Page 85 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

I lick the syrup off the fork and lift a brow at him. “I heard the rumors. The Reapers are covering up Jack’s death, and people on campus are suspicious now.”

“It was foul play,” he says, watching my mouth.

“And how do the police know that?”

“Let’s go, Dove,” he says, his tone casual, as if we’re not having a vital conversation right now. I need to know this information. I need to know he’s keeping me safe.

I narrow my eyes at him, staying seated for a moment longer, unwilling to let him change the subject. “Not until you answer my question.”

Thatcher pauses, one brow quirking upward as he looks down at me, his grin never faltering.

“It’s none of your business.”

“But it is,” I say firmly, crossing my arms. “You came inside of me today in the backseat of your car. If you ask me to kiss you, I kiss you. If you ask me to fuck, I fuck you. I’m keeping my end of the bargain, so my question is, are you?”

He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm, but there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “You’re not in charge here, Dove?”

I smirk. “No?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

I nod, holding his gaze, my arms still crossed. “Then you can leave without me.”

Thatcher settles back into the booth, his smirk lingering as he stretches out, his posture completely unbothered. The faint brush of his legs against mine under the table sends a jolt up my spine, but I refuse to react.

His eyes flick to mine, dark and heated. “Are you sure you can handle that?”

I narrow my eyes at him, determined not to let his tone or the way his legs deliberately press lightly against mine fluster me, but I can’t control the flush that creeps up my chest when I feel the tip of his sneaker brushing up my bare calf.

“My ‘leaving’ is very very different from the one you have in mind,” he pauses, and I feel his foot trail higher. “If I leave…” He presses his foot against my center. “Then that’s it.”

I glare at him as he removes his foot.

“You sure you’re ready for that, Dove? I thought we had a deal. I swear you said those two words. Hmm, what were they?”

“I hate your games,” I whisper.

He smirks at me, his satisfaction unmistakable.

“Learn to play, or you’ll lose,” he quips, leaning back in the booth with an infuriatingly casual air, as if he’s completely unfazed.

“This is so stupid,” I snap, my voice tight as I push back my hair from my face, hoping the motion masks the slight tremble in my hands.

His smirk softens at the edges, and for a fleeting moment, something gentler flickers in his gaze. “Relax, Dove,” he murmurs, his tone dropping just enough to be heard only byme. “You’re the one making this a big deal. I promised you protection. I didn’t agree to tell you how.”

The words sting, and I grit my teeth, glaring at him. “Thatcher, nobody can know it was—”

He cuts me off by leaning forward and pressing a kiss to my forehead. The kiss catches me completely off guard, silencing whatever words had been on the tip of my tongue. It’s brief, barely more than a brush of lips but it feels like a lightning strike—hot, startling.

I freeze, my breath hitching as the room seems to tilt for a moment. When he pulls back, his smirk is still there, but it’s softened into something else, something almost... tender?

“Apologize and kiss me,” he demands.

I roll my eyes, and he grabs my face.

“Dove.”

“Thatcher. I am so sorry.” I lean into him and kiss his lips.

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