Alphas Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 3)

by Krista Ritchie

  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.

  I crunch upward and push myself to my knees with one hand. He’s knelt too, holding my gaze. Farrow shakes a black bottle and squirts lube in his palm. He strokes us, mixing lube with pre-cum, while we kiss.

  More aggressively. Passionately.

  He tosses the bottle aside, and our mouths break, catching our breaths.

  “What position were you thinking?” Farrow asks since many have been hypothetically eliminated. My brain says most sex positions are doable.

  And by most, I mean all.

  “Me topping you, on our sides facing each other.”

  He tilts his head at me like I’ve flown to Mars by myself and built a colony of one. “On your side?” he repeats. He makes a point of eyeing my shoulder, the bandage gone. A thick reddened puffy scar lines the length of my left collarbone.

  “Yeah.” I don’t concede.

  “No, fuck no,” he says easily and waves me on. “Keep going.”

  I glance at his long, hardened cock. I want that in me as much as I want mine in him.

  “I spoon you.” If there are proper terms for these positions, I don’t know them. I have a lot of sex. But I don’t research the fuck out of it on the internet.

  “That’s also on your side,” he says. “Keep going.”

  I exhale a hot breath. “Doggy-style or the one where your legs are splayed to the side and I’m standing off the bed and entering you from behind. But I could bottom for that one.” It’s one of my favorite positions I’ve been in as a bottom. I think because he wrapped his hand around my neck while he pounded into me, and I was so into it, into him, and I saw how much he got off on that.

  Farrow contemplates for a half a second, and then waves me on again. “Getting closer.”

  “With you flat on your back, missionary.”

  He shakes his head, motion with two fingers to keep going.

  My brows knot. “I’m getting the feeling you just want to know which positions I like.”

  He smiles at me like the word pure is on his tongue. “That is part of the point, wolf scout.” His matter-of-fact voice pumps my blood.

  I growl out and then exhale roughly. “I’m picking one now. Dresser. Standing.”

  19

  MAXIMOFF HALE

  I climb off the bed buck-naked, and while he rises, equally buck-ass-naked, I gesture him to me. “Come over.”

  Farrow doesn’t hesitate. In one blink, he’s reached me. He clutches my face and kisses me hard before he tears away and seizes the edge of the dresser.

  My pulse thrashes. Pent-up and fixated on that simple movement and his confidence that matches mine over and over.

  With my chest up against his tattooed back, I clutch his waist—and that’s when I realize that he never grabbed a condom. He lubed us without one. “No condom?” I ask him.

  Farrow looks over his shoulder. “No condom,” he confirms. “But if you want one, that’s okay.”

  This is a big deal. We’ve both been tested; we’re both clean and monogamous, but we haven’t taken that next step. Until now.

  To let me bareback, Farrow has to have complete trust in me that I won’t cheat. I’d never. Same if we flip, I have to trust him.

  And I do.

  Completely.

  “I want to,” I tell him, assured. He’s barebacked with a serious boyfriend before, but I haven’t.

  Farrow cups the back of my head, and we kiss with slow-burning intimacy that feels like descending gradually… gradually in warm… soothing… waters.

  My head dizzies, and we part with ragged breath. Farrow angles forward again, his knee bent in a slight lunge, and he hangs his head, muscles relaxed.

  He glances over his shoulder to tell me, “You can come in me.” I catch his smile as he adds, “I know you want to.”

  God. “And I know you want me to,” I say, too hot now. Too ready, and he doesn’t deny that we’re both dying for the same thing.

  While I tease his hole open with two fingers, I kiss the back of his neck. He rubs himself twice, and then reaches backwards and grips my ass.

  Fuckme. I clutch his ass before I take my erection and press the tip to his hole. Easing myself in—the pressure around me narrows my eyes into aroused pinpoints.

  “Fuck,” Farrow groans, the further I go in…now all the way inside. “Ah, fuck. Maximoff.” His throaty noise combines with mine, a raw sound scratching out of me.

  Christ. I rock my hips, pounding against him with mind-numbing friction. My hand shoots for his waist for deeper entry, gripping him. He white-knuckles the dresser, gritting down as a tangled moan ejects. Fuckfuckfuck…

  I run my hand up his back muscles. “Farrow,” I groan, and he pushes back into my cock. My head tries to loll back—fucking fuck. I grip him harder. Ramming, my ass flexing beneath his strong hold.

  “Harder,” he grunts, his forehead on his bicep. I pick up my pace and slam into him.

  He moans as I hit his prostate. I know the spot. Very goddamn well.

  I wrap my arm around his abdomen. Aching to bow forward where my chest melds his back, closer than close. Fuck this sling.

  Slowing, I eek out the movement, and more sweat beads up on both our bodies. Skin slick, and hair dampening.

  “Fuck,” I groan. “Fuck.” I quicken my rhythm, and I fucking explode. Fuckfuckfuuuuuuck. Lights burst in my vision, nerves scorched alive. I dagger a glare on the ceiling, another gnarled noise in my throat.

