Page 106 of Tangled Like Us
He fucks me hard and so impossibly well, and I can’t think—my back arches, my toes curl. “Thatcher,” I cry, nearly blacking out in a realm I hardly ever reach. My heat contracts, and he groans my name, pounding deep.
He hits a strong climax, his muscles twitching. He empties himself in me, and with a few more pumps, he ekes out his pleasure. And then both of us start to come down with heavy breaths.
21
THATCHER MORETTI
We shower togetherin the attached bathroom and have sex again.
It has nothing to do with this op.
Nothing to do with the task at hand. No one can hear her gasps and high-pitched moans or my deep groans with waterpouring.That’s fucking clear to me. It’sbeenclear to me that we’re kerosene together. And we’ve finally lit the match.
In my head, there’s no going back.
I should be concerned about the un-crossable line that I just leapt over with two middle fingers—but I’m not.
I’m just concerned about Jane. Because she’s spent. And if we were on the bed, she probably would’ve fallen asleep.
She assures me she can walk. Or else I’d carry her out of the bathroom. Her perseverance is something that I’m drawn towards.Been aware of that for a while.
When we return to the room, I rifle through my backpack and keep sweeping Jane.
She yawns into her palm, and then twists a towel around her wet hair, another around her body, and she’s eyeing me just as intensely while I put on a pair of black boxer-briefs. Lifting the elastic band to my muscular waist.
She homes in on my gold necklace and then crouches to her suitcase. Barely having enough energy to sift through her clothes, she picks out a fuzzy blue robe and slips it on.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask Jane.
A small smile tugs her freckled cheeks. “Um…I’m okay, really.” She takes out a notebook from her suitcase, and then heads to the bed.
My chest tightens, brows knitting together. It’s not a diary. She’ll scribble math equations on those pages, and I’ve noticed that she usually does this during high-stress situations. To stay focused and get her mind right.
I run a hand across my jaw. But she’s also really forthcoming. If something were wrong, I think she’d tell me.
I hope she would.
Especially after we just had sex.Multiple times.
Jane rolls down the comforter and climbs onto the clean sheets, notebook in hand. Completely exhausted, she slumps against the headboard.
But she’s not lying down. She checks any missed texts from her family and pulls a pen out of the spiral binding of her notebook. She’s quiet, which puts me on edge, but I only spot fatigue and curiosity in her gaze.
Her big blue eyes also track my movements.
I go to the nightstand where I left my phone and water. Not breaking eye contact. “How do you feel?” I ask.
She contemplates this, pressing the pen to her lips.
I glance at my phone.No new messages from security.Which is good. I unscrew my water bottle and take a swig.
“I feel a little sore,” she admits. “Like you’re still inside of me.”
I’m not choking on my water. Because I’m not that surprised. “You sure I can’t get you anything?” I ask. “Ibuprofen?” She was tight, but soaked, and I’m not small.
“No, I don’t mind the feeling.”
I nod. Having sex with Jane for real—it obliterated any image I’ve ever had and blew the remnants out of the fucking atmosphere. Her constant, rippling orgasms will probably be seared in my head and body for life.
