Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
It was quick and gloriously dirty. We sucked each other off, hot and wet, filling the room with the scent of men’s bodies and eventually hot spunk as I pulled off him and jacked him while I came down his throat.
“Fuuuuck,” he croaked after swallowing. “Fucking Christ, Thatcher.”
“Yeah.” The single syllable was the best I could manage. I lay back and gulped oxygen like a drowning man, concerned for a moment that I might pass out when the sunlight in the room began to flicker. It took me far longer than it should have to realize the bus had begun moving.
If I had ever had sex this good before in my life, I couldn’t remember it… and I definitely would have remembered it.
“So.” Reagan turned to face me a moment later, and I was pleased to see he looked every bit as wrecked as I felt. “Did you have a nice conversation with my dad?”
I laughed. “You are…” I grabbed his hand and brought it to my mouth. “Filthy.” I nipped one finger.
Reagan whimpered, then sighed and cuddled against me.
“I think he’s giving me an award,” I said. “Or maybe I’m giving him one? Or both.” I shook my head. “I literally can’t remember a word he said. I’ll have January get details.”
My phone rang again, buzzing against the floor, but I pulled Reagan closer and ignored it.
“Ooh, that could be my dad calling you back,” Reagan teased. “Would you like to ask him for those details now?”
I slid a hand down to pinch his ass, and he yelped. “Shush.”
“He could be asking about me,” Reagan continued. “You could tell him how very talented I am.”
“Jesus,” I muttered, simultaneously amused and horrified. I climbed out of bed, dragging him with me. “Come on. I’m gonna shower that filth off you.”
“Isn’t the shower kinda small for both of us?” Reagan wondered, allowing himself to be dragged.
“Definitely. But I’m going to enjoy watching you like a lecher.”
His laughter dispelled any remaining tension from the mention of his dad’s call.
In the end, we both tried to fit in the shower together anyway, making a soppy mess of the small space as the bus trundled east again and reality remained thousands of miles away.
It wasn’t until we were dressed and ready to face the day that I retrieved my phone and saw who the missed call had been from.
Layla.
Her flu test was finally negative.
Chapter Eleven
Reagan
We had exactly fifteen hours to enjoy each other’s company—and naked bodies—before picking up Layla in Omaha, so of course, Thatcher’s first priority was… checking his email. After our shower and performing the synchronized kitchen dance we’d choreographed that allowed two people to prepare breakfast simultaneously in the tiny space, Thatcher had immediately pulled out his laptop to deal with some urgent business matters happening in Zurich.
I didn’t mind at all. For one thing, consuming enough calories to replace the ones I’d burned last night and this morning was a high priority—sex with Thatcher was like a high-intensity workout, and I’d be damned if I couldn’t keep up with the man’s stamina. For another, I enjoyed the routine we’d developed. I enjoyed that we had a routine. And I especially enjoyed that today, for the first time ever, I didn’t have to hide the way I watched Thatcher as I shoveled yogurt into my mouth. If I wanted to drool over his long, strong fingers as they tapped his keyboard, I could. If I wanted to stare greedily at the sexy V of exposed skin just below his neck where his shirt was unbuttoned, nobody would stop me. If I wanted to imagine rubbing my lips all over his heavy stubble and licking my way into his mouth, today, I could finally do so without a single repercussion—
“If you don’t stop doing that with your spoon,” Thatcher said conversationally, his eyes still on the screen, “I’m going to take you back to the bedroom, spank your ass, and fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for the rest of the day.”
I shivered so hard I choked on my yogurt. Holy fuck, why was that so hot?
“When did you shave your beard?” I demanded after getting my coughing under control with a sip of coffee—Thatcher’s coffee since mine was already gone.
At this, he looked up, a crease between his brows. “Pardon?”
“Your beard. Last time I saw you, a few months ago, I guess, you still had it. But then at the gala, you didn’t. And now… Are you growing it back?”
Thatcher scratched at his stubble and shrugged. “I am. I like the beard. I’m not sure what prompted me to shave it New Year’s Eve. I wanted a change, I guess. A wild impulse.” He smiled wryly. “But I quickly remembered I’m not an impulsive sort of person.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I smiled slowly. “Propositioning a man at a gala?” I whistled through my teeth. “Seems pretty impulsive, Thatcher, especially for someone who usually… plays it straight.”