Tangled Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  I lift my gaze to him. There is so much more that I desire. So much closer I wish and ache to be.

  He wears a similar longing expression. We’ve ripped through restraints, but a giant one still remains intact.

  “Jane.” His chest is taut in need. “I want to put my cock in you.”

  I clench around his fingers. “I want you to.”

  Thatcher has a choice to make, and he does. “Fuck it.” He eyes me strongly. “I’m fucking you.”

  Yes, God. I’ve never loved five words more than those. I release my clutch on his wrist.

  He kisses me, gathering fire, and then gently pulls his fingers out.

  While he shifts back, I drop my feet to the floor and sit on the edge of the mattress. Thatcher towers above me, but I’m at a perfect angle to give him head.

  I also really, really want to grab his ass.

  He unbuttons his slacks, and I tug them down. Dark gray boxer-briefs mold his hard length that is…impressive.

  The longer I stare, the more my mouth slowly falls. I can feel him watching me like I just watched him.

  My ankles hook around his legs, and I slip my palms down the back of his boxer-briefs. Squeezing his peach-perfect ass with two hands.

  “I love your butt,” I say as pointedly as he did.

  Light reaches his brown eyes. He expels breath through his nose, pent-up. I can clearly see how badly.

  He nods. “I love your voice.”

  My stomach flutters. Most people find my constant chatter grating after a while, but he makes me feel so very desired. And safe.

  And terribly beautiful.

  Thatcher pulls down his boxer-briefs, freeing his rock-hard erection. In stunning view.

  He is huge. My jaw is now on the floor. I think my prior estimations were off. I think he may be more than eight-inches. That is about to be inside of me. I ache for more intense pressure.

  Thatcher steps out of the boxer-briefs, buck-naked in front of me.

  I stroke his length, my hand looking small around his shaft. His abs tighten, a heavier breath concaving his firm chest.

  He brushes my sweaty hair off my cheeks, and we lock-eyes while I suck his tip.

  A rough groan rumbles in his throat, and he grits down, his nose flaring.

  I want to explore him too. Intrigue floods my eyes. I rub him up and down with a tight grip, and with my other hand I press two knuckles against his taint and knead gently.

  His shoulders tighten, head almost tilting back. “Fuck.” He cups the back of my head.

  I’m about to shift my finger closer to his hole. He obviously feels where I’m going, and as Thatcher catches my eyes, he nods me onward. He even says, “Go ahead.”

  Have I found my perfect match?

  In bed. I mean, in bed . I clarify to myself instantly, my cheeks roasting. It’s not as though he heard my slip.

  I’m fine.

  “I have lube.” I bend to my nearby suitcase that I left in reach. “I brought some…for my vibrator,” I clarify, unzipping my suitcase and quickly procuring a lube packet in a pocket. I kick my suitcase closed, lube my finger, and continue onward.

  One hand on his length, the other returns to his ass.

  His palm is resting on top of my head now.

  I tease outside of his hole, and I slip my finger inside of him. Using a come hither motion, I massage his prostate, and his muscles contract, breath heavies in a full-bodied manner.

  He clutches my chin, and he guides his shaft between my lips.

  Yes.

  I suck his cock. Not able to take all of him, but a guttural noise tears through his lungs. His jaw tenses, and he blinks, his eyes aching to roll.

  He pulls back, almost completely, and before I ask why, he tells me, “We have to be louder.” He holds my gaze. “I need to be inside you, Jane.”

  I inhale. “Wholeheartedly…” Agree. He’s already sliding my panties down my legs. Freeing us of the last article of clothing.

  And then Thatcher goes to his backpack on the chaise.

  I tie my sweaty hair in a low pony and watch him dig in the backpack.

  In seconds, he returns to the bed with a condom. Standing in view, letting me see, he rips the package open, and he sheaths himself with one hand.

  My eyes have grown. That will be a mental image engrained in my head for blissful eternity.

  So swiftly, Thatcher hoists me up around his waist, my legs wrapped around him, and he climbs onto the bed with me tucked to his body.

