Page 68 of The Sleight Before Christmas

“Daddy, what did you do?” Gracie finally asks a few infuriating minutes into the ride—no doubt because of Thatch’s taunting perma-smile.

“Your daddy made a friend in the store,” he coos, “and Mommy got mad.”

“Only because you like to boast about your installing skills!” I counter.

“Naw, baby,” he squeezes my knee, “that wasall you.”

“Well, go back and set up an appointment for all I give a shit.”

His jaw ticks. “I haven’t made an appointment with another in over two decades.”

“Could have fooled me,” I snap.

“Gracie,” Thatch says calmly, “do you know that I never had a girlfriend before I met your mom?

I whip my head toward him.

“Refused to. Never dated a girl for longer than two months. Never wanted to. But the first time I saw your mother, I became a one-woman man.”

When Gracie doesn’t gag, I turn back to see her listening intently, her eyes darting between me and her father, a small smile curving her lips. Her reaction stuns me briefly.

No gag?

No fake puke?

No ‘erm my gawd.’

Scrutinizing Gracie a little, his attempt to appease me misfires when his son pipes up from his car seat. “Daddy makes new friendsall the time, Mommy,” Peyton informs.

Thatch eyes his son in the rearview, uttering a low “demon” though his smirk deepens with every mile.

Still fuming as I open the bathroom door, I don’t even detect Thatch until he’s pushed me back inside, shut it, and pinned me to the back of it. Chest to my back, he leans in on a heated whisper. “You proud of yourself, Brat? Like making a scene?”

“Let go of me right now, asshat.” He only tightens his grip as heat that only makes me angrier starts to gather below. “I mean it, Thatch.”

“I don’t take orders, baby. Not in here.”

Gripping my hip, he yanks it back, running his hard cock along my backside, his words heated as he continues to taunt me. “Threw a little fit, didn’t you? Good and fucking proper, I’m thinking maybe you need to be fucked that way. Thinking maybe the vigilant, doting husband isn’t quite doing it for you lately.”

“You’re thinking too much about me, and it’s not reciprocal,” I snap as he continually runs his cock along the flimsy material of my leggings which are doing little to nothing to barricade the feel of him. Shifting behind me, I’m pressed harder againstthe door as his zipper sounds. In the next second, my hand is snatched behind me and wrapped around the naked feel of him.

“It’s goingsomewhere, Brat. In your fucking mouth, in your pussy, and I swear to God, Serena, if you put up much more of a fight, I’ll take your ass, too.”

“Thatch,” I groan, my blood heating to level insanity as I feel it all—the rush of nostalgia but also the feel of him in the here and now—of his want of me in the here and now. Of my attraction for the man he is. Electricity plays at my fingertips as I jerk against him, resisting him while feeding into our long game.

“I believe you’re the one who just pitched a bitch about the thought of another woman trying to take what’s yours. Well, here I am, baby. Hard as I’ve ever fucking been. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

My lips curl up, and I purposefully poke the beast within as I scoff, all too ready to play. “Don’t flatter yourself. Been there, done that. I’m good.”

“Yeah?” He quickly rids me of my hoodie, issuing more venom as he unhooks my bra and rips it from my arms, pinning me again with his cock alone against the door. “Let’s see how‘done that’wet you fucking are.”

In an instant, my leggings and panties are peeled down to my thighs before he’s running the fat head of his cock up and down my soaked slit. My palms against the door, heavy breasts heaving, I push back against him in offering, anxious for the overly full feel of him. Clit pulsing in anticipation as he wraps my hair into his fist, I angle my head slightly to view us in the mirror and lose my breath at the sight that greets me. His shirt is also absent. From this vantage point, Thatch is all hard lines, his profile drawn into a lethal mix. Both of us naked from the waist up, our pants down mid-thigh, his menacing posture alone spurs me on. His disposition distant but familiar. Absolutely everything about the sight of him sets me alight. Head tilteddown, eyes fixed, he looks utterly consumed by the sight of himself—of us—as he continually teases me with the head of his cock, too distracted to notice I’m watching his every move. It’s when he presses an inch into me, my hair now fisted as he covers one of my hands with his own on the door, that he starts his slow torture.

“Maybe I should fuck with you,” he hisses, feeding me another inch, which is just enough to set me on edge as I feign all calm.

“Maybe you should try to prove whatever point you’re trying to make,Handy Man.”

“Nah,” I catch his smirk in our reflection as he pulls out completely. “Not going to work today. You think I don’t know what games you play?”

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