I thrust harder, ass flexed more. Banging up against him. My chest is welded to his strong tattooed back. Farrow reaches behind him and grips my ass. Pushing me firmer into him.Yesyesyesyesfuckyes.He rocks backwards into my cock when I rock forward into him.
We move together in unison. Like a slow, thundering wave.
He moans a deep, raspy moan. Like the sound was unearthed from his core. “Fuck,” he moans again. “Fuckfuck.”
“Farrow,” I groan, sweat built. I’m rising towards an intense peak. I quicken my pace in a final sprint—fuckyesyesyesyesfuuuuckkk.My orgasm ripples through me and his covers my palm. I eek the climax. Staying inside of him, slowing in and out.
In and out, my hot breath on his neck.
Farrow is trying to catch his breath in the pillow.
Then he turns his head. Watching me ease out of him completely. Then I kiss him.
Sex with Farrow is incomparable and immeasurable. I’m pretty much a goner. Totally and utterly obsessed with the before, during, and after—it’s ridiculous. In the best damn way.
I sit up, discard the condom, and grab a towel from my nightstand’s drawer. Tossing it to him.
Farrow leans up against the headboard. “Are you ever worried about becoming a sex addict?” He catches me off guard, and he waits for me to process.
I blink a couple times. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my feet cold on the hardwood. I glance back at him. “No.” It’s a flatdefinitiveword.
“No?” Farrow seems surprised. “For how much you avoid drinking, I just thought…”
“I’m careful,” I say, standing. “I don’t let sex interfere with my daily life.Ever.” I’m highly aware of the warning signs of unhealthy behavior.Highly aware.
I can have a lot of sex and not be a sex addict. The minute sex ruins my relationships or my job—then it’s a goddamn problem.
As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have one.
“Fair enough,” Farrow says, balling the towel.
He drops the topic too fast.
I rotate to face him. “Doyouthink I have a problem?” As my mom’s bodyguard for three years, he was near a sex addict a lot longer than most people.
“No,” Farrow says. “No, I don’t, but being around you all the time, you do have addictive tendencies.”
I don’t ask for specifics. “I know.”
“Good,” he says into a nod.
28
FARROW KEENE
At Superheroes& Scones, Jane places multiple boxes of pastries on a low table. Bright and neon beanbags are strewn around the loft lounge, and anAvengersmovie plays on mounted television screens.
The place is dead at 5:00 a.m., and I sip my coffee and take a seat adjacent to Maximoff on a blue beanbag. I’m almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Quinn.
Not my first choice. But a few days ago, Quinn said to me, “I keep missing you in the mornings. Your bed is empty, too.”
It didn’t shake me, but I wouldn’t concoct a wild, intricate lie that could unravel. I just told him, “Occasionally, I’ll crash on the couch or in one of the cars. It’s colder.” He knows how hot my attic room can get.
Be more careful around Quinn, I agreed to Maximoff’s new rule. I may’ve physically distanced us this morning, but I’m still consciously staring at my boyfriend. I smile into my coffee when he pretends to be more interested in anAvengersfilm on mute.
He holds a paper cup of hot tea, drinking slowly. Trying not to look at me. We all know he ranks me above Iron Man, Thor,and whatever other Avenger makes an on-screen appearance. Not just because I’m clearly better and clearlynotfictional.
But because I’m his bodyguard. His real-life superhero.
