Page 45 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

He smirks as his fingers stroke my nape. “I never betray what is mine. You’ll always be safe with me, Dove.”

His words are a promise, each one slipping past my defenses. The turmoil inside me surges, the instinct to protect myself battling against the strange allure of his vow.

I search his eyes, looking for any sign of deception, but the glint in his gaze is steady and unwavering. The part of me that’s always guarded, always afraid of being hurt, warns me to turnaway. But here he is, offering me an escape, a reprieve from the chaos and fear that have followed me for the past week or so.

“And if I change my mind?” I ask. I don’t know if I’m asking for his answer or just to hear my own doubts voiced out loud.

Thatcher’s hand remains firm on my neck, grounding me as his thumb grazes my jaw. “It will be too late.” His eyes soften, but there’s no wavering in his resolve. “By then, you won’t want to leave. Because you’ll know that with me, you will never be scared again.”

There’s a finality in his tone, an assurance that lures me closer to that edge I’ve tried so hard to stay away from. The fear, the attraction, the helpless draw—it all merges into a single pulse, a rhythm that beats in time with the heat of his touch.

I know I’ve lost the fight already.

There’s no turning back once I admit defeat.

I swallow, the words I have fought for so long slip past my lips, changing the trajectory of my life forever. “I’ll do it.” A shiver crawls up my spine. “I’ll be yours.”

A beat of silence passes, the moment anticlimactic as he just holds my gaze until the atmosphere becomes heavy, the tension multiplying.

He leans in, his hand still cradling my neck as his eyes darken. “Then let’s seal it with a kiss and make it official,” he murmurs, his voice a tantalizing dare that sends butterflies rummaging through my entire south region.

I hesitate, but there’s something magnetic in his gaze, drawing me in, daring me to cross that final boundary.

I see his eyes dart to my lips, the heat in them almost searing, before they return to my eyes. “Good things always start with a kiss, Dove.”

A kiss…

It’s just a kiss.

Slowly, I take a step closer, rooting myself firmly in his orbit before closing the gap between our bodies, my lips meeting his. I intended for it to be short, a firm press of lips but it quickly ignites into something far more intense. The heat…the heat that has always been between us flares, and it consume me wholly and thoroughly.

I feel his arm slide across my waist, yanking me closer to him, meshing my body against him until I feel his hardening cock against my belly. The solid weight and heat of his arousal makes me gasp against his lips.

He has me right where he wants me.

His tongue sinks into my mouth, and I almost collapsed from the primal need it ignites in me. He consumes me with his lips moving over mine with a hunger that unravels me, making it impossible to pull back. I’m wrapped in the heady heat of his kiss, his arm securing me against him as though he’s staking his claim, branding me with his touch. The solid press of his body against mine is undeniable, and with every movement, I feel him assert his control, each moment blurring the line between us.

I feel his hand still wrapped around the nape of my neck start to slip downward, across my collarbone, between my breasts, his fleeting touches sending currents through my entire body. His hand skips over my hip and settles between my thighs. I jerk at the sudden invasion, dragging my lips from his and squirming in his hold.

“Thatcher.” My protest is weak. I feel weak and loose, pliant and submissive.

“Don’t fight it, Dove.” The command in his words set something off in me and I find my resistance weakening as I inhale.

His lips descend on mine again, his fingers curving to stroke my center through my jeans. I whimper as heat begins to pool between my legs, my underwear growing embarrassingly wet. Sparks fly across my skin as he draws light, teasingcircles around and around with maddening slowness, exploring, searching. His tongue slips into my mouth again, thrusting in tandem with the movement of his fingers.

He’s fucking me with his mouth.

His fingers still and I feel a jolt pass through me when I realize he has found what he’s been searching for.

I gasp into his mouth when he traces a smaller, more forceful circle around my clit, the pleasure pinging through my every cell. I want to protest, to stop him, to leave but I just can’t bring myself to say a word.

It feels too good.

He continues circling my clit, the pressure of his fingers alternating between light and teasing and firm. The spontaneity of it all takes my breath away.

His lips trace over my skin, my jaw, my neck, leaving little electric bites in their wake. I shudder as my thighs stiffen, my pussy spasming.

“Thatcher,” I moan, despite myself.

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