It wasn’t happening. I wasn’t drunk, but I was a little loose and overly primed from Thatcher’s hands on me all night. I was wayyyyy too ripe for the taking. So, after giving both boys the bathroom tour, I gave Jackson the vacant room key and opened mine for Thatcher. Wasn’t even going to walk in.
Nope.
“Planning to tell me where everything is?” he said, turning around.
Everything was within viewing distance, stacked here and there with things I’d brought over ahead of time. Things I didn’t want movers dealing with.
It wasn’t fair, I thought, looking around. Any of it. My stuff shouldn’t be in here. I shouldn’t be in here. Everything looked sad. Out of place. Kind of like me.
I pointed in a circle. “Couch, kitchenette, table, closet, bedroom’s in there, and you’ve already seen the glamour of the bathroom. All the comforts of home.”
Thatcher’s gaze fell around the room, landing on a box of photo albums that would probably stay right in that box. There was certainly nowhere to put them in here. He ran a finger along one of the spines and then looked up at me.
And my heart squeezed.
The way he took in the room, the meager surroundings, the true reality of the situation, I knew in that instant he was picturing having to take his home down to this. It wasn’t pity. It was empathy.
“Gabi,” he said.
“I know,” I said, clearing my throat. I hadn’t gone there yet, down the fuck-my-life road, I was saving that for tomorrow and Sunday. “It sucks. I’ll survive.”
“Come here.” He held out a hand.
“I’m good,” I said, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed.
He walked back to me and pulled one of my hands free, tugging me to him. “Come here,” he repeated.
I put up about as much resistance as a ragdoll, letting him wrap me up in his arms. His smell filled my nose as my arms went around his waist and my face was buried in Thatcher’s chest. It was dizzying. It was intoxicating. It was safe and warm and for two seconds felt like I could curl up in the protection of his arms forever and never hurt again.
That was my warning bell.
“This can’t—it’s—” I began.
“I know, it’s a bad idea,” he said, his voice rumbling through his chest. “I get it.”
I lifted my head to find his face entirely too close. “And yet,” I said softly.
Thatcher let a breath go as his gaze dropped to my mouth. “And yet,” he echoed.
My hands moved slowly up his back as his divided, one moving up into my hair and the other traveling south.
“I should go,” I whispered.
“Or stay,” he said, his fingers tracing maddening lines on the skin just under my shirt at the top of my jeans.
I closed my eyes as his lips brushed my temple and my resolve weakened. “Friends—”
“This feel like friends to you?” he said, his hot breath against my ear sending waves of desire rippling over me.
“Shit,” I breathed.
I slid my hands back down to move up under his shirt, and he swore under his breath as my fingers traced the hard muscles along his sides.
My head spun with need, a little bit of whiskey, and all the reasons I needed to leave that very second. And then his head dipped to drop a hot wet kiss on my bare shoulder and my knees nearly buckled. I felt that kiss everywhere.
Everywhere.
My fingertips dug into his skin, and he inhaled sharply.
“Thatcher,” I whispered.
“I know,” he said on an exhale, tasting me in small kisses up my neck.
“This—”
“I know,” he repeated, his teeth grazing the skin over my pounding pulse.
I was spiraling. He felt too good. Everything felt too good. When his lips moved up my jaw, I felt the magnets daring me to fight them, but there was no fight left.
“I need to kiss you,” he breathed. “I’ve needed to kiss you all night.” He dropped kisses on my cheek, my nose, all around my mouth without touching my lips. Teasing me. Tantalizing my already frayed resistance. “Tell me you don’t want me to.”
That word could have meant anything. It could have meant stop, go, or anything in between. I didn’t know and I didn’t care, because his mouth claiming mine was the holy grail. I moaned into his mouth as that kiss became everything we were. Soft and desperate. Sweet and hungry. Maddeningly slow and deepening with frenzied need.
I couldn’t think the thoughts anymore. I couldn’t—anything. It was all touch and smell and sensation. The sound of the door shutting as he kicked it closed. His hands roaming my body, mine exploring his fire-hot skin, his scruff scratching my face. The sound of our erratic breathing, and clothing hastily being discarded.