  Farrow moans lowly into his arm, his tendons straining in his neck. Face reddening, he cages breath, and I come inside the guy I love. With a few more pumps, I milk my climax, and I watch his grip loosen on the dresser. Glancing back at me, he absorbs my pierced fuck me eyes that still exist for him.

  He’s really hard.

  Slowly, I pull out. Cum dripping off my tip, and I switch spots with him. As our paths cross, we draw together and kiss.

  Not able to separate for a while.


  We push-and-pull for a lead, and I bring his back to the dresser—then he spins me. My back to the wood. I hold his jaw and kiss Farrow with my whole body. My waist, torso, and chest arch into him. Reaching out for his fucking heart.

  And then willingly, I turn and face the dresser. I grip the edge with my only available hand. Giving him access to push into me.

  This is still new for me. But the more and more I allow myself to be vulnerable with Farrow, the more my life feels at peace. I’ve found someone who can ease me in this intangible, miraculous, cosmic way.

  Farrow places a warm kiss to my bicep before he pulls me back some. Adjusting my stance. “Pain?” he asks, referring to my arm.

  “Not that much.” I must’ve rolled my shoulder and neck too far because the tendon sears.

  “Where?” he asks, his inked fingers toying with the outside of my hole. I drown in the fucking sensation. He stops. “Maximoff.”

  Focus. “Closer to my neck. I’m alright; just fuck me.” I glance over my shoulder, and pain hammers my collarbone.

  “Maximoff. Fuck, I’m not putting my dick in you if you keep hurting yourself to look at it.”

  I hang my head forward. My muscles burning. “Who said I was looking at your cock?” I breathe heavily. “Maybe I was looking at the carpet.”

  I was looking at his erection.

  “Sure,” Farrow says. “Let’s pretend you like the carpet more.”

  I picture his tattooed hand wrapped around his length. I’m not at the right angle to see a thing, so my imagination has to be good enough.

  Farrow slips a finger inside of me, then works another. Fuck.

  “Relax,” he breathes, one of his hands holds my waist and squeezes like come on, wolf scout. I won’t hurt you.

  I exhale a controlled breath and try not to tense. My pulse beats harder, body stirring.

  He retracts his hand, and a second later, I feel greater pressure against my ass. My fingers dig into the dresser.

  “You’re still ridiculously tight,” Farrow exhales. “Hold on.” He pushes in a little bit, then out. Inching his way inside of me. My body reacts to his kindness more like teasing, and I’m getting worked up again—

  Footsteps.

  I hear footsteps. Racing up the staircase. To this attic.

  Farrow hears. But the door should be locked…it’s not.

  It’s not locked.

  Farrow is closer, and he pulls out completely and in two strides, he reaches the destination. He flips the lock as soon as the knob jingles and knuckles rap the wood.

  “Moffy!”

  That’s my little sister.

  Farrow and I exchange a look, our eyes widened at each other. Yeah, we just dodged what would’ve been the most awkward moment of both our lives.

  “Moffy!” she calls again, sounding a bit panicked.

  “Just a sec!” We’re in a mad dash to clean up. I throw a towel at Farrow. He wipes up the cum that drips down his leg, and I rub my hands and body with another cloth. Next, I struggle to put on underwear and new jeans.

  Somehow Farrow beats me at getting clothed. His boxer-briefs and pants are on, and he even pulls a black Studio 9 shirt over his head.

  “Come here,” he whispers.

  I relinquish my fight with my jean’s button. And his fingers effortlessly fish my button through the hole.

  Farrow tries to fix my disheveled hair, but I’ve already accepted the fact that she’ll know we were fucking.

  I move his hand and point out, “It smells like sex in here.”

  “It does,” he says easily. “I’m assuming you have a plan, wolf scout.”

  I do. “I’m not letting her past the doorway.” I’m pretty sure our lube is in plain sight, and the sheets are twisted and knotted like we’ve wrestle-fucked for hours.

  Farrow nods. “Okay.”

  And just as she calls my name again, I unlock and swing the door open.

  I solidify. “Are you okay?” I ask immediately.

  Luna doesn’t look like Luna. Her light brown hair is pulled into a pin-straight pony. No marker streaks, no neon green makeup or star stickers on her cheeks. Black mascaraed lashes shade her amber eyes, and I realize she removed her earrings and tongue piercing.

  She’s wearing a pink sundress—Jesus, I’ve never seen my sister wear a pink sundress.

  “Uh-huh,” Luna nods, and I step onto the third-floor landing where she stands. It’s a small space before the stairs drop.

  Farrow leans his shoulder on the doorframe and cracks the door behind him. Shutting out her view of our bedroom.

  Our bedroom.

  Never gets old.

  I’d almost-maybe smile but I’m dealing with my eighteen-year-old sister who’s been body-snatched. Possibly by aliens. Maybe this is a bizarre role-playing theater thing—I don’t know.

