles to fuck and Jesus Christ.

While I’m underneath him and he’s above me, he places his palms flat on the mattress. Only an inch above my hands that fist his black sheets. His inked arms stretch like pillars beside my biceps. He practically shields me with his body—as he rams in and out.

My twenty-eight-year-old bodyguard is fucking me.

His pace is rougher, faster—I choke out a groan, he’s hitting a sensitive spot that tries to shake me limb-to-limb. My muscles flex, my eyes ache to roll back.

Jesus. Fuck.

I take a breath, stopping myself from coming. Christ, I’m not even touching my cock. He slows a fraction, giving me some time.

Glancing back, I catch sight of his clenched jaw, breathing hot breath through his nose. His arousal tenses his body, and damp pieces of bleached hair fall in his carnal gaze while he pounds into my ass.

Raw sex. This image beats every fucking-on-his-bed fantasy I’ve ever constructed.

I know how he prefers to top, too.

Rough and deep. Just like me. Not a fucking surprise. As his pace speeds, I can’t look at him. I stare straight, my lips parted. I try to shut my mouth—I can’t. I can’t, fuck.

I cage all breath, my neck muscles strained. I can feel him in me. I white-knuckle the sheet, then I instinctively grab his arm beside me. Holding on. “Holy fuck,” I moan roughly.

I’ve never done this with someone. Never let them in this far. I’m giving myself to a person in a way that I never thought possible. Warmth and safety bridges us together, and I wouldn’t choose anyone but him.

“Maximoff,” he grits my name, the hot pleasure like another thrust inside me.

My body rocks with his force, and my brain short-circuits to single syllables.

Now.

Need.

More.

Want.

More.

Him.

Fuck.

He lowers his weight on me for deeper entry. More friction. His chest melded to my fucking back, and I fall flatter, his arm curving around my collarbone, his jaw skimming my cheekbone. We’re that close. That connected together, and I’m riding a nerve-blistering edge.

I drill a glare into the wall where a headboard would be, my pulse thumping. “Oh, fuck.” A noise escapes that I’ve never made. I shudder, a peak rippling through my veins.

Water wells in the corner of my eyes—I’m not kidding. Farrow brings me to a level I’ve never reached, and I can’t breathe, can’t speak. I’m in a new universe that catapults me.

My eyes roll back, my fingers digging in his arm. God. I come, a sharp breath expelling out of my mouth. I rest my forehead on the bed, my energy draining fast.

“Fuck,” Farrow curses, milking his own climax. I think he hit his peak at the same time. If I was supposed to wait for him to come first, there’s no fucking way I could’ve.

I rub my wet eyes on the sheet, then I turn my head. Our eyes on each other’s lips. Our mouths meet in a slow, sensual kiss that mimics our come-down.

When we break apart, he pulls out, and he whispers with a peeking smile, “Better than your fantasy?”

I lick my stinging lips. “Beyond.”

* * *

“Saturn Bridges has good dessert and coffee,” Farrow tells me, buttoning his black pants, the elastic band of his Calvin Klein underwear sticks out.

We just showered, and now we’re back in his attic room.

I dry my wet hair with a towel and scroll through my phone, already dressed in another pair of jeans and a black Batman shirt. “I’ve never eaten there.”

“But you’ve been there?” He buckles his belt.

“For their trivia nights.” I pop open the website. We’ve been trying to pick a place for late-night dessert. A semi-date.

I get that we’re not publicly a couple, but we can still eat out together since he’s my bodyguard. PDA is just completely off the table, and no eye-fucking. Obviously.

The restrictions don’t bother me, but I sometimes imagine what a full-date would be like. Twice as much paparazzi, no doubt.

“Fuck,” Farrow mutters and opens a couple drawers. Overturning pockets of some pants.

“What are you missing?” I ask.

“My wallet.” Realization washes over his face. “I left it in your bedroom.”

“I can just pay for you, man,” I offer, but I already know his response.

“No. We’ll split.” He attaches his radio to his waistband, not worrying about putting on a shirt.

I get it. Occasionally, we both like paying for the other. It feels good. Knowing we’re dating. We’re together. But I’ve stopped him from buying my breakfast and dinner before.

Likewise, Farrow doesn’t like being financially dependent on anyone but himself.

“So Saturn Bridges?” I ask. “I can make a reservation.”

Farrow smiles, his hand on the doorknob, and he lingers, our eyes locked. Don’t fucking leave. “Yeah,” he says huskily.

Stay.

I almost edge near.

He rubs his mouth, his chest rising. “I’ll be right back.”