Donnelly surveys the ceiling, nooks, and corners of the old house.
“I’ll be on during night,” Oscar confirms.
Thatcher lowers his voice to a whisper. “I won’t be on comms, so text if you can’t hear us.”
Hear us.
I smooth my lips together to keep from smiling. By us , he means me and him. Pretend fucking. That is precisely what we’re doing here. Making sex noises in our room so other guests can hear from the thin walls.
I am terribly thrilled to fake sex with Thatcher. Maybe it’s the Cobalt in me that thrives on strategic plans and deception. We’re playing 3D chess, and my teammate happens to be serious and brooding and currently pinning his stern eyes onto me.
“Ready?” Thatcher asks, deep and husky.
I grip the handle to my weekend suitcase, my palms perspiring. “Yes, I am.” I rub my clammy hand on the thigh of my pale yellow jeans.
The other bodyguards on SFO don’t draw attention to my shallow breath. They’re very mature about this whole ordeal.
Donnelly and Oscar say quick goodbyes to me.
“Stay frosty, boys,” Banks tells them, and those two leave to locate their bedroom on the first floor.
Thatcher slings his backpack over his shoulder. “I can get that.” He reaches for my suitcase, but he stops when he sees me shake my head.
“I can wheel it, really. I’d rather carry my fair share.”
He nods, and as we make our way to the carpeted staircase, his hand falls to the small of my back, lightly brushing against my body. His fingers might as well carry static electricity, my nerves humming. Trembling.
We sneak glances at each other.
Banks follows behind us, duffel slung on his shoulder.
And we all ascend the creaky stairs. Before I try to drag my luggage, Thatcher reaches over and I let him take the handle. He hoists the suitcase up like it weighs no more than an inflatable beach ball.
He is impossibly attractive.
I skim him more openly and start to smile. I love that my terrible version of Say Anything with unnerving stalkers has now changed to something more enjoyable. More enthralling.
We reach the narrow hallway on the second-floor. Paintings hang off-kilter on dark wooden-paneled walls. I think we’ve been transported to a Nancy Drew novel, and so far, we haven’t run into any other guests.
It’s also possible that Gretchen could leak information. She hasn’t signed an NDA, so there are no legal ramifications if she spills details about our stay here.
We all walk down the hall.
“What’s the word on the Wi-Fi?” Banks asks his brother.
“None,” Thatcher answers.
I glance back at Banks. “Is it a security problem?”
“Nope,” Banks says.
Thatcher catches my gaze. “Queen of the Ring is on tonight.”
Sounds unfamiliar. “Queen of the Ring?”
“It’s a WPW pay-per-view match. World Pro Wrestling.”
Realization washes over me. “I’ve heard of WPW before, but I wouldn’t know the names of any big matches,” I say aloud. “I’ve never seen one.”
Thatcher is about to answer, but we reach our rooms.
Banks sticks his key in a door across from ours. The plaque reads: Metropolis. The Moretti brothers exchange a look that I can’t decipher, and then Thatcher nods before Banks disappears.
Thatcher and I are officially alone.
It makes what we’re about to do more real. Share a bed together for the night. Though, security reminded us to sleep on opposite ends. Bonus points if Thatcher takes the floor.
No cuddling produces zero temptations.
Or so they believe.
I think they’re placing complete trust in Thatcher’s professionalism. And I also think they’ve forgotten to add other variables. Like how I’m easily aroused by Thatcher, and all he has to do is be himself.
Assertive, considerate, stern and protective. And more, so much more—some layers I’ve only just glimpsed.
Thatcher uses the skeleton key and unlocks the door. I trail inside behind him, and he has me stop at the entrance. He checks the bathroom, and while he assesses the rest of the space, the interior catches me off guard.
Pretty pale green wallpaper lines the room, and a king-sized bed overpowers the space, a glittery champagne comforter tucked nicely in the iron frame. Three pink stained-glass windows above normal panes let in soft light, and a Victorian velvet chaise rests near the bathroom door.
It’s eclectic and gorgeous and I’m immediately in love.
“This okay?” Thatcher asks, closing the door behind me.
“More than okay.” I place my suitcase near the foot of the bed. “It’s like someone dug around in my head and this exploded out of it.”
“Hold on.” He drops his backpack beside the chaise and then checks the latches on the windows. He tests the locks.
All seem to be secured, and then he snaps the blinds shut. The only source of light now comes from the stained glass above.
The sun has already begun to set, and I pull the tassel to a frilled lamp, a warm glow bathing the bed.
Quiet lingers, and nervous anticipation sizzles my skin and flip-flops my stomach. I eye him curiously, watching as he sits on the edge of the chaise and unties his boots.
If I don’t fill the silence, I may boil to death—or in the very least, sweat through my long-sleeve fuzzy shirt.
“Who from security proposed this idea?” I ask, placing my beet-shaped purse on the nightstand.
He yanks off his boots. “I’m not sure. I came into the meeting and it was already the most popular option.” He rolls up the sleeves of his black tee and then grabs his backpack.
He lifts his head, staring more strongly into me. His gaze is a thousand-watt bulb. Scorching me head to toe.
He asks, “Have you changed your mind about doing this?” His husky voice somehow contains deep concern and reassurance all at once.
“No, not at all.” I push a frizzed strand of hair off my cheek. “Is it odd to say that I’m actually excited? I’ve never faked an orgasm before. Usually I just tell the guy that they didn’t please me, and I’ll provide pointers and then let them solve the rest. So this is a first—the faking orgasm part.” I intake a short breath, my eyes widening at my unraveling thoughts that I’m purging out loud.
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.