Every thrust is long and deep and makes a loud screech on the rickety, iron bed, and with each push forward inside of me, the headboard naturally knocks into the wall.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump .
Sweat glistening between us, we’re intertwined. All restless limbs and unlocked passion.
He fucks me hard and so impossibly well, and I can’t think—my back arches, my toes curl. “Thatcher,” I cry, nearly blacking out in a realm I hardly ever reach. My heat contracts, and he groans my name, pounding deep.
He hits a strong climax, his muscles twitching. He empties himself in me, and with a few more pumps, he ekes out his pleasure. And then both of us start to come down with heavy breaths.
21
THATCHER MORETTI
We shower together in the attached bathroom and have sex again.
It has nothing to do with this op.
Nothing to do with the task at hand. No one can hear her gasps and high-pitched moans or my deep groans with water pouring. That’s fucking clear to me. It’s been clear to me that we’re kerosene together. And we’ve finally lit the match.
In my head, there’s no going back.
I should be concerned about the un-crossable line that I just leapt over with two middle fingers—but I’m not.
I’m just concerned about Jane. Because she’s spent. And if we were on the bed, she probably would’ve fallen asleep.
She assures me she can walk. Or else I’d carry her out of the bathroom. Her perseverance is something that I’m drawn towards. Been aware of that for a while.
When we return to the room, I rifle through my backpack and keep sweeping Jane.
She yawns into her palm, and then twists a towel around her wet hair, another around her body, and she’s eyeing me just as intensely while I put on a pair of black boxer-briefs. Lifting the elastic band to my muscular waist.
She homes in on my gold necklace and then crouches to her suitcase. Barely having enough energy to sift through her clothes, she picks out a fuzzy blue robe and slips it on.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask Jane.
A small smile tugs her freckled cheeks. “Um…I’m okay, really.” She takes out a notebook from her suitcase, and then heads to the bed.
My chest tightens, brows knitting together. It’s not a diary. She’ll scribble math equations on those pages, and I’ve noticed that she usually does this during high-stress situations. To stay focused and get her mind right.
I run a hand across my jaw. But she’s also really forthcoming. If something were wrong, I think she’d tell me.
I hope she would.
Especially after we just had sex. Multiple times.
Jane rolls down the comforter and climbs onto the clean sheets, notebook in hand. Completely exhausted, she slumps against the headboard.
But she’s not lying down. She checks any missed texts from her family and pulls a pen out of the spiral binding of her notebook. She’s quiet, which puts me on edge, but I only spot fatigue and curiosity in her gaze.
Her big blue eyes also track my movements.
I go to the nightstand where I left my phone and water. Not breaking eye contact. “How do you feel?” I ask.
She contemplates this, pressing the pen to her lips.
I glance at my phone. No new messages from security. Which is good. I unscrew my water bottle and take a swig.
“I feel a little sore,” she admits. “Like you’re still inside of me.”
I’m not choking on my water. Because I’m not that surprised. “You sure I can’t get you anything?” I ask. “Ibuprofen?” She was tight, but soaked, and I’m not small.
“No, I don’t mind the feeling.”
I nod. Having sex with Jane for real—it obliterated any image I’ve ever had and blew the remnants out of the fucking atmosphere. Her constant, rippling orgasms will probably be seared in my head and body for life.
Seeing and feeling her that unraveled and lit up took me to a mind-splitting, earth-tilting un-fucking-believable level.
Jane tips her head in thought. “Did you go all the way in? You felt deep and I felt entirely full, but it wasn’t that painful.”
I swig my water. “I was trying not to hit your cervix.” I cap the bottle and set it on the nightstand. “I pushed all the way in only a few times.”
Realization causes her lips to rise, and she can’t suppress the smile. “The nearly-blackout orgasm that I had, that was a posterior fornix orgasm.” She knows sex and her body well, and it’s flat-out attractive.
“Yeah.” I hold her gaze. “I pushed my cock behind your cervix.” My blood heats up as her breath comes out shallow. Either facts turn Jane on or me saying a bunch of facts does.