  I’m concerned. In case you weren’t aware.

  “Hi, Farrow.” Luna throws up a hand in greeting.

  “Hey, Luna.” Farrow skims her in a quick sweep, brows spiking. “What’s with the new look?”

  Luna tugs at the hem of her dress like it’s uncomfortable. “Just…you know, thought I’d try something out.” She shrugs; a soft smile appearing as she looks at our unkempt hair and clothes. “Sorry to disturb your date night.”

  Farrow smiles wide and loosely crosses his arms.

  “It’s okay,” I tell my sister, just happy she’s not in serious trouble. “What do you need?”

  Luna fixes the spaghetti strap of her dress. “A condom.”

  I process. At a snail’s pace. My brain has short-circuited.

  Farrow is turned towards me, full-on entertained. Wanting to see how I’ll handle this.

  I prepare for a lot of situations. But I can honestly say I did not prepare for my sister to ask me for a condom. That’s on me. She’s living with me now, and I should’ve known. Because she’s not a little kid anymore, and when I left home, she was only fourteen. Four years later, and yeah, things change.

  People change.

  I’ve been starting to realize that.

  Just as I go to respond, she adds, “I know that you know that I have a boyfriend.”

  “You know?” My brows furrow. Farrow told me what security discussed, and I wanted to wait for Luna to tell me herself.

  “Quinn felt guilty and spilled everything he said to SFO,” she explains. “I didn’t care that he said anything…except I really don’t want Mom and Dad to know until me and Andrew are serious, serious. We’re still in that middle phase, you know?”

  I don’t know about middle phases.

  I don’t know what the fuck that means.

  Farrow nods. “Make sure you’re on the same page with this guy. Middle phases can be tricky.”

  Luna smiles. “Yeah, I will.”

  I glance at Farrow. I’m glad he has experience in this and can help my sister when I can’t. I don’t know…it feels right. Like this is how life is supposed to be.

  “Andrew’s coming over?” I ask Luna. “Or is he already here?”

  “He’s coming here in a bit.” She bobs her head. “So? Condom?”

  I adjust my sling on my bare chest, the material cutting into my shoulder. “Didn’t Mom take you to get birth control?”

  “I want to be extra prepared.” She looks between us. “I don’t want another scare, okay?”

  Farrow nods. “Fair enough.” He tips his head to me. “We don’t have any condoms that this guy can use.” That realization dawns on me, too.

  Luna scrunches her brows. “Why not?”

  “JANE!” I call down the stairwell.

  Farrow taps the doorframe, considering withholding the truth, but he tells her honestly, “The probability that this guy is the same size as us is low. And you’re not going to want the condom to slip off.”

  “Aren’t there just three condom sizes?” Luna asks, and as Jane ascends the stairs in a purple tutu and knit sweater, cupping a mug of coffee, my sister repeats the question,
“Jane, aren’t there just three condom sizes?”

  Janie smiles brightly at me like I’m dealing with the most curious, intriguing familial dilemma that’s occurred in the past 24 hours. We would both prefer a condom crisis over any of our siblings or cousins being emotionally or physically hurt.

  “Ma soeur a besoin d'un préservatif,” I say to Jane. “Le jour est venu.” My sister needs a condom. The day has come.

  Three stairs below, Jane props her hip on the wall. “Ils grandissent si vite.” They grow up so fast.

  We’re the oldest of these families, and everyone just seems young to us. I can’t change that.

  Jane answers my sister in a breezy voice. “There’s a great and terrible variety, but the main sizes are small, regular, and large. How can I help…?” She trails off, smile fading at Luna’s odd appearance. But Jane tries not to draw attention to it.

  Luna steps down a stair. “I need one.”

  “More than one,” I tell Jane. “Her boyfriend is coming over.”

  “I have every size,” Jane notes, sipping her coffee. “I’ll give you all of them.”

  All of them? I know why, and my face falls. “Janie.”

  “Cobalt,” Farrow says with the same tough concern.

  This is about Nate, the Asshole With Benefits that stalked me for a while. He wanted to hurt me, and he ended up mostly hurting my best friend…and my boyfriend, who can’t shake that night. And even Thatcher Moretti, whose guilt lingers.

  It’s ironic.

  Because hurting Jane and Farrow is a direct shot to my heart. So really, that asshole got what he wanted.

  Jane pries a piece of frizzy hair off her pink lips and only looks at me. “I have no use for condoms when there’s no dick in the world, small, regular or large, that I’d trust to enter my vagina.”

  I shake my head. “You could, eventually—”

  “These condoms will expire by then.” Jane raises her mug. “So let them not go to waste, Moffy. They should be used by people who can have glorious and beautiful sex.”

  While I’ve been basking in a newfound world of sex without compromise or fear, my best friend has taken five million steps backward because of this fucking asshole. And I want her to be safe and feel loved and free.