Page 73 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

A chill runs through me despite the car’s warmth. “What does that mean?”

“It means I promised you protection if you remain mine,” he continues, his gaze returning to the road ahead. “And you don’t want to face the consequences if you ever change your mind. What you saw tonight? That was just the tip of the iceberg.”

The warning in his words is unmistakable, and I shiver involuntarily. But there’s something else too—a current beneath the threat, a hint that he’s telling me this not just to scare me, but to prepare me. To keep me safe.

We lapse into silence, the only sound the hum of tires on asphalt and the subtle purr of the engine. The lights of the city grow brighter as we approach, the familiar landmarks of campuscoming into view. I’m alive. I’m going home. The relief of that simple fact washes over me in waves.

I steal a glance at Thatcher as he drives, really looking at him now that my panic has subsided. The strong line of his jaw catches the passing lights, sharp and defined. His arms flex slightly as he turns the wheel, the muscles visible even beneath his shirt sleeve. A memory flashes—those same arms braced against the wall, his body moving against mine—and heat pools in my belly.

Now that we’ve crossed that line, now that I know what it’s like to have him inside me, my body craves more. It’s a physical hunger, separate from my conflicted emotions, pure in its simplicity. I want him. Again and again and again.

As if he can read my thoughts, Thatcher glances over, his eyes meeting mine for a heated moment. “Stop looking at me like that,” he warns, his voice low and rough.

I should feel embarrassed at being caught, but instead, a rebellious thrill runs through me. Even now, even after everything, there’s a power in knowing I affect him too, that this isn’t entirely one-sided.

But I lean back in my seat and turn my gaze to the window, watching the familiar streets of campus slide by. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable now, but charged with a new awareness, thick with knowing what he feels like.

When we finally pull up outside my apartment building, relief floods through me at the sight of the familiar facade. Home. Safety. Normalcy, or at least the illusion of it.

Thatcher cuts the engine but makes no move to get out. Neither do I, suddenly reluctant to end whatever this is, to face the empty apartment and my own thoughts.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, the words inadequate but necessary. “For... for getting me out of there.”

He nods, his face half in shadow. “Go inside, Rhea. Get some rest.”

The use of my actual name rather than ‘Dove’ strikes me as significant somehow, a return to reality after the surreal events of the night. But I’m not ready for that yet, not ready to be alone with the memories and the uncertainty.

“Will you...” I hesitate, doubting myself even as the words form. “Will you come up? Stay the night?” I rush on before I lose my nerve. “I don’t want to be alone. Not after what happened.”

Thatcher goes very still, his expression unreadable in the dim light. The silence stretches between us, growing heavier with each passing second.

He’s hesitating. Why is he hesitating?

Doubt floods through me, cold and insidious. Have I read this all wrong? Maybe all he wants is to control me, to own me in some abstract way. Maybe if I’m too willing, too submissive, he’ll lose interest. Maybe this was just a game, and I’m playing it all wrong.

“Never mind,” I say quickly, forcing a laugh that sounds hollow. “I’m just tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Before he can respond, I’m out of the car, the night air cool against my heated face as I slam the door behind me. My keys jangle in my trembling hand as I rush toward the building entrance, not looking back, not wanting to see his expression.

The lobby is deserted this late, the overhead lights dimmed for the night. My footsteps echo on the tile floor as I hurry to the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly as if that will make it arrive faster.

When the doors finally slide open, I step inside and lean against the back wall, closing my eyes as the car begins its ascent. What the hell am I doing? What have I agreed to? The reality of the situation is starting to sink in, the adrenaline fading to leave exhaustion and confusion in its wake.

The elevator dings at my floor, and I make my way down the hallway to my apartment. The lock turns easily under my key, and I step inside, flipping on the light switch by the door.

Everything is exactly as I left it—textbooks on the coffee table, empty mug by the sink, Gregory curled up on the couch. The normalcy of it is almost shocking after the night I’ve had.

I cross to the window, unable to resist the urge to look down at the parking lot. Thatcher’s car is still there, idling in the same spot. As I watch, the headlights flash once, then twice, before the car pulls away, disappearing around the corner.

My heart races, a mix of relief and disappointment churning in my chest. What happens now? What does this agreement mean for tomorrow, for next week, for the rest of the semester? When will he get sick of me, decide I’m not worth the trouble, and walk away?

Or worse, when will he decide I’ve outlived my usefulness and hand me over to the police anyway?

I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching my breath fog the pane. Too many questions, too many uncertainties. But at least I’m alive. At least I’m home. For tonight, that has to be enough.

With a sigh, I turn away from the window and head to my desk, pulling out the journal I’ve kept since freshman year. I need to process what happened, need to make sense of the chaotic emotions swirling inside me.

Settling into my chair, I open to a fresh page and begin to write.

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