Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
A tinge of pain flares up in my shoulder, but I hone in on the mounting heat that ignites us.
I grind my hips into him. His mouth-watering erection rubs against my hardening cock every single time I drive forward.
Sweat builds, and between each kiss, our heavy grunts break the quiet. Farrow digs his fingers in my back and rakes his short nails across my skin. Scratching down towards my ass.
Fuckfuck.
Our tongues tangle more languidly than the forceful thrust of my hips. His hand—his hand draws down my boxer-briefs and seizes my ass with the hottest goddamn squeeze.
I tear from his lips, a raspy groan expelling from my burning lungs. Spurring me to grind harder. Rougher.
His muscles strain. “Fuck, Maximoff,” Farrow groans, his other hand clasps my jaw in the best grip. He grapples for the lead and control. About to flip me. But I bear more of my weight on his chest. Staying on top.
Our eyes attach for a nerve-pricking beat.
“You want to fuck me?” he asks, his graveled voice stroking my cock.
Goddamn. “More than you want to fuck me,” I breathe heavily.
He nips my lip between his teeth, and he whispers, “Not possible.”
I rock harder, fabric of boxer-briefs still separating us. My ass flexes beneath his palm. I grind and grind—he grits down, nose flaring in intense arousal.
“Fuck,” he grunts, his lips almost splitting apart in a coarse breath.
Blood pounds in my veins, and I groan against his neck. Fuck, Farrow. He pushes me as hard against him as he can without causing me pain.
My bound right arm obstructs our bodies from completely meeting. And my arm jerks in the canvas, wanting and aching to be all over him like he’s all over me.
I lift my head. “Fuck my sling,” I mutter, frustrated.
Farrow pants as hard as me. “It’d be easier if you weren’t on top. If you’d let me flip us—”
“I’m doing great, thanks,” I say, too stubborn to lose the lead right now. Plus, once I’m on my back, I won’t have enough strength to wrestle out from under him.
Farrow studies my body. My left arm is more carved and toned than ever since it’s been picking up my right arm’s slack. And whatever pain exists in my collarbone has melted beneath five-hundred degree, blood-boiling desire.
I rock slower and kiss him again, lips stinging beneath the force. And he pushes my ass for a deeper grind. Fuck.
Me.
I need inside of him.
Soon.
I lower my mouth to his chest, trailing over the inked lines of a pirate ship. Reaching his nipple, I suck and flick my tongue over the metal barbell.
Farrow lets out a rougher breath, and he palms my cock.
I lose balance on my left hand. “Fuck,” I curse.
He hooks his legs around me, and before I even blink, he flips us in one careful and effortless movement. Tapping into his strength and MMA skill, he tops me.
And my back gently meets the mattress. He’s protecting my body from my aggressive self-destruction.
I like to manhandle and be manhandled. Not new news. But it’s pretty difficult with a surgically repaired collarbone that’s in the process of healing.
He straddles my waist, and his chest is hoisted off mine. Tattooed hands splay on either side of my shoulders on the mattress.
Our eyes create hot tracks along our faces, and I run my large hand across his rough jaw, a less-than-close shave. God, his masculinity fists me, and my carriage elevates in a blistered breath.
He turns his head slightly and kisses my palm. I rake my fingers through his bleach-white hair, and then hold his warm neck.
Farrow rubs my bicep before whispering, “I’m being as rough with you as I can be without hurting you.” He wishes he could give me more.
If he had fractured a bone, I would’ve been the same way with him. Not hesitating or bubble-wrapping him, just highly aware of his physical limitations. And knowing that he’d want to push against them.
I nod once. “I get it, man.”
Farrow starts smiling.
“What?” I ask.
“How you call me ‘man’ in bed,” he tells me, lowering his lips to mine, a teasing breath away. He must catch my confusion because he clarifies, “It’s the way you always say it with extra force. It sounds more like I’m your man. Not just any fucking man.” He raises his brows at me. “It’s hot.”
I barely have time to react to that. Because Farrow lowers more of his weight into me, and I throb.
Fuck. I reach down and free us from our boxer-briefs. Shedding the last fabric, we kick the underwear off our ankles.
I grip his length and mine together, rubbing us in a tight fist. Pre-cum slick in my palm—I flex, breath knotted in my throat.
Farrow shoves my hand aside and sits up off me. “Don’t jack us off.” He reaches for the end table, his mosaic of pirate tattoos cascading down cut muscle. I watch his hands, two images inked on top: sparrows by his thumbs and skull-and-crossbones in the middle.