Does he even want to know about your orgasms, Jane?
He’s stoic. Not breaking eye contact, but his hands have paused unzipping his backpack.
I speak faster. “Which just means that I’m not one-hundred percent positive I’ll be the very best at faking an orgasm—but I am excited to try. Truly.”
I can’t blink.
My face is most definitely on fire.
“So…” I keep going. Why am I still going? “There’s that.”
Positive endnote. Let me survive this.
Thatcher is quiet, not unusual for him. His eyes are still on me. Still burning me alive. I shouldn’t like that.
But in this moment, I don’t want him to stare at anything or anyone but me.
His deep, husky voice fills the room. “So I’m the first guy you’ll be faking an orgasm with.”
He says it like it’s a fact. Which I suppose it is. But I doubt that’d make anyone feel good.
I lean my hip on the nightstand. “Factually, yes—but if we were really having sex, there’s a high probability that I’d orgasm.” I’m unblinking. Unmoving.
Frozen.
His biceps seem to flex. “Not a high probability.”
“No?” I hang on the edge of his words.
“If I put my cock in your pussy, there’s a hundred-percent certainty you’d orgasm in my arms. More than twice.”
Oh my God.
I cross my ankles. Somehow still standing, but I press my thighs harder together. Pulsating. “Good to know,” I say as diplomatically as I can. “We’re on the same page then.”
It’s all very professional here.
Thatcher nods, but his shoulders seem more bound. He’s on-duty, on guard, is all. He pulls out a taser and water bottle from his backpack. When he stands, he feels even taller, or maybe I feel shorter.
With a confident stride, he heads nearer, and I shift out of the way so he can open the nightstand drawer. He stores the taser and then removes his holstered gun off his waistband. Sliding in the second weapon before closing the drawer.
I realize he has to sleep on this side of the bed. It’s closest to the door.
Thatcher touches his earpiece, then clicks his mic. “Solid copy.”
I’ve decided that watching him work is utterly captivating. And I have a front row seat each and every day.
He unscrews his water bottle. Veins in his arm muscles are more noticeable as he tips the bottle of water to his mouth.
I can’t think…he is so…
My breath shallows. How am I going to survive? Okay, you packed your favorite vibrator. I can go into the bathroom tonight. All will work in my favor.
I take a measured breath.
Thatcher wipes his mouth with the back of his palm. He offers me his water, holding the bottle.
I press my lips together, a smile pulling my cheeks. I should decline. “Thank you,” I say, my hand already reaching out to accept.
Oh, you are done for, Miss Jane Eleanor.
We never look away from one another, and I take a small sip. I am parched.
Just not for water.
When I finish, I pass the water bottle back to my bodyguard. “Should I test the bed?”
He nods and checks his watch. “We should start before the other guests fall asleep.”
I peel off my chunky heels, and I notice the bed has a hefty iron-rung headboard. Without much hesitation, I climb up and stand on the mattress.
Box springs squeak, and the bed undulates beneath my feet. I bounce and watch him remove his earpiece and then unclip the mic wire from his collar. He detaches the radio from his waistband and places it on the nightstand.
A fan whirls only a few inches above my head, and I’m careful not to jump too high. “You can’t stand on the bed with me,” I realize. Clearly, he’s too tall.
Thatcher nods, and stepping closer, he grips the headboard. “Jane,” he says with the perfect mix of tenderness and force.
“Yes?” I balance on the creaking bed.
“You’re gonna have to moan.”
20
JANE COBALT
“Right,” I say, my chest rising and falling. I’ve never ached for someone to touch me as terribly as I ache for Thatcher. Desiring his large hands to run down every single plane and valley of my body. On this very bed.
He eyes my breasts for a short fleeting second. “Jane—”
“Mmm,” I moan, starting softly.
Suppressing my orgasms has been a habit lately since I live in a townhouse with thin walls. It’s going to be kind of fun trying to be louder.
Fake louder, Jane.
Thatcher shoves the iron headboard against the wall, the thump simulating aggressive sex perfectly.
“Ahh, yeah, right there ,” I moan, bed squeaking beneath me. “Right there!”
We stare deep into one another, magnetized, the air heady and tense.
“Ohhh yeah!” I try to emulate the best porn I’ve seen.
He quickens the banging of the headboard. The intensity of his brown irises nearly steals my breath altogether.
“Oohhh!” I let out a long moan that sounds nothing like my actual sex noises. A lot is riding on the believability of this task.
And I might just be the reason we fail.
Thatcher suddenly stops rocking the headboard. Being around me so often, he can read my emotions very well. Like how my brows bunch in worry.
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t that bad.”
I think he’s just being sweet. “My moans sound fake.” I try to stay positive. “Maybe I should try a different tactic? More subtle, but then how will guests overhear?” I put my knuckles to my lips, almost lost in thought. “…I don’t know how to make it sound more real than it being real.” My mouth drops slightly. “I didn’t mean—well, I did, but I’m not saying…”
What am I saying?
Our gazes draw to the mattress at the same exact time. We’re thinking the same thing, most surely.
Our eyes catch again.
Thatcher releases his clutch off the headboard. “We don’t have to take our clothes off.”
I nod heartily. “Dry humping, I agree.”
“Enough to make you come.”
Holy… I nearly fall into his arms right there. Legs weak, body shuddering. “Yes,” I whisper, slowly lowering to my knees so I don’t face-plant into my bodyguard.
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 the back instead of taking the bottom of the fabric and tugging it up and off. Their way is such an odd method, but it looks extraordinarily sexy. 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 his eight abs—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.
Our mouths are a breath apart.
I clench between my legs, aching for his hardness. “That was…nice.” I swallow a shallower breath. “Really…very…” nice. Our lips naturally drift closer.