Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“Fuck.” His head whips to the bowl. “…I don’t see it, man.” He wipes his hands on a dishtowel.
I take the bacon off the burner, and then I near Maximoff. His hand slides around my waist. Drawing me hard to his chest. Damn.
I cup his ass and walk him back into the edge of the counter. His gaze devours mine before our mouths press in full-bodied hunger. Heating and welding together.
Fuck, I hold his sharp jaw to control the kiss. I catch his lip between my teeth, and a shallow breath jettisons his body.
I whisper in the pit of his ear, “My clothes look good on you.” He’s wearing my black track pants.
Maximoff slips two fingers in my waistband. “Perks of being the same size as my boyfriend.”
Hearing him say boyfriend out loud makes my smile widen even more.
I’d say my wardrobe doubled too, but I can’t wear his clothes in public. Tabloids and fans would notice, and even with the “HaleCocest” rumor, they’d spin another story. Not letting go of the Moffy/Jane love affair, but just adding me to the equation.
Maximoff drapes his arms over my shoulders. “What happens if I get a new bodyguard?”
I won’t be around you every day. “That’s sweet that you like to visit these hypothetical alternate realities,” I say, “but let’s stick to ours, where I’m currently still your bodyguard.”
Maximoff grasps the back of my head. His grip is strong as fuck, and his waist bows towards me—all of it, all of him, douses me in gasoline and lights me on fucking fire. He breathes, “Who sucks whose cock at 8:12 a.m. in our reality?”
I eye his beautiful, sharp cheekbones. “I can push you to your knees right now, but I’m thinking that you want to push me to mine.”
His dark brows furrow, feigning confusion. “How’d you know?”
“You love your dick in my mouth—”
“Farrow!” That’s Oscar. Security is here. I hear more than a few pairs of footsteps.
Maximoff straightens up, preparing for another fallout where I’m terminated from the security team. I ease casually against the counter beside him, and I wrap my arm around his lower back. My hand on his hip. While he, of course, crosses his arms, biceps flexing. Ready to put up a fight for me.
That last thought wells inside me: he’s ready to put up a fight for me.
Oscar slips into the kitchen first, and he rolls to a dead stop, studying the scene: midway cooking breakfast together, bare-chested, and my arm is still around Maximoff.
“Redford,” Oscar says, forehead wrinkling as his brows shoot up, “is he wearing your pants?”
I roll my eyes, but my smile is fucking killing me.
“We’ve been together for months,” Maximoff says.
“In my mind it’s been barely two days, and you’re already wearing his—”
Maximoff cuts him off, “That’s not fucking important right now.”
Oscar sets a hand on the island counter. “Moffy, you’re underestimating how shocked we all are. I haven’t been this whiplashed in a decade.” He looks to me. “You reckless motherfucker, if I hear Alpha call you a maverick one more time over coms, I’m cancelling your Netflix subscription.”
“You don’t have my passwords, Oliveira.” I gave him my passwords at Yale so he could use my HBO, but I changed those a long time ago.
Maximoff drops his arms, about to leave and find Akara, but I catch his wrist to keep him here. My hand slips down into his.
And then Akara enters the huge kitchen, Donnelly and Quinn in tow. Those two hang back at the island bar with Oscar, and the Omega lead nears me.
“Moffy,” Akara says, “you should step out—”
“No,” I tell Akara. “He should hear.”
Maximoff crosses his arms again.
Akara gestures to my chest. “I’ve spent an accumulative thirty-five hours trying to convince two men that you’re worth keeping around.” Price and Thatcher.
I fixate on the part where he tried to convince them to keep me. “You wanted me to stay? You realize that I selfishly chose a guy over the team?”
Maximoff shoots me a look like I’m digging my grave, but I can’t stop staring at Akara.
“Yeah,” Akara says, “and the four of us on Omega have all had the misfortune of knowing you before you ever joined security.”
Donnelly blows me a middle-finger kiss. At eighteen, I met him at a tattoo shop. He was a seventeen-year-old tattoo apprentice who dropped out of high school, his parents in jail for meth. I let him do a few of mine. Until he became better, then he inked more, and he used to crash in my dorm at Yale and streak the hallway for shits and giggles.
Oscar, I met at Yale, and then I met his brother Quinn.
And Akara grew up two streets over from me. See, I didn’t take these relationships into account. Because I broke the unbreakable rule. Don’t fuck your client.