Suddenly, nothing was enough. My hands on his bare chest wasn’t enough. I needed to taste him, know him, and I dragged my mouth away from his to do just that. Plus, I was swirling down the rabbit hole too quickly. Kissing my way down his chest to his abs while he groaned and fisted his hands in my hair might not sound like a way to calm down, but something about getting lost in this man’s mouth terrified me. It was too much, too good, and too fucking real.
Physical. I needed to keep it physical. I had to get us on equal ground. He had me with my jeans unzipped, in my strapless black bra, and Thatcher was now shirtless, but I needed more. Shaking with need, I licked my way back up as I unbuttoned his jeans and went for the zipper, my breath catching as his massive hard-on filled my hands.
Sweet Jesus, buttoned-up conservative Thatcher Roman was commando.
“Fuck,” he growled, spinning us around, pressing me against the door. “Gabi.”
We needed to slow down. I couldn’t slow down. I needed all of him, and now. I stroked his length as his mouth crashed down on mine, as my bra left my body and my breasts filled his hands. I only let go of him as he bent to strip me of one leg of my jeans and panties, the two of them dangling off me like rags, and I bucked as his mouth closed on my nipple and fingers circled my clit at the same time.
“Thatcher!” I cried.
“God, you’re so wet,” he groaned against my nipple, the vibration zinging through me like a runaway train.
My whole body began to shake. I was going to come right there if he didn’t hurry. I was off the rails, my head rolling from side to side. I’d never felt this out of control in my life, and I was barely hanging on. I needed—I needed—
“Hold on to me,” he rasped, his voice thick with raging need.
I wrapped my arms around his head as he picked me up and leveled me against the door, meeting my gaze. His dick was sliding against me in a mock fuck that took over from his fingers, and his eyes were glazed and heavy with desire. I knew mine had to be the same, because I was out of my mind. I was so close. I was about to fuck Thatcher Roman against a door, and wanted it with every atom in my body. Nothing else mattered. I pulled his head to mine to show him how much I wanted it, and his responding kiss broke me.
It wasn’t the crushing, I’m gonna fuck you kiss I expected to go with the grind between my legs. It was soft and intimate and wet and oh-so-sexy, and my heart went battering around my chest with abandon. He was promising and asking and promising again. His tongue making love to my mouth, exploring at the same rhythm that his dick moved against my wetness.
I was lost. I was shattered into a million pieces, all swimming in the sensation of his mouth and his hands and his body and these crazy feelings I’d never known existed all together at one time. I wanted it all. I was so ready—
The knock behind my head made me yelp.
“Thatch? You still awake, man?”
Jackson.
Seriously.
Thatcher’s forehead dropped to mine as we froze all movement, his eyes shut tight. “No,” he whispered. “Don’t say anything. Don’t breathe.”
My whole body was on the verge of exploding. Breathing was the last of my worries.
“Thatcher,” Jackson said. “Can you hear me? I need to talk to you. I need to drive back tonight, not tomorrow so can you get a ride home?”
I met his eyes, and his expression changed from sexy to pissed off in less than a second. Jackson couldn’t drive, he had no business getting in a car. Things just got real. Our misty, psychedelic super nova fantasy moment was over.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said under his breath.
The same words were churning in my head. It was fate. It was an omen. It was the universe telling us to go to our separate corners and stop humping like dogs.
The doorknob turned, and there was movement behind me as the door moved.
“Thatch?”
I gasped and Thatcher pushed back, slamming the door and dropping my legs. One of them stayed around his waist while my other foot hit the floor with a clunk.
“What the hell?” Jackson said.
“Can you wait a minute?” Thatcher hissed.
He gently unwound my leg and went to hold my face, but I was already on disaster recovery. The second I had two functional feet, I was off, scooping up my bra and shirt and holding one side of my pants up as I sprinted to the bedroom. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see him tuck himself in with a grimace and zip up.
So close.
I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, my eyes burning with unexpected tears.
So close. I’d been so close to making such an ominous mistake. A few well-placed touches and well-timed kisses, and I hadn’t cared one iota about my business or Micah or my own mental state. Because I could spout all damn day and night about sexual benefits and keeping it all physical, but that hadn’t been. That—that lostness back there—it was dangerous. It was everything I swore not to do. I covered my face with my hands and breathed in the smell of him still on me.
