Page 66 of Alphas Like Us
Lowering his headdown.
Down.
Until the paper is an inch from my lips. Our mouths are lined up like an upside-downkiss.
His large hand sheathes my jaw. Protectively. Comfortingly. His other palm rests on top of my hand that death-grips hisknee.
Farrow has told me how cinematic we are together, and I realize that I didn’tfullyget it. Not untilnow.
Not until this blissful, out-of-body moment crawls to slow-motion and our intimacy intoxicates me. Dizzies me. Fills me to the brim. And I haven’t even inhaled a thingyet.
I could freeze-frame this second for eternity. But it playsout.
With the burning embers in his mouth, Farrow exhales. Smoke billows from the unlit end, and I breathe in. A silky line of smoke trickles down mythroat.
I cough.Fuck.
He lets go of my jaw to take the blunt out of his mouth. Assessing me, and I try to relax and adjust to the new sensation. Smoke plumes around us, the smell more pungent than cigarettes, and Farrow draws back down for anotherhit.
He blows out, and I suck in smoke again. Trying not to cough thistime.
My muscles unbind, and with a few more inhales, my hand loosens on his knee. I’m not spinning like the edible made mefeel.
Probably sincepainis my current state. Slowly, my joints ease like oil drips into every rusted crevice, and the torment begins to dull. Pushed to thebackground.
“One more time,” Farrow says to me, his husky voice too damn sexy. My brain starts tuning into the Farrow 69.1 radio station, volume onblast.
For once, thank you,brain.
Farrow is careful not to burn himself, like he’s done this a billion times, and he lowers his headagain.
Now I gain enough energy to move my hand off his knee. I clasp the back of his head, gripping his bleach-white hair betweenfingers.
When I inhale the smoke, I see his lips curveupward.
He plucks the blunt out of his mouth, leaning back against the headboard, and he eyes me deeply. “Did you like that?” heasks.
I breathe better. “Not more than you,” I say, gritting down as I use one hand to sit up. The cool ice packs fall off my chest and thud onto thebed.
My first move is to go to grab them…with the wrong hand—goddammit. Pain infiltrates, and I try to remind my subconscious that my right hand is firmly bound in a sling for a fuckingreason.
In a good distraction, Farrow breaks his legs open a bit wider, and I slide back until my spine meets his chest. His arm curves around my bare waist. At nearly the same height, our broad shoulders frame, almostparallel.
Before I ask for the blunt, he’s already passing me it. Knowing that I’d want to try on my own. I take a normal drag myself, and my throat burns. But I force myself not tocough.
I pass itback.
Farrow takes another drag too, and then he reaches out and hands the blunt toDonnelly.
I’m now unconscionably, totally,colossallyaware of the eleven-person audience. Most of them pretend to be interested in Cape Cod chips or the mound of pillows on sleeping bags. But their eyes dart over to us and land onme.
I thought they’d look surprised. That I’d smoke anything. But like Farrow, they all seemrelieved.Happy that I’m notsuffering.
Blue eyes shimmering, Janie tips her beer towards me in cheers. If I didn’t have Farrow, she’d be next to me. Not wrapped up in a blue blanket beneath thewindow.
But I’m more assured than ever that Janie wouldn’t be able to fill Farrow’s spot in my life. Just like he can’t replacehers.
I need themboth.
