Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Later, my grandma unknotted the chains and put both gold horns on one necklace. She said they were meant to be together.
“It’s over fifteen years ago,” I remind Jane. “It feels distant most days.” I blink, my eyes burning. “It was a footnote in the news. Which is why it hasn’t blown-up in the media yet.”
Some local boy hit his head and drowned. There are too many deaths at that quarry every year.
Jane listens as I tell her the last part.
I set the whiskey bottle on the ground. “Skylar used to say to our dad, I’m going to be a Marine one day. To piss him off.” My dad used to be die-hard Navy.
Until after my brother died, when I said, “I’m going to be a Marine.” For Sky.
And then he said, “Okay.”
Jane is closer to me. The empathy welled up in her blue eyes says everything. We drift even nearer on the weight bench. Our gazes trailing over one another in burning waves, and her fingers inch towards my thigh.
My hand hovers near her hip. God , I want to touch her.
Don’t.
I want her in my arms.
Don’t.
“Thatcher,” she breathes like she’s already in my embrace.
I dip my head down to hear her. Space shrinking between us. Everywhere.
“I want to tell you,” Jane murmurs, swallowing hard, “just how much I admire you before it’s too late.”
My chest rises and falls heavily. I breathe the scorching air through my nose. Don’t touch her.
Don’t.
Our lips brush.
Don’t .
I clasp her cheek—we crash into each other. Kissing strongly, all restraints wrapping us together. Like seatbelts I’m clicking in while she’s welded against me.
I swiftly pull her onto my lap. Against my chest, my hand running up her thigh. Jane straddles me, gripping the back of my head with starved fingers. I clutch her ass and push her against me. A high-pitched noise catches in her throat.
My large build cocoons her, and she hangs on tight.
“Don’t stop,” she begs.
Every kiss is a resounding stay.
And a touch me.
Touch me.
Please, touch me.
I harden, and I rip her blouse with two hands, and she cries, “Yes .”
My pulse is hammering. I press my forehead to hers, kneading her breast, hidden behind a cotton bra. We kiss in raw, explosive hunger. She tugs my hair, and a grunt knots in my chest.
Muscles flexed, I stand up with Jane around my waist. My hand on her ass, her back. I walk further back into the garage. Behind her Beetle.
She runs her hand along my jaw, down my neck—to my gold chain.
We deepen the kiss, and something heady overtakes me. I cup the back of her neck.
And then I solidify at a noise.
She freezes. “Is that…?” We listen.
“Footsteps,” I whisper, eagle-eyeing the door to security’s townhouse. I hear Akara and Quinn’s voice.
Quickly and carefully, I set her down.
I ripped her blouse. Without pause, I open her car door. She has a zebra-print sweater in the backseat, and I hand it to her.
“Thank you.” She slips her arms through. I go grab my radio and hide the whiskey further beneath the weight bench.
The door is about to open.
We’re both tense. We’re both pent-up.
In her urgency, she buttons the sweater unevenly.
“You need to go, Jane.” I nod to her townhouse. I hate saying that, but Akara and Quinn can’t see her like this.
She nods in agreement, and she quickly heads to the other door. To her townhouse. She glances back. “À la prochaine.” Until next time.
And she’s gone.
It’s like a fucking pumpkin is beginning to form and I can’t stop it.
38
THATCHER MORETTI
Akara came into the garage because I went off-duty. I shut off comms. And something else just happened outside the townhouse.
Something surrounding Jane.
We just finished taking care of the threat. My muscles can’t unbind. My shoulders are locked, and I yank open the fridge in security’s townhouse and grab a beer. Pop the cap, and I pass the bottle to Akara.
“Thanks, man.” Akara swigs, leaning on the stove. It’s been hectic tonight.
“You should have one, too,” Banks tells me, eyeing the beer. My brother sits on the counter and sticks a toothpick between his teeth. His brows knot and his gaze narrows on the stitched cut along my bicep.
I shake my head and pass him a beer.
I’ve already been drinking whiskey. And I need to be more alert. “I should stay sober until these fucking targets die down.”
“It could be months,” Akara warns me. “The police still don’t know who broke into the house, and now she has a habitual stalker jerking off outside her window.”
I cross my arms over my taut chest. My nose flares.
Banks tips his beer to Akara. “It’s good that you’re the one who caught Sneakers getting his rocks off in his car. Thatcher would’ve killed him.”
I stay unmoving but send a glare to my brother. The middle-aged man who dresses in baggy jeans, white sneakers , and carries around roses—he’s been on my radar since the Cinderella ad. And Akara spotted him masturbating in his parked car before our around-the-clock security outside did.