  He rests my back against the soft comforter. His build skimming my body, his palm pinned flat on the mattress way above my head.

  I clutch his ass, and my hips instinctively rise up into him.

  “Fuck , Jane,” he groans; he has a hand on my thigh, and his other hand moves to the top of my head. He spreads my legs wider with his knees.

  He’s not in me yet, but while I’m lying on the bed, he sits up and tucks a pillow beneath my lower back. “I’m big, so I’m going to go slow at first. Try not to move that much when we start. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  I feel his fingers brush against my swollen entry. I take a measured breath. “I’m curious. How do you know I haven’t…taken something as big as you before?”

  “The way you were staring at my cock said you haven’t.”

  I smile softly. He can read me so well. But that is known.

  “You heard what I said before?” he asks for confirmation.

  “I did,” I murmur. “I’ll try to be still.”

  He leans down. Kissing me deeply, he finds my hand on the champagne comforter and laces our fingers. I feel him shift his other hand to our pelvises, and he slowly, slowly begins to fill me with his hardness.

  The pressure is overwhelming at first, and my thighs quake, my whole body begging for another climax that he’s been supplying.

  “Thatcher,” I moan.

  “I have you.” His words are firm. He concentrates on my features, my body, and he eases further inside of me.

  I bow my hips, rocking forward on impulse—oh no. I intake a staggered breath at the pinch of pain, stars dancing in my vision. Too much too fast.

  “Easy,” Thatcher says, very serious, and he leans back down, kissing the outside of my lips. He studies me for another beat and rubs my clit.

  I tremble. Better. And I blow out a controlled breath, relaxing.

  He sits back up on his knees, and I fixate on how I’m lying on a beautiful bed, and my legs are spread around my handsome bodyguard, and his cock is sliding in me.

  Arousal balls up in my throat.

  I greedily and selfishly wish this could happen again. Possibly forever. Jane.

  I push past those thoughts and enjoy this moment with Thatcher for all its worth, and to me, it’s worth a lot. He is risking so much, and I don’t take that for granted.

  Thatcher lets go of my hand and clasps my wide hips. He drives deeper, deeper inside of me.

  “Yes,” I cry. “Yesyesyes. ” I feel so full, and I reach a peak incredibly fast. He is just in me, and I contract around him. My head lolls back, my body arching. Sensations pummeling me like waves crashing to shore.

  “God,” Thatcher chokes on a husky groan, and he takes a pause. Letting me catch my breath. He puts his hand to my heart that speeds out of control.

  After a minute, he starts to thrust in and out, in and out. His pace mounts a euphoric friction in my body. I angle my head and I watch his cock disappear in me—oh my…

  Pleasure drives straight to my core. I shake.

  “Fuck ,” he grunts.

  My moan pitches the air like a cry of ecstasy, and I clench and come around him. My legs twitching. “ThatcherThatcher…oh my God. ” Water wells the corners of my eyes, and I turn my head into the mattress, gasping.

  “Christ , Jane,” he groans, and finding my hand again, he threads our fingers. He leans down, and our mouths meet.

  I’m sweaty and my heart is beating rapidly out of my body again, but still, I desp
erately want his lips against mine.

  We kiss, his tongue urging my mouth apart so sensually, and he’s rocking into me. Not having come yet, but he slows his tempo. Like he understands every inch of me is a tender hotspot. Gradually allowing me to build back up.

  He deepens the kiss and then breaks away first. Just to ask, “Alright?” I’m nodding, but maybe he doesn’t believe I understand what he’s asking.

  Possibly I look glazed and spent, but I’m not yet.

  He reaches down between our bodies. His thumb skims my swollen clit. It’s tender but touchable, and I instantly crave more friction. I grind forward into him.

  Thatcher shifts us slightly. He hooks his arm under my knee, and he braces his forearm to the bed, spreading me more while he drives harder inside of me. Oh God. Missionary, but with Thatcher cloaking me…

  I hold on to his toned back.

  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.