Oh my God, I’d never get enough of that. I wanted to never wash my hands again. I was so screwed.
I heard their muffled voices in the other room, Thatcher’s deeper one sounding angry. Something was going down, and it sounded serious. More serious than it was important to hide behind a door like a busted teenager.
Yanking on my clothes in a rush, I ran my fingers through my hair, swiped under my eyes, and hoped for the best.
Both men’s heads turned my way as I pushed open my door. Thatcher’s mouth was set in a grim line that almost made me look away from his still shirtless torso. Almost.
“Oh, you dog,” Jackson said under his breath, backhanding Thatcher in the chest. “I knew it.”
“You don’t know anything,” Thatcher said, leaving him with an irritated sigh as he stepped around him to snatch his shirt from the back of the couch. “Except how not to just walk in someone’s house.”
“This isn’t your house.”
“No, it’s about to be mine,” I said. “What’s going on? Problem with your room?”
Detour and divert the drunk man—it could work.
“Not at all,” he said. “I just have to go.”
“You can’t drive back like this, Jackson,” he seethed. “It’s stupid and—”
“I don’t have a choice,” Jackson fired back, my presence forgotten.
“You always have a choice,” Thatcher countered.
“Shit is going down at my place right now,” Jackson said, his tone heavy on the last words.
“And a five-hour drive is not going to solve that,” Thatcher said.
“What kind of shit?” I asked, wishing I’d shut up and stop drawing attention to myself. “At your house?”
“My house, my office, they’re all over the damn place,” Jackson said, turning in a random circle, looking at surfaces. “What did you do with my keys?”
“Who’s all over the place?” I asked, directing my question to the man not spinning while doing my damnedest not to look him in the eye for more than a second.
“Pirates,” Jackson said.
I blinked. “Come again?”
“Jackson—”
“I’m fine, Thatch!” Jackson said, wheeling on his brother with a show of surprising clarity. “Believe me, a phone call like that has sobering abilities. I’ll drink coffee and eat fast food all the way home, but I have to go, brother!” He held out his hand, a stern set to his own jaw. “Keys, please.”
Thatcher’s expression looked murderous and weary at the same time. After a moment’s pause, he dug into his pocket and slapped the keys into Jackson’s open palm.
“Call Micah when you get there,” he said through clenched teeth. “Let her know you aren’t dead. Call her from jail. Call her from a hospital. Don’t call me again looking for a father to fix your shit. I’m nobody’s parent, and I’m done.”
Jackson grabbed the keys and ran out the door without another word, seemingly unfazed by his brother’s ominous declaration. They might have done this a time or two.
Thatcher looked deflated, standing there in an unbuttoned shirt and jeans still partially unzipped. He ran a finger and thumb over his eyes and fisted both hands, looking around as if he needed something to punch or throw. I grabbed a pillow off the couch and held it up, and he blew out a frustrated breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice little more than a growl. “You shouldn’t have to witness our family drama.”
“Pirates?” I asked again.
Thatcher raked his fingers through his hair, making it poke up in little spikes. “Evidently.” Absently, he went to work on his buttons.
“Like ahoy matey?”
“No, like thieves on the sea,” he said, forcing his gaze to mine. He wasn’t there, anymore. Not with me. He was in the car with his brother like a worried-sick parent whether he admitted it or not. Part of me was glad of that, while another very annoying needy part of me was whining in my head. She needed to shut up. “His partner has gotten tangled up with them and he’s afraid for his business. Hell, his shop might be illegally trafficking shit by this point and he won’t know it for sure until the feds show up on his doorstep.”
“Jesus,” I muttered.
“But damn it, it’s always something with him,” Thatcher said, pacing the floor. “Every time he gets rolling in a positive direction, something or someone will T-bone him and seven times out of ten that someone is his own damn self. Like going into business with someone he barely knows because they’re highly motivated and structured and he thinks that equals smart. Do you think it did?” Thatcher shook his head, grabbing the back of the couch to keep himself from continuing to walk. “No. It equaled getting his ass handed to him by a cocky manipulator who took over the business side of things and might have even stolen his woman. I’m not sure.”
