Tangled Like Us (Like Us 4)

“Jane,” he says, deeper and deeper. He is making love to all four letters of my name. Eight hard inches inside one syllable.

We kiss a soft, short kiss. Testing the waters.

I pant. “Kissing…and dry humping, they can pair well together.” He’s near my lips again, and I add, “Like peanut butter and jelly.”

I swear he smiles, but words and thoughts are lost as his mouth meets mine for the second time tonight. A slow, scalding kiss suddenly explodes in a volcanic eruption.

He clutches me tighter. Pulling me into his chest, his hands diving down to my ass. I grind into his lap, and his muscles contract, a swelter brewing hotter.

And hotter.

Thatcher picks me up, just enough to bring my back gently down on the mattress.

My lips part in an overcome breath.

He’s on top of me, his six-foot-seven stature swathing me, and my legs stay stretched around him.

Carnal emotions and sensations cocoon me at once. He’s this protective force, and the way his body shields mine, I feel like I can come unraveled underneath him and he’d safeguard each and every moan. Each shudder.

Each small tremble of pleasure that ripples through my bones.

Thatcher reaches over and grips the rungs of the headboard with one hand.

Noise .

We must make noise.

He rocks against me and slams the headboard into the wall, perfectly timed with his movements.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Each one blazes my nerves and wells an aching pressure, craving for harder entry. Oh God. Oh God. I’m so very wet, and we’ve only just begun.

Fully-clothed, my hips buck up into him and my shoulder blades dig into the mattress. “Thatcher,” I say in want, raising my voice above a murmur.

He kisses me with deep, powerful tongue that vibrates my body, and then against my lips, he says, “Tell me how you want it.” His voice is even louder than mine. He’s excelling at this.

I hold on to his bare skin that beads with sweat while he rocks into me.

Thump.

“Harder,” I beg.

Thump.

The noisy springs squeak as he picks up his pace.

“Oh God,” I breathe.

My nerves prickle, and I’m suffocating beneath my fuzzy cotton shirt that I forgot to remove. His pants are still on. My jeans are still on.

I break from his lips and try to shimmy my top off. The long-sleeve shirt clings to me like a vice, and I fumble a little.

Thatcher assists, and together, we manage to free one of my elbows.

I’m absolutely stuck in this contraption.

My entire body thrums, just wanting more contact.

More thrusting.

Which will lead to the loudest, most mind-blistering orgasm this bedroom has ever heard or seen.

“Just rip it,” I say, breathless.

Thatcher grabs at my collar with two hands and like the fabric is made of paper, he tears my shirt into two pieces.

Oh…

My…

I think my heart just came, if hearts could cum. Mine just did.

I’m exposed in a lacy, purple bra, and I stare at him like he just went down on me and delivered a gold-star performance.

“Better?” Thatcher asks, studying my body with desire and protectiveness.

“Yes, much better,” I say with a nod. “Thank you.”

He helps me pull off the sleeves, and he tosses the torn shirt on the floor. Back to me, we kiss with unbridled passion.

His firm hand finds my thigh and explores my body in hot, hungered trails. Dizzying me.

We’re both insatiable, I realize.

I want to follow where he goes. To see his large, callused hand on my bare skin…on my clit—I wish. I ache.

He’s not there. He can’t be there.

I wish.

I run my hand across his hard, scruffy jaw, and then thread my fingers through his tousled brown hair. His lips reach the nape of my neck.

Sweat beads on my skin, his tongue and mouth more experienced than I even imagined. And I imagined quite…a lot. I gasp and tremble as he sucks on sensitive flesh.

I arch into Thatcher, a sound strangled in my throat. But it’s not a moan.

It’s a whimper.

“Louder,” he grunts.

I watch how his muscles envelope me. Protect me. “Thatcher ,” I moan.

His hardness bears against my heat. Pants, they’re still on. I’ve never wanted to be naked so dreadfully and painfully before.

I’m about to touch myself. In front of him. Is that out of bounds? Is that an overstep? “I need…”

He unbuttons my jeans. He unzips me.

“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes, please, please. ”

He kisses me like he’s dying to taste my words and need , and then he whispers against my mouth, “Change of plans.”

I nod in agreement. Our eyes say the same exact thing. We need more.

We want more.

“What’s…the new proposal?” I pant and watch him stand up at the foot of the bed.

Towering, he clasps my ankle and tugs me toward the edge of the mattress.

He yanks my pale yellow jeans down my thighs. “I’m eating out your pussy.”

An irrepressible noise breaches my lips. “Yes,” I gasp, nearly crying out in happiness. “Yes…please. ” Words jumble in my head as he continues without pause.

Thatcher pulls my jeans off each foot, revealing my cheetah-print panties, and his hand slopes down the length of my soft leg, stretching me wider, and another noise jettisons between my parted lips.

“Thatcher. ” I tremble.

His knee meets the floor, and he kisses my inner-thigh, his warm breath electrifying nerve-endings. His mouth ascends to my heat.

I sink back onto my shoulders, my body tightening with each breath, but I turn my head and feverishly try to watch this dream-like scenario unfold.

Our eyes meet in raw yearning, and he pushes aside my panties. His thumb teases my clit, and my back arches.

I inhale sharply.

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; He watches my pleasured spasms, and he replaces his thumb with his tongue—I can’t catch my breath, I already cry out.

My legs already quiver.

“Thatcher.”

His mouth knows exactly what parts of me crave touch and his skill—and a shockwave zips through my veins.

“Oh God,” I cry, shaking in an orgasm. Oh so quickly.

I reach around my leg and clutch his broad shoulder for support. He hits another pleasure point—and my toes curl, eyes snapping shut.

Oh God. I try to keep them open. To watch in case this only ever happens once.

He kneads my breast before snapping off my bra.

I gasp, entirely overcome.

He stands up some, bracing his knee on the mattress, and he cups my heat with his large palm that clenches and thrums. His other hand pulls off my bra.

He returns to my exposed breasts, and his tongue teases my hardened nipple. He sucks the sensitive flesh, and the image is enough to make me come once more.

A soft, breathy moan escapes my quaking body. I’m soaked against his palm that still cups me. It’s as though he’s protecting my clit, knowing it’s too swollen to toy with again just yet.

And I feel like I’ve been with boys in contrast. No one could satisfy me this quickly or without copious amount of direction. Which isn’t bad, per se, just different. But I think I prefer this.

I prefer an experienced man.

I prefer him.

Trying to catch some breath, I manage to say, “You’re very…knowledgeable…”

He holds my gaze in the hottest vice. “I love your pussy.” Cut and dry. To the point.

I fight to speak and not just pant, but words…are…gone.

His fingers, the ones against my heat, slip between my folds. He pushes one finger inside of me, and I pulsate.

An overwhelmed, high-pitched moan comes with a sharp gasp. “Yes .”

He pumps his fingers, finding the perfect spot in seconds. His biceps flex.

I soar off another peak, my thighs shaking, drenched in sweat. I grip his wrist, keeping his finger inside of me.

He slips another in.

“Thatcher,” I moan, trying to move and add friction against his hand. I prop up on an elbow, and he sits up slightly off me. Letting me see how his fingers are deep inside of me.