Does he even want to know about your orgasms, Jane?
He’s stoic. Not breaking eye contact, but his hands have paused unzipping his backpack.
I speak faster. “Which just means that I’m not one-hundred percent positive I’ll be the very best at faking an orgasm—but I am excited to try. Truly.”
I can’t blink.
My face is most definitely on fire.
“So…” I keep going. Why am I still going? “There’s that.”
Positive endnote. Let me survive this.
Thatcher is quiet, not unusual for him. His eyes are still on me. Still burning me alive. I shouldn’t like that.
But in this moment, I don’t want him to stare at anything or anyone but me.
His deep, husky voice fills the room. “So I’m the first guy you’ll be faking an orgasm with.”
He says it like it’s a fact. Which I suppose it is. But I doubt that’d make anyone feel good.
I lean my hip on the nightstand. “Factually, yes—but if we were really having sex, there’s a high probability that I’d orgasm.” I’m unblinking. Unmoving.
Frozen.
His biceps seem to flex. “Not a high probability.”
“No?” I hang on the edge of his words.
“If I put my cock in your pussy, there’s a hundred-percent certainty you’d orgasm in my arms. More than twice.”
Oh my God.
I cross my ankles. Somehow still standing, but I press my thighs harder together. Pulsating. “Good to know,” I say as diplomatically as I can. “We’re on the same page then.”
It’s all very professional here.
Thatcher nods, but his shoulders seem more bound. He’s on-duty, on guard, is all. He pulls out a taser and water bottle from his backpack. When he stands, he feels even taller, or maybe I feel shorter.
With a confident stride, he heads nearer, and I shift out of the way so he can open the nightstand drawer. He stores the taser and then removes his holstered gun off his waistband. Sliding in the second weapon before closing the drawer.
I realize he has to sleep on this side of the bed. It’s closest to the door.
Thatcher touches his earpiece, then clicks his mic. “Solid copy.”
I’ve decided that watching him work is utterly captivating. And I have a front row seat each and every day.
He unscrews his water bottle. Veins in his arm muscles are more noticeable as he tips the bottle of water to his mouth.
I can’t think…he is so…
My breath shallows. How am I going to survive? Okay, you packed your favorite vibrator. I can go into the bathroom tonight. All will work in my favor.
I take a measured breath.
Thatcher wipes his mouth with the back of his palm. He offers me his water, holding the bottle.
I press my lips together, a smile pulling my cheeks. I should decline. “Thank you,” I say, my hand already reaching out to accept.
Oh, you are done for, Miss Jane Eleanor.
We never look away from one another, and I take a small sip. I am parched.
Just not for water.
When I finish, I pass the water bottle back to my bodyguard. “Should I test the bed?”
He nods and checks his watch. “We should start before the other guests fall asleep.”
I peel off my chunky heels, and I notice the bed has a hefty iron-rung headboard. Without much hesitation, I climb up and stand on the mattress.
Box springs squeak, and the bed undulates beneath my feet. I bounce and watch him remove his earpiece and then unclip the mic wire from his collar. He detaches the radio from his waistband and places it on the nightstand.
A fan whirls only a few inches above my head, and I’m careful not to jump too high. “You can’t stand on the bed with me,” I realize. Clearly, he’s too tall.
Thatcher nods, and stepping closer, he grips the headboard. “Jane,” he says with the perfect mix of tenderness and force.
“Yes?” I balance on the creaking bed.
“You’re gonna have to moan.”
20
JANE COBALT
“Right,” I say, my chest rising and falling. I’ve never ached for someone to touch me as terribly as I ache for Thatcher. Desiring his large hands to run down every single plane and valley of my body. On this very bed.
He eyes my breasts for a short fleeting second. “Jane—”
“Mmm,” I moan, starting softly.
Suppressing my orgasms has been a habit lately since I live in a townhouse with thin walls. It’s going to be kind of fun trying to be louder.
Fake louder, Jane.
Thatcher shoves the iron headboard against the wall, the thump simulating aggressive sex perfectly.
“Ahh, yeah, right there ,” I moan, bed squeaking beneath me. “Right there!”
We stare deep into one another, magnetized, the air heady and tense.
“Ohhh yeah!” I try to emulate the best porn I’ve seen.
