Page 99 of Tangled Like Us
His muscles are tensed in arousal, but his eyes narrow in severity. “We only do this if you’re okay with the guests hearing your real orgasm and not a fake one.”
Because that’s the whole point.
They’re supposed to hear us intertwined and hot and heavy, and this does not change anything for me.
“I’m fine with this.” I shift to my ass. The mattress lets out another squeak.
He’s rigid with seriousness.
I continue on. “In all honesty, if people are going to talk about me, there’s comfort knowing it’s not all a fabrication.” I waft my fuzzy shirt. I’m sweating.
“Then if you want to—”
“I do, do you?”
“Yeah,” he says deeply, and he tears our gazes apart. Just to walk over and check the air conditioning panel on the wall. He pushes a few buttons. “It’s broken.”
The fan is whirling at maximum speed but circulates hot air. It was much cooler outside, but we won’t risk cracking a window.
I lean against the headboard. “We don’t have to leave all of our clothes on…possibly? We’re two mature adults. You’re twenty-eight. I’m…good ole twenty-three.”
I did not mean to draw attention to our five-year age gap. But there I go.
Thatcher sweeps my entire body, and he wipes a trickle of sweat off his brow with the heel of his palm.
My pulse quickens.
“We are,” he nods. He’s decisive. There is no vacillation in his towering stance or his stern eyes. “You ready?”
“I am,” I say, very assured.
I am so ready for him.
He reaches back and grabs the collar of his black shirt. He yanks the tee off over his head.
I’ve always been extraordinarily curious about why men do that—shed their shirts from thebackinstead of taking the bottom of the fabric and tugging it up and off.Their way is such an odd method, but it looksextraordinarilysexy. Like they just couldn’t bother with the fabric of a shirt anyway.
Thatcher chucks his tee on the chaise.
His carved muscles in perfect view. I skim the cut of his biceps, his strong shoulders, ridges of hiseightabs—and the natural hair that lines his chest and tracks downward. Tempting my gaze to his cock, hidden behind his slacks.
Now it seems so obvious that he was a soldier, a combat vet—his shoulders are often squared, his carriage raised in readiness like his instincts are always buzzing.
Thatcher walks to the bed, and as soon as he climbs on, the box springs let out a higher pitched creak.
My heart beats at a wild pace. I scoot down off the headboard, my back sinking into the soft mattress, but I prop myself up a little on my elbows.
He’s knelt close.
We watch one another. I’m so mesmerized by Thatcher, by what his instincts tell him to do next. He may be quiet, but he’s the furthest thing from shy or timid.
He weaves his arms underneath my thighs, and he clutches my hips, pulling me swiftly on his lap, my legs already broken apart for him.
I’m straddling my bodyguard.
Oh my God.
My hands fly to his neck, and his palm travels up my back and then encases my face. I touch his hand, feeling how much smaller mine is in comparison.
