It makes me smile. I lift my blue retro sunglasses to my head. “How do we know he’ll tip off the paparazzi?”
Thatcher unbuckles his seatbelt. “Because he’s broke and his nickname was Snitch in high school.”
“Does he realize he’s called Snitch ?”
“Yeah,” Thatcher says, his brown eyes holding mine for a beat longer. “He didn’t give a shit about it. Said it reminded him of Harry Potter or something like that.” He shifts. Turning more towards me, and his strong arm slides across the back of the headrest.
His boldness and masculinity consumes my teeny car. And me.
I inhale without exhaling that often. It feels like hot air is blowing from my vents. I sweat underneath my checkered blouse and lilac, tulle skirt.
“How do we know when paparazzi have arrived?” I whisper.
He speaks just as quietly. “They pulled in a minute after us.”
He’d know. Always alert. It’s dreadfully attractive.
I try to subdue an overpowering smile, and I lift my chin. Rotating to face my bodyguard more, my elbow brushes the steering wheel.
Silence breeds more heat, and from a breath apart, we look one another over. We’re allowed, you see.
I trace the chiseled edges of his scruffy jaw, the carve of his biceps that stretches against his black button-down, the way his muscles flex the more he sweeps me.
Thatcher studies my shallow breathing. “Ready?”
I eye his lips. “Yes please…” Oh God, Jane. “Just yes. Yes, I’m ready for you…” I have torched myself with flaming balls of desire and mortification.
There is no escape.
His large hand falls to the nape of my neck, and I place my palm on his firm chest.
Carefully, slowly…Thatcher leans forward until our lips meet. Chastely . It’s what the security team decreed. He kisses me tenderly, a soft kiss that electrifies my senses.
Pulsates my veins, and I ache to touch my bundle of nerves.
I run my fingers up to his unshaven jaw and then thread my fingers through his tousled brown hair.
No tongue.
His muscles tighten.
The kiss lasts a few seconds—not nearly long enough—before we slowly draw our lips away, only putting a sliver of space between our mouths.
Our breath still melds as we look into one another.
I ache for even more. In places that shouldn’t be aching. I think Thatcher can read my need too well.
“One more,” Thatcher says huskily. Our hands are still on each other, and his other palm has found a home on my hip. Mine are woven in his hair.
“One more,” I agree.
“Just in case they didn’t catch the photo.” His gaze already engulfs me.
“Yes.”
Yes.
He closes the distance. Our lips crash together, our hands grasping—we pull into each other with piping hot desire. His tongue glides sensually along mine with such explosive skill. Both of our asses have risen off the seat for closer contact. Bodies meeting in the middle. His towering build nearly sheathing me.
His smell, his touch, drives me to carnal places that I haven’t reached in forever with another man. But this is different than all those other times. It feels different.
Maybe because it’s all pretend.
Maybe because I know I’m safe.
And I can’t be certain when my hand went from his head to his peach-perfect ass or when he cupped my butt—but it happens. He sucks my bottom lip, and I pulse like a second heartbeat has dropped between my legs.
I moan against his mouth, and the soft noise catches both of our attention. He separates from me. I separate from him.
We drop our hands and lean back to our respective seats. Breathing heavily.
He fixes his earpiece cord that I must’ve accidentally pulled on. His jaw set more strictly, he scans the parking lot.
My fingers linger on my stinging lips. “That was very good? We did well?” I question. “Security said chaste and that was the virgin strawberry daiquiri of kisses, no? I could’ve easily straddled you—not that I would’ve, because boundaries. ” I flush but never divert from his tightened eyes.
“It was good,” he confirms. “But it wasn’t a virgin daiquiri.”
I, so eagerly, want inside his head. “It was a dirty martini?”
I swear his lip tics upward in a momentary smile. “More like a Guinness.”
It’s his favorite beer. Which I shouldn’t know, but I’m very aware he mostly orders Guinness when he’s off-duty. A stout, full-bodied beer.
A stout, full-bodied kiss.
I can’t help but smile, and then I lower my sunglasses over my eyes and slip my arms in a light sweater. We have to do a bit of shopping to make the grocery outing seem real.
He reaches into the back seat and grabs my zebra-patterned heels off the floor, and then he hands them to me.
“Merci.” I slip them on my feet. “How upset will security be if the photos show roaming hands…and tongue?”
His firm expression is unreadable. “This should be believable to the public, and that’s what’ll matter most to the team.”
I take note that he never said the team wouldn’t be upset. He must not want me to fret about security’s reactions. I trust Thatcher, and if he has that area handled, then I won’t pry. Not until he needs an assist from me.
Delegation at its finest.
Thatcher touches his ear, security in communication, and then he looks to me. “Paparazzi have the photo.”
Here we go.
18
THATCHER MORETTI
“Why is his hand halfway up her skirt?” Price, the Alpha lead barks at Akara over speakerphone, volume soft.
I narrow my eyes at the phone in Akara’s clutch.
Sir, my hand is not halfway up my client’s fucking skirt.
It was planted on her ass.
The Tri-Force are on a three-way call, and after an hour of being chewed out, Akara is letting Banks and me listen in on the tail-end of their conversation. All while we make a pitcher of caipirinha in security’s small kitchen.
Banks has to sit on the counter for all three of us to fit in here, limes and a bottle of cachaça next to him.
We’ve been friends with Akara since we joined security, clicking almost instantly, but I really grew closer to him when he became the Omega lead. I was the Epsilon lead at the time. We’d spend long hours in the same meetings. Volleying information back and forth, keeping intel safeguarded between us, and shooting the shit on dull days. And nine times out of ten, with major Tri-Force decisions, Akara and I voted the same way.
Excited commotion comes from the living room. Jane and her cousins are hanging out with us. Celebrating. Despite the disapproval from two leads, the photos have already circulated through major media outlets with rabid obsession.
Spreading like an unstoppable wildfire.
It’s been two hours since Jane and I kissed in the Acme parking lot, and these are some of the most popular headlines:
Jane Cobalt Is Having a Secret Love Affair With Her Bodyguard!
Breaking News: Jane Cobalt Caught Kissing Her Bodyguard
Jane Cobalt Has Found Her Prince Charming After All
Akara leans on the counter, keeping his voice hushed so our clients don’t hear. “You can clearly see Thatcher’s hand in the photos, Price. It’s not halfway up her skirt.”
“Regardless, his hands aren’t where they should be,” Price retorts.
My nose flares, and I cross my arms over my chest.
I understand why they’re up my ass, and if I were a lead, I might be doing the same thing. Karma—it’s rolling in like a fucking tank, for all those times at the FanCon that I used to yell at Farrow. Telling him to separate from Maximoff.
I deserve the third-degree more than Akara. But that’s not how security hierarchy works. And at the end of the day, the kiss was a success.
That’s what matters.
“It’s good that the photos show them clearly together,” Akara reminds the Alpha lead. “We didn’t need articles wondering if they even kissed.” He lifts the speaker closer to his mouth. “You two don’t need to be concerned about Thatcher. He’s my guy. I’m keeping an eye on him.”
I stand more on guard, and I nod to him in appreciation.