He quickens the banging of the headboard. The intensity of his brown irises nearly steals my breath altogether.
“Oohhh!” I let out a long moan that sounds nothing like my actual sex noises. A lot is riding on the believability of this task.
And I might just be the reason we fail.
Thatcher suddenly stops rocking the headboard. Being around me so often, he can read my emotions very well. Like how my brows bunch in worry.
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t that bad.”
I think he’s just being sweet. “My moans sound fake.” I try to stay positive. “Maybe I should try a different tactic? More subtle, but then how will guests overhear?” I put my knuckles to my lips, almost lost in thought. “…I don’t know how to make it sound more real than it being real.” My mouth drops slightly. “I didn’t mean—well, I did, but I’m not saying…”
What am I saying?
Our gazes draw to the mattress at the same exact time. We’re thinking the same thing, most surely.
Our eyes catch again.
Thatcher releases his clutch off the headboard. “We don’t have to take our clothes off.”
I nod heartily. “Dry humping, I agree.”
“Enough to make you come.”
Holy… I nearly fall into his arms right there. Legs weak, body shuddering. “Yes,” I whisper, slowly lowering to my knees so I don’t face-plant into my bodyguard.
His muscles are tensed in arousal, but his eyes narrow in severity. “We only do this if you’re okay with the guests hearing your real orgasm and not a fake one.”
Because that’s the whole point.
They’re supposed to hear us intertwined and hot and heavy, and this does not change anything for me.
“I’m fine with this.” I shift to my ass. The mattress lets out another squeak.
He’s rigid with seriousness.
I continue on. “In all honesty, if people are going to talk about me, there’s comfort knowing it’s not all a fabrication.” I waft my fuzzy shirt. I’m sweating.
“Then if you want to—”
“I do, do you?”
“Yeah,” he says deeply, and he tears our gazes apart. Just to walk over and check the air conditioning panel on the wall. He pushes a few buttons. “It’s broken.”
The fan is whirling at maximum speed but circulates hot air. It was much cooler outside, but we won’t risk cracking a window.
I lean against the headboard. “We don’t have to leave all of our clothes on…possibly? We’re two mature adults. You’re twenty-eight. I’m…good ole twenty-three.”
I did not mean to draw attention to our five-year age gap. But there I go.
Thatcher sweeps my entire body, and he wipes a trickle of sweat off his brow with the heel of his palm.
My pulse quickens.
“We are,” he nods. He’s decisive. There is no vacillation in his towering stance or his stern eyes. “You ready?”
“I am,” I say, very assured.
I am so ready for
him.
He reaches back and grabs the collar of his black shirt. He yanks the tee off over his head.
I’ve always been extraordinarily curious about why men do that—shed their shirts from the back instead of taking the bottom of the fabric and tugging it up and off. Their way is such an odd method, but it looks extraordinarily sexy. Like they just couldn’t bother with the fabric of a shirt anyway.
Thatcher chucks his tee on the chaise.
His carved muscles in perfect view. I skim the cut of his biceps, his strong shoulders, ridges of his eight abs—and the natural hair that lines his chest and tracks downward. Tempting my gaze to his cock, hidden behind his slacks.
Now it seems so obvious that he was a soldier, a combat vet—his shoulders are often squared, his carriage raised in readiness like his instincts are always buzzing.
Thatcher walks to the bed, and as soon as he climbs on, the box springs let out a higher pitched creak.
My heart beats at a wild pace. I scoot down off the headboard, my back sinking into the soft mattress, but I prop myself up a little on my elbows.
He’s knelt close.
We watch one another. I’m so mesmerized by Thatcher, by what his instincts tell him to do next. He may be quiet, but he’s the furthest thing from shy or timid.
He weaves his arms underneath my thighs, and he clutches my hips, pulling me swiftly on his lap, my legs already broken apart for him.
I’m straddling my bodyguard.
Oh my God.
My hands fly to his neck, and his palm travels up my back and then encases my face. I touch his hand, feeling how much smaller mine is in comparison.
Our mouths are a breath apart.
I clench between my legs, aching for his hardness. “That was…nice.” I swallow a shallower breath. “Really…very…” nice. Our lips naturally drift closer.
“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.
; 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.
Tangled Like Us Page 19
