Page 76 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

But as we step out of the building, the conversation dies on my lips. Standing near the curb, leaning casually against his Tesla is Thatcher.

His presence hits like a cold gust of wind, wiping away the fleeting lightness I’d been holding onto.

I’m not going to lie. I am shocked to see him.

“Hey,” I say, no longer listening to Cassidy.

Cassidy notices him at the same time I do, her cheerful chatter coming to an abrupt halt. “Oh, no,” she mutters, her tone laced with both annoyance and disbelief.

“Wait here,” I tell her and then I approach Thatcher.

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” I ask.

His gaze sharpens, his posture stiffening as he steps closer. “It seems like you don’t remember the terms, baby. I own you, your time, your body…” his words trail off as his eyes flick down to my lips…and lower.

A shiver races down my spine. His gaze cuts through me and I feel so exposed, basically unclothed. I clench my arms tighter around myself, willing the unease to transform into something solid—anger, defiance, anything that doesn’t leave me feeling bare.

“Don’t,” I let out. His eyes snap back up to mine, sharp and deliberate, and the smirk tugging at his lips deepens. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Don’t what, dove?” he asks, his tone dripping with mock innocence, his words deliberately slow, like he’s savoring every syllable.

I force myself to stand taller, my arms still wrapped around my body like armor. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t talk to me likethat. Just…don’t.” My voice wavers on the last word, betraying the frustration and unease swirling in my chest.

His smirk shifts into something darker, his gaze unrelenting as he takes another step forward. “Get in,” he says simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I hesitate and my chest tightens as I glance back at Cassidy.

“Are you leaving with him?” she asks, storming closer to us.

“Stay out of it,” Thatcher cuts in, his voice low and clipped, a warning simmering beneath the surface.

Cassidy doesn’t flinch. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, asshole,” she fires back, her tone ice cold.

I feel the walls closing in, the weight of both their eyes pressing down on me. My pulse thunders in my ears, and for a moment, I wish I could disappear.

I look at Cassidy, her concern burning through the frost in her voice. She narrows her eyes, suspicious of Thatcher. “Rhea—”

“Relax, Cass. I’ll be okay,” I cut her off, sharper this time. I can’t let her drag me further into this confrontation.

Thatcher’s smirk shifts, his gaze gleaming with something unreadable.

“No,” she snaps. “You just said we could go for coffee.”

Thatcher shakes his head. “Not anymore. Come on, Dove. Get in.”

I give her a sorry expression and then get into the Tesla.

I force myself to move, sliding into the passenger seat. The leather is cool against my skin, and the air inside the car feels heavy, stifling. I stare straight ahead as he closes the door behind me. The engine roars to life, but he doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he looks at me, his expression unreadable, the silence between us crackling with tension.

“What the hell did you tell her?” he asks, staring at her through the window.

When he drives off, I can’t bring myself to look at her. I say, “I didn’t tell her anything. Somehow, she knows about the Reapers, and she thinks someone in the Reapers killed Jack that night, and it’s being covered up.”

He smirks wickedly at me, rubbing my thigh, unashamed. His hand climbs higher, and I stop him before he can reach my center.

He glances at me and chuckles. “My poor little Dove,” he mocks. “You had to pretend you didn’t know who the killer was, didn’t you? She has no idea she’s best friends with a murderer.”

“Can you not,” I plead. “Please.”

---