Page 142 of Sinful Like Us
It rumbles to life beneath my ass.
Dear God.
My body shakes with the vibration.
Arousal builds, and I inhale another lungful of his scent. “It’s more of a feminine fragrance than what you wear…” I freeze.
All rational thinking vacates my brain. Becauserationally,I trust Thatcher and know he’d never cheat on me.Rationally, there are only three other girls in this house, and two are my cousins.
There has to be another reason.
Yet, my mind places him in this moment with other girls. Where he’s loving, sexy, and assured, all for them. My stomach overturns and clenches.
I could never share him with another woman, I realize.
“Luna was spraying her body mist in the living room.” He seizes my gaze with a look of unadulterated fealty. He must know what I was concluding, and instead of being hurt at the unwarranted assumption, he just wants to reassure me.
I love him.
I expect fear to be exterminated at the thought of love and Thatcher, but a bit lingers. Like a thorny vine ensnared around my heart, one my head refuses to snip.
Give yourself to him.
He can’t promise that I won’t lose my agency. It’s something that I have to work through on my own, and what if it takes years?
At least I understand the fear. I suppose that’s the first step in learning to let go and move forward. I just hope I can.
I nod, easing some. “It does smell like Luna.”
“She said she was winterizing the house, and I got hit with it.” He grips the back of his white tee, pulling the fabric off over his head. His sculpted abs come into view, dog tags lying against natural hair on his chest.
He spreads my thighs in one swift movement, my dangling legs no longer obstructing the washer door. My lungs expand and contract in heavy waves.
His hand brushes away my blanket and tulle skirt—to plant on my bare thigh like it has found a home, a resting place, a heaven and hell and will not move unless some exorcist performs a ritual.
If eyes could be lip-locked, ours are attached in desirous, soul-bound fashion, and I’m not ready to look to the left or right.
I just want him.
His fingers press into my soft flesh as he tosses the shirt in the washer/dryer, and then he knees the door shut. “I don’t want to smell like Luna’s body mist.”
“Fair point,” I breathe.
My eyes glide down his chest, and a thousand animalistic thoughts stampede in my head. There are risks involved with having sex in the laundry room with Thatcher who’s pretending to be Banks.
Yet…
“Thatcher.” His name is throaty and desperate off my lips, and my arms swoop back around his neck. He shoves into the embrace. Until our lips unite in a blistering, soul-bodied kiss. His fingers on top of my panties, massaging me above the fabric.
A moan strangles our kiss.
Mymoan.
His free hand cups the back of my head, strong and controlled. He deepens the intensity of the kiss like he can put my noises to bed.
The muscles in my belly tighten. Nerves firing in too many places to make sense. The friction on my clit, the vibration under my bottom, the taste of him on my lips—it’s a full-body sensation and I’m being submerged under it all.
Between our kisses, I remind him, “Your laptop.”
