Chapter 22 Farrow Keene
FARROW KEENE
Black and orange Halloween streamers and pumpkin lanterns drape Maximoff’s kitchen cupboards. I line up bottles of liquor on the countertop. Tequila, vodka, and flavored rum. I also purchased two six-packs of beer, a jug of orange juice, and a liter of Fizz.
Maximoff scowls at the haul.
I arch my brows. “You told me to buy a variety.” I wave to the bottles. “This meets your requirements.”
Unsaid Rule #1: Maximoff Hale cannot, under any circumstance, purchase alcohol himself.
Not unless he’d like a front-page headline saying he broke his sobriety. To save himself that headache, he had to ask me to make a liquor store run.
His grocery list said: lots of different alcohol, Different types. & Chasers.
I already annoyed him about his bad punctuation and random capitalization. One of my favorite things to do. And I’ve pointed out that for a guy who’s overly precise, this was the vaguest list he’s ever given me.
Maximoff crosses his arms over his dark-red crewneck, a domineering presence in the cramped kitchen. At the sight of his shirt, my mind drifts for a second.
I’ve noticed he’s been ditching most of his green shirts for red. A deliberate, calculated change.
The public associates most of the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts with their favorite colors.
And his dad’s is red.
Ryke’s is green.
I’d never tell Maximoff to not care about his dad. Hell, it’d be impossible for him to even try not to care. But the more he attempts to prove his dad’s worth, he’s essentially more and more and more like Ryke Meadows.
It’s a shit Catch-22. There is no winning, and he’s smart enough to have already figured this out. Maximoff is just too headstrong to let go and do nothing.
“What about whiskey or scotch or bourbon?” Maximoff asks me. “You didn’t buy a single dark liquor.”
I lean a hip against the counter, our bodies naturally close due to the small space. Maximoff draws even nearer, our knees knocking. We’re alone in his townhouse.
For the moment, at least.
I hook two fingers in the waistband of his dark jeans. “Remind me,” I say, voice husky, “what’s the goal tonight?”
Maximoff stares at my long tattooed fingers, lost in his head all of a sudden. He uncrosses his arms. And he clasps my wrist.
He drives my hand down his jeans. My mouth curves, and I gladly pull us closer, chest-against-chest, and I slip my palm beneath his boxer-briefs.
His heady forest-greens rise to my mouth. His ravenous, forceful expression sears my body and contracts my muscles. I can practically see all the ways he wants to fuck me in the reflection of his eyes.
“Besides the obvious goal,” I whisper. “My cum in your mouth.”
He hardens beneath my firm grip, but his hand is still wrapped around my wrist. “You mean my cum, your mouth.”
So that’s how it’s going to be tonight. Playing for the lead. I smile, not giving into his demands that easily. “I said what I said.”
“The goal…” he remembers. “The real goal tonight…” Maximoff pulls my hand out of his jeans. To clear his head for a second. I comply and rest my elbows on the counter.
I help him verbalize the “real” goal. “Is to get your cousin drunk.”
Maximoff scowls at the whole scenario. “Or like she said, ‘I want to know what it feels like to be fucking drunk.’ Which could be one beer or three or twenty vodka shots.”
“Twenty shots,” I repeat flatly. “We’re trying to get her feel-good wasted. Not kill her.”
We’re not talking about Jane Cobalt.
His nineteen-year-old cousin Sullivan Meadows asked him for advice about partaking in a “quintessential adolescent party night” with booze included. Something she’s never done since she dedicated her time to competing and swimming as a professional athlete.
For three hours, this was all security could talk about. Our comms convo went something like this:
Donnelly: does Moffy know anything about booze?
Me: he knows vodka is clear.
Akara: don’t get me started.
Oscar: someone convince Jane to convince Charlie to go so I can be there.
Me: or we could just have fun without you, Oliveira.
The younger Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts all refer to Maximoff for advice, help, anything. And while the guy is great at many things, he’s not great at everything.
Like alcohol.
Apparently his cousins and siblings don’t care about good advice. Just his advice. It speaks volumes about their sheer love for Maximoff. And their lack of common sense.
Maximoff returns to his first point of contention. “Feel-good wasted can include dark liquor.” He glares as my amusement brims to the surface. “What?”
“Thank God for my drunk adolescent behavior. You see, we want to start her with the basics, not level her up to a graduate degree in drinking.” I count off my fingers, staring with my thumb. “No whiskey, no bourbon, no scotch, no puke.”
He blinks slowly into a no-nonsense glower. “You’re getting off on this.”
