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)
His words from the night before slid through my memory.
I want you every minute of every fucking day.
Was that just one of those overly dramatic things people said while they were thinking with their dicks? The kind you cried out while fucking and maybe even thought you meant in the moment that made you cringe when the hormones had burned themselves out?
Or was it possible that he actually meant it?
God, for the first time in my life, I really wanted someone to mean it. But why, oh why, did it have to be him?
I reached down and grabbed his hand, yanking him up until he was pressed on top of me, crushing my mouth with his. My hands clutched the back of his head like I was afraid someone would pull him off me, ending this dream and bringing us both back into the stark impossibility of our reality.
“Easy,” he murmured against my mouth. “Shh. Easy, easy…”
Oxygen sawed in and out of my lungs. I couldn’t get enough. Things were already so impossibly complicated, and once we got to Honeybridge, the complications would quadruple. Layla would arrive. My parents would be waiting with their truckloads of expectations. And then, once the festival was over, I’d be back in New York…
Without Thatcher. Forever.
I was overthinking. Panicking. Ruining the short time we had by worrying about what would come after. But it felt like this thing I’d wanted for so long was slipping through my fingers, and I didn’t know how to convince Thatcher that we could be good for more than a week any more than I knew how to convince my parents I was good for more than camera fodder, and—
“Shh, shhh.” Thatcher’s words barely registered. I squeezed my eyes closed, cutting off any possibility of embarrassing myself with a leaked tear of desperation and panic.
My hands tightened in his hair.
“Reagan. Sweetheart. Look at me. Look. At. Me.”
I opened my eyes to see him staring down at me with a furrowed brow. His hand brushed the messy hair off my forehead as his eyes flicked between my own. I tried offering him a reassuring smile. I was fine. Truly, I was.
Whatever he saw deepened the furrow between his brows. “Talk to me.”
I flashed the smile again. “Don’t want to talk. I want you to fuck me.”
Thatcher’s nostrils flared. “Don’t lie to me—”
“I’m not. I really want you to fuck me.” I ground out the words. If he would simply flip me over and use my body as roughly as possible, I could lose myself and these uncomfortable feelings in the mind-blowing pleasure I knew the sex would bring.
He opened his mouth to speak but stopped. Something in his expression changed as he studied me. “You want to fuck? Okay. But this time, you’re topping.”
A shudder ripped through me that was partly from nerves—ridiculous since I’d never been nervous at topping a partner of any gender—and partly from excitement.
I’d wanted to give myself over to him. To have him drive away all my hopelessness and relentless thinking with the power of his body. Topping him meant staying in the moment. Staying in control.
But god, the idea of Thatcher wanting that from me and trusting me to give it to him… the idea of me holding him down and thrusting into his body… made my brain short-circuit. Multicolored confetti blew everywhere.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Then get on your back.”
Chapter Twelve
Thatcher
I would do anything to snap Reagan out of whatever had come over him.
The panic on his face was clear, and I figured I knew why. We’d finally given in after fighting our attraction to one another for what felt like much longer than a week, and that had put us on shaky ground even before the calls from his parents and our change of plans.
But seeing the man who’d engaged crowds across the country lose his confidence made me even more irrationally upset now than it had back at the Newport Grille in Wichita.
I treasured the vulnerable parts of him, but I’d fight like hell against his fear. And I’d be damned if I lost the witty, warm, engaging man to the dull, polite shell or even his prickly defensiveness again.
What he needed was to be in control, to remember his power and take charge of it fully. I’d never bottomed for anyone, but I was so incredibly hot for Reagan I’d take him any way he wanted or needed. And right now… right now, he needed to take charge.
I rolled onto my back and grabbed his hand, tugging it until he blinked at me and scrambled over to climb on top of me. “Fuck,” he grunted under his breath. “Gonna make me come just thinking about it.”
The weight of his muscular body pressed me into the mattress. His leg hair scratched against mine as our limbs tangled together, and the hard press of his dick against mine proved he was just as into the idea as I was.