Page 172 of Alphas Like Us
And he pulsates around my erection—I come, my mind spinning, and our bodies tighten. Grunts and groans and curses pitch the air, and slowly, gradually, I milk my climax inside of him. Pumping a few more times, and my abs glisten fromhim.
I let go of his face and stroke his cock to finish him off, cum slick on mypalm.
His head lolls backwards, basking in the fuckingpleasure.
I smile. And I still can’t stop staring, not for a moment. He’s the iron-willed guy I saw at Harvard who needed all of me, and I had to wait years before I could give himeverything.
31
MAXIMOFF HALE
I’m goingto propose here.This five-day vacation with Farrow—God,it’s hands-down the most romantic of my life. I have the ring. I just need to wait for the perfectmoment.
Early morning, we lounge on the sunbathing cushion in boxer-briefs, a shaded pergola shielding the rising sun. A photo-worthy Greek breakfast is spread on a wooden slab: eggs baked in tomato, onion, feta, spinach, along with sesame-coated koulouri bread and two glasses of orangejuice.
We talked for hours last night and fell asleep under the stars. I never used to think a lot about romance, but being with him, I think about these things. All the damntime.
“She put aTeam Marrowbumper sticker on her car before we left,” Farrow says, scooping eggs onto his fork. I catch sight of his amusedsmile.
How we started talking about my mom and Team Marrow bumper stickers and her unconditional love of our relationship, I have noidea.
But it turns my mind. “What do you think about our ship name?” I ask him seriously, picking up a glass of orangejuice.
Farrow lies more relaxed on his side. I’m sitting upright, but every now and then, he’ll reach out and rub my back or skate his fingers through my hair—and I can’t hide my fuckingsmile.
He swallows his food and tells me, “I love ‘Marrow’ because you’re obsessed withit.”
I pause before I swig my orange juice, brows furrowing. “Why do you think I’m obsessed with it?” I’m not my mom. I haven’t put bumper stickers on my car, boughtMarrowT-shirts, or sent out a billion tweets professing my undying love. So I wonder why he drew thatconclusion.
And that conclusion—it’s notwrong.
Farrow glances at the orange rising sun, then to me. “Whenever anyone mentions the name, you stare faraway for a bit, then you start smiling. I figured it meant something to you…” He looks me over like he’d love to know what went on inside my brain in thosemoments.
I nod. “It does mean something to me.” I sip orange juice, cool citrus sliding down my throat. “Have you skimmed Thoreau’s ‘Walden’?”
“Skimmed?” he repeats with the roll of his eyes. His lips quirk. “No, smartass. I haven’t skimmed thatone.”
I cup the cold glass in my hand, and I hold his gaze while I quote, “‘I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life.’ I think about that whole passage every time someone saysMarrow.”
Farrow looks enamored. “Goon.”
I try to explain in my own words, and I gesture to his chest. “It’s in your bones; it’s what keeps you alive. The foundation of your body. To suck out all the marrow of life…I think about how Thoreau went into the woods and stripped life to the barest necessities. To learn what life is really made of, the feeling of water slipping between fingers, the chilled glass in my hand, the wind that rustles your damn hair. And I think about how I feel these barest things every day with you. To live life at its most essential level so as to fullylive.”
Farrow has his hand to his mouth, overwhelmed, his eyes unable to shift off myeyes.
I add, “And Marrow starts with the letter of myname.”
Hand dropping, he smiles unbearably wide. “That’s what you have to tell yourself since my name occupies five of the sixletters.”
I flip him off, but I can’t fucking grimace if I tried. I smile into another swig of orange juice—and I think,this is it.I can go to my suitcase inside the villa, go grab thering.
And then the doorbellbuzzes.
Our heads turn, but we can’t see the front entrance from the private patio. We look back at each other, and I say, “It could be the villa’s owner.” But we’re both aware that the owner said she wouldn’t contact us during ourstay.
Farrow places his fork back on the wooden slab, and he sits up. “I’ll call the owner and see if it’sher.”
I find his phone beneath a light blue decorative pillow. The screen is lit up with text notifications, and I catch the name before I toss it to him. “Who’sJordan?”