“Getting off on what?”
“The fact that you know more than me about something.”
My brows ratchet up. “Wolf scout, I know more than you about a lot of things. If I got an erection every time this happened, I’d be walking around with a constant hard-on.”
“And I was just about to offer to help you.” He gestures to my cock. “Seeing as how I would’ve been the cause. But now…” He places a hand on his chest. “I’m not feeling so generous.”
I roll my eyes and lick my lips, smiling. “Is that right?” I sweep our builds, still pushed up against one another, my hand on his waist. His hand on my ass.
Maximoff makes a show of taking one step back. Our hands dropping. “All the altruism in my bones has withered and died.”
“That’s dramatic and impossible.”
“Who’s to say that I’m not already a selfish fucker? I sped on a freeway with you in the car. Putting your life at risk. Christ, knowing that Jane refused to ever ride in the same car with me if I was behind the wheel. I did that. And I’d probably still be doing it if I had my license.”
He’s not proud. His jaw tics, eyes darkened.
I’m used to the deep tangents. From blow jobs to life meaning.
It’s how Maximoff operates. Everything has greater significance to him.
Every action has soul-bearing subtext that he tries to unload.
His mind is fucking intriguing as hell, and I more than willingly follow every thread, every line of thought.
“You have your flaws,” I say bluntly. “And you need to remind me and the public, the media that you’re human and you’re not perfect because you’re so afraid to let us all down.” I lean closer and whisper, “That makes you less of a selfish fucker.”
Maximoff steps near, his muscular frame colliding with mine. My hand glides against the sharpness of his jaw. His deep breath mixes with mine before his warm lips nudge my mouth open. Our tongues unite, and his hand clenches my hair.
Damn, Maximoff. Heat gathers, a groan in the pit of my throat. He instinctively thrusts forward, pelvis against pelvis. He searches for harder contact on his cock. Something I notice he does often. Something that turns me into a throbbing rock.
I pin his back to the counter. Grinding my erection against his, and he breaks our hungered kiss to let out a strangled moan, “Fuck.”
I want him naked. Bare. Bent over the kitchen table.
I bet he wants me the same way.
I bear more of my weight on him. Maximoff curses out in a throaty groan, his daggered glare on the ceiling. His heartbeat pounds rapidly against my hard chest. I hold his jaw protectively, my fingers sliding over his mouth, down to his neck.
“Fuck,” he breathes. Every look, every word he utters fists my dick.
Maximoff turns the tables. He grabs my ass and uses his strength to straighten up. Not letting our bodies separate, he holds us together and walks me backwards.
My spine hits the refrigerator.
He unbuckles my belt and then slides his coarse hand down my black pants. Only the thin cotton of my boxer-briefs act as a barrier. As he strokes my length, I grit down in arousal, blood pumping hot.
Fuck, I bow forward, my head spinning for a second. “Looks like you’re back to being charitable,” I breathe.
Maximoff removes his hand.
I almost laugh. “And then he leaves to prove a point.”
“I’m checking the time, asshole.” He rotates his wrist, his cheap watch-face in view. “We have ten minutes before everyone gets here. Maybe.”
“Only one of us is getting head then.”
Neither of us forfeits that quickly for most things. Maximoff already has a solution and pulls a coin out of his pocket. “Let’s flip for it.”
“You carry quarters in your pocket?” I raise my brows at him. “What else is in there? A floppy-disk?”
“Shut up and call it.” He tosses the coin.
“Heads.”
He slaps the quarter on the top of his hand. Then, he lifts his palm to heads.
“You can’t beat me at everything,” I tell him.
“I’m starting to think that’s your favorite phrase.” He lowers to one knee, already manhandling my body by wrenching me forward—damn.
I lean my shoulders on the fridge, pulse in my throat. “It’s definitely one of them.”
In one pull, my pants are at my thighs. My fingers weave through his thick hair. Knelt before me, he still seems godly and statuesque, worthy of adoration. His hands trace the muscular curve of my waist that draw him towards my cock.
“I think I like you down there,” I tease.
“Most people do.” He slowly sinks my boxer-briefs down my thighs. My erection springs out, and his chest falls in a desirous breath. He looks at me once to say, “I give great head.”
Great may be an understatement, but I tell him, “The amount of people that call you humble, I’m beginning to think are all liars.”
“Or I am humble. Just not when it comes to sex.”
That comment really stays with me for a second, and then he grips me and languidly licks my tip—fuck. A blistering knot builds in my throat. My head hits a fridge magnet as soon as his lips wrap around my shaft. Fuckfuck.