She clears her throat and untwists the towel around her hair. Damp wavy strands cascade down her bare shoulders. “I’ve never reached that orgasm with a man before. Always just myself. Same with the A-spot, which is…” Her voice tapers off as curiosity glimmers her eyes. “Do you know what it is?”
I do.
Intimately.
I reach over the bed and take the damp towel out of her hand. “It’s where I push my cock towards your belly button.” In front of her cervix.
She looks enamored. “Yes please…I mean, yes .” She tries to sit up straighter. “Yes, you’re correct.”
Temperature cranks up. My muscles flexed, I go hang up all the damp towels on the bathroom door. But I can’t take my eyes off her.
Jane quickly fills the quiet. “These spots have always been terribly intense for me. In the best way.” She peels a wet strand of hair off her cheek. “I usually either have frequent orgasms that feel like crashing waves one after the other or intense eye-rolling orgasms every few minutes—but rarely both of those types together.” She takes a short pause. “Until today, which is to say that I enjoyed this immensely. Really, all of it.”
I walk back to her. “I did too.” I take a seat on the mattress, facing Jane. Bed creaking beneath me. I glimpse at the notebook still on her lap.
Don’t nuke it, man. “So you don’t regret anything—”
“Not at all,” she interjects, eyes widened. “Do you—?”
“No.” I shake my head once. Say more. “Given the same choice, I’d do it all over again.”
She smiles, one that reddens her cheeks. “Me, as well.”
Good
This is good. We’re on the same page. But I watch her smile fade…and that is—that’s fucking bad.
My expression hardens. “Jane?” I glance to the notebook again. Just say it . “Something is wrong though. You usually don’t write equations unless you’re stressed.”
She’s about to answer, but my phone buzzes on the nightstand. Our heads turn towards the noise.
This is security, and her safety comes before everything. “Sorry.” I grab my cell. “Hold on.”
“No need to apologize,” she says sincerely. “Just let me know if it’s about my family.”
I read the text. “It’s not.”
Don’t open your blinds. A suitor is sitting in the B&B parking lot with a p
air of binoculars directed at your window. – Oscar
Ever since Jane and I had the public kiss at the Acme, a lot of suitors have packed up and left her vicinity. But there are still stragglers who haven’t been deterred.
I’m concerned this is that rich gold-shitting prick. Sitting in his fucking Bugatti. Gavin Reece. I message Oscar back: target description?
And then I look back at Jane. “It’s about the outside perimeter.”
She eases more, not needing further details. Not unless there’s an immediate crisis.
Truth is, I don’t want to give her more detail on this fuckbag unless there’s greater reason to.
“Was that Banks who texted you?” she wonders, taking interest in the team.
“Oscar,” I correct, just as my phone buzzes in my fist.
Male mid-40s or 50s, a beat-up sedan with a Florida license plate. He just stepped out of his car, and he’s wearing white sneakers and jeans and carrying a dozen red roses. – Oscar
He’s someone I remember scaring off outside the townhouse. But it’s clear he hasn’t taken multiple hints. I text back: he’s a familiar target and should be easy to tell off.
Jane rests her temple to the headboard, rotated more towards me. “What do you think of Oscar Oliveira?”
I glance at the window while my gaze tightens. Just thinking about all that I fucked to hell pulls out a caustic glare. And I’m not setting it on her. “You mean personally or professionally?”
“Both, but if you’d rather not share, I understand.”
I’d rather talk about Jane, about what’s wrong, but I can’t backtrack. Because backtracking means not answering her, and I hate that.
I lower my eyes, then lift them to Jane when they’re not lethal pinpoints. “Personally…Oscar and I aren’t on that great of footing.” My phone vibrates again. “Same with me and Donnelly. I punched their friend.” I check the message.
Copy. I’ll get Sneakers to leave the parking lot. – Oscar
“I haven’t noticed,” she says. “You all seem very cordial.”
“Because on a professional level, we’re all okay.” Oscar. I’ve known the thirty-one-year-old bodyguard since I first came into security. He’d already been protecting her family for a whole year prior, and he’s intelligent, reliable and thinks ahead before most bodyguards.