That didn’t sound like Micah’s version, but she was pretty biased when it came to her little brother. Then again, he might not have told her any of this.
“And driving off wasted for a five-hour road trip—in the middle of the night.” Thatcher grabbed the throw pillow I’d discarded and chucked it right back down again. “God, he’s such an idiot sometimes.”
Everything in me wanted to stay and comfort Thatcher. Feel his warmth and give him mine. Soothe his troubled mind. His entire body was a tightly coiled series of knots, and there was nothing I would have loved more than to work each one out muscle by muscle. My fingers itched to smooth the tension in his jaw. My eyes longed for the soft hunger his took on when he looked at me. My heart wanted to give him—
I’m sorry. What?
Who the hell invited my heart to any part of this party?
I picked up my wristlet that had landed on my little kitchenette bar, and counted my steps to the door. I needed to air myself out, and fast. It was stress, right? I was losing my home and my ex was moving on with the child I couldn’t give him. I was about to be living over my parents’ shop. All that was making me stupid. I’d known this guy for a week, and had been kissing him since all of yesterday. It was transference of some kind—I was weak, and needing something good to blanket the shit storm of my life. That was all. And that wasn’t fair to him.
“I’m gonna head home,” I said, whipping out my phone. “My other home.” I pulled up the Uber app before I even reached the threshold.
“Gabi.”
“Long day tomorrow,” I said, turning around.
Boom. There he was, right behind me, stealthy as a damn vampire. I sucked in a breath and tried to remember all the smart thoughts I’d just had. They were harder to find at that proximity.
His eyes were still troubled, but he was trying to be a good guy. Trying not to be the guy who sexes up the girl without the after-cuddle. Because let’s face it. We were there. Inches were all that separated us from fucking like monkeys on that door. But I didn’t need cuddling, and I very much needed to not care so much.
“Thatcher, it’s okay,” I said, backing up a step and stiffening my spine. “You have things to deal with, and I need to go anyway, so—”
He closed the space between us and planted a soft, lingering kiss on my lips, his hands holding my face. Rooting me to that spot and causing my head to swim.
“You don’t need to go,” he whispered against my mouth.
“I—I really do,” I breathed.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I can’t make Jackson not be a fool.” He closed his eyes. “All I can do is pray that he makes it.”
I shook my head and gently took his hands in mine, backing up a fraction. “It’s not just that,” I said. “I think we—I mean, we’ve had a plan for less than a day, and we’ve already broken it multiple times.”
“That’s because it was a sucky plan,” Thatcher said.
“It isn’t a sucky plan.”
“You weren’t thinking that a few minutes ago when—”
“I know I wasn’t,” I said, backing up again and squeezing his fingers. “Because I seem to go wonky every time you get too close. But how many times do we get interrupted before we get the message? Hey, dumbfucks! Bad idea! Keep your hands to yourself! Signed, The Universe.”
“You think the universe has so little to worry about that it has time to jack with our love lives?” Thatcher asked.
The very fact that he’d just called this a love life added new fuel to my twitchy feet. If I could have flipped a switch and blew out of there on rocket launchers, I would have already been halfway across town.
“Gotta go,” I said, dropping his hands and turning for the door.
“Is this really still about Micah and Wild Things?” he asked as I opened the door. I turned to lean against the frame. “Or are you just scared?”
“You were all about the just sex thing before today,” he said, sitting on the back of the couch and crossing his arms. “Now you’re acting like…”
Like I’m falling for you?
“Like we wouldn’t survive it,” he finished.
I tilted my head and gave him a snarky smile that did not go with the turmoil churning around my chest.
“Would we?” I asked.
Thatcher just looked at me, several seconds passing before either of us spoke, and yet so much was said. Jesus, how could someone I barely knew make me feel like this?
“Night, Gabi,” he said finally, not moving from his position.
“Night,” I said softly, gripping the doorknob, holding his gaze up until the door clicked shut between us.
I closed my eyes and laid my hand against the door for a beat, imagining I could feel him behind it. Yeah. Less than a day, and I was doing things like that.
Survival was off the table.