Breathless and panting, I’m in between a kiss, when he whispers against my ear, “Christ, you’re beautiful.”
Those words sting my eyes for a second.
I usually don’t need to hear those words to feel them. Especially from a man. But sometimes, it’s so very nice to have it reaffirmed. It feels so wonderfully good to be called beautiful. Especially from him.
I return the kiss deeper and harder and then break away to reach for the condom package on the ground. He grabs the bottle of lube as I rip open the foil.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” I whisper. “You’ve had fingers or other things in your ass before? I wasn’t your first?” He seems to be far too comfortable letting me back there. Unfortunately for someone who likes butts, like me, not many guys are.
He leans up to put a kiss on my lips and take the condom from me. “Fingers, yeah.” He rolls the condom on his length. “Other things, yeah.” He rubs lube along his erection and then holds out the bottle to me. Our eyes catch. I’m a little frozen.
“Other things,” I repeat.
“Toys, very small,” he says. “Here.” He rubs lube on my fingers and then reaches for a towel so he can dry his off. Just so he can clutch the back of my head without getting it in my hair.
My brain is spinning with excitement and possibilities. “Do you have a prostate massager with you?” I ask.
“In my bedroom. Another night.” He kisses outside my lips. “Was I your first? I couldn’t tell.”
“You couldn’t?” I frown.
He shakes his head. “You’re good with your fingers, but you were really curious.” He looks me up and down, taking in my reaction. “I wasn’t your first, then.”
I nod and then his own fingers slide up between my legs. To check to see how aroused I am. He does that a lot. I realize because he’s so big that he really doesn’t want to hurt me. He’s very well attuned to his body.
And he’s been adeptly learning mine.
Our mouths meet again, and while we kiss, he slowly slides himself into me. His lips are beside my ear. “Remember go slow at first.”
I learned that the hard way the first time I was on top with him. Overeager, I tried to take him completely in me way too fast, and he bottomed out. There was more pain than pleasure, and he spent most of the night concerned and going so slow it was like riding a torturous edge.
My knees dig into the fuzzy bath rug, and Thatcher grips the bottoms of my thighs as I start to move up and down on him. Everything throbs and aches for more and more and more. Like I’m finding the right switch on my body.
I move a little faster.
“Jane. Fuck,” he says almost under his breath. Still trying to be quiet.
He stifles a deeper groan, so much so, that I can feel the noise rumble through his body. Up against mine.
“God ,” I say in a heavy breath and then lay a palm flat on his chest. It’s slick with sweat. Still sitting against the shower door, he bucks up into me, his length sinking deeper.
Oh God.
I’m already clenching around him. Legs trembling. Earth splitting feelings pinching me with pleasure.
“Jesus,” he breathes, still awed at how sensitive I am under his touch. It makes staying on top of him difficult because I get tender fast. But I try because I adore this position.
He quickens his pace, and I lean closer, our foreheads pressing together. Heat gathers and our lips find each other and break and find each other and break.
The rhythm fills my core. And the intensity builds around me. His fingers dip down between us and brush over my sensitive clit. Like a wave crashing ashore, I’m completely gone.
My hips stop moving.
My mouth parts from his and I bury my head into the crook of his neck.
He quickly raises his hand, fingers glistening and wet, and presses his palm to my mouth to stifle my noises. In the bathroom, we can’t be too careful.
I shudder into him, orgasms rippling through me and he continues to pump up. His hips thrusting. His palm keeping my noises at bay.
We’re practically silent except for the thump of our bodies colliding, but even that is drowned out by the sink faucet.
And then from the depths of my fuzzy bath robe, my phone rings.
28
JANE COBALT
It’s FaceTime.
It’s Beckett.
And it’s almost two-thirty in the morning.
Those three variables add together like toxic chemicals. Highly combustible and only appearing when the situation has reached critical levels.
I am also very naked. Urgency speeding my pulse, I try to put my arms through the holes of my robe as quick as I can. Thatcher helps, and in my attempt to wrangle the fabric, I elbow him in the cheek.
“Merde.” I reach to try and touch his cheekbone. “I’m so sorry.”
“Jane,” he says, still moving to put my other arm through the hole. Not even affected by my elbow punch. “Your phone.” It’s stopped ringing. We both stare at the blank screen, but Thatcher is also still dressing me. Two arms in the holes. Check. He tightens it around me by tying off the fuzzy belt.
“Maybe it was a butt dial,” I say, hopefully.
Thatcher looks pissed.
“What?” I ask him.
“I don’t have my radio.”
It’s in his room. He was off-duty tonight. There’s no reason he would have needed it.
Seconds later, my phone lights up. Beckett’s trying to FaceTime again . This is most surely not a butt dial.
Dread sinks into my stomach. I’m imagining catastrophic scenarios. There’s not much that would cause Beckett to call me in the dead of night. He’d normally be resting up for early-morning rehearsals or out enjoying what little free time he has.
“I’m going to get my radio,” Thatcher says as he rises to his feet. Buck-naked. He walks to the other side of the bathroom, shuts off the faucet and collects his pants.
“Will you come back?” I wonder. I want him here, I realize. If this is a disaster, he’s someone I would choose to face it with.
He pulls his pants on, his eyes flitting around me like he’s assessing the situation. “I’ll be one minute.” It sounds like a promise.
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods and goes to the door. I make sure that the screen is pointed at me and not the opposite direction before I click into FaceTime.
Four of my brothers fill the screen. All the ones who are currently living together in Hell’s Kitchen. Beckett and Charlie share the couch while Tom and Eliot sit on the floor. I can see all of their hands, like a wide shot, which just means that Beckett must have called me from his laptop.
All four of them wear solemn, serious expressions. Utterly tense, and less jovial than they usually are. I’d expect Eliot and Tom to be jumping on the couches in the very least. The pit in my stomach mushrooms.
“Hey, sis,” Beckett says, cupping his hands in front of him. He leans forward a little. “Have you been online tonight?”
“No,” I say. “What’s going on?”
Pulse hammering, I scan them all quickly again, checking for any visible wounds.
Charlie rubs at his eyes and then rises off the couch, obscuring my view of him and then he disappears completely off screen.
Beckett watches him. “We said we’d do this together, Charlie.”
“I’m coming back,” Charlie says in the distance.
Eliot and Tom watch him leave. Beckett focuses on me.
“Who’s this about?” I ask.
“Me,” Beckett says just as my bathroom door opens again.
I glance up.
Thatcher walks in, adjusting the mic in his ear and clipping it to the collar of his T-shirt. He’s dressed in clean flannel pajama pants, and he leans a shoulder against the frame, keeping the door open.
Officially on-duty.
He meets my eyes. Brows furrowed but not confused. If anything, I think he might be learning about what happened right this very moment through comms.
“Beckett,” I say and look to my phone again. “Please tell me what’s going on. I’m thinking the worst. Are you okay? Physically, mentally, emotionally. Did someone hurt you?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but he closes it and then cringes. “Physically, I’m fine.”