Page 36 of Cold Comeback
"At him?"
My eyes met Thatcher's. "At the idea of losing you."
My words were honest, terrifying, and nothing like the careful captain-speak I'd mastered.
Thatcher leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Gideon."
The way he said my name—quiet, certain—undid the remaining shreds of my careful distance.
I crossed the space between our beds and sat beside him. Our thighs touched. He smelled like hospital soap.
"I needed to know I was real again," he whispered.
"You're real. I see you."
He touched my thigh. I reached out and tangled my fingers in his hair.
When our lips met, it wasn't desperate like before—it was careful at first, reverent, his tongue tracing mine like he was memorizing me. Then, the reverence broke, and it was teeth, heat, and the grind of his hips, like he'd been starving for this.
"Gideon," he breathed. My hands trembled as I reached for his shirt.
I don't tremble. I don't fall apart.
"Are you sure?" His fingertips followed the ridge of my collarbone, deliberate and searching. "Because I need this to be real. Not just—not just you taking care of me because I got hurt."
His words hit hard. He wasn't asking if I wanted sex. He asked if I saw him as more than another problem to solve—another teammate to manage.
I caught his wrist and held his hand against my ribs. "You think I'm here out of duty?"
I needed to see his face when I pushed him back against the pillows. Needed to watch how his features shifted and what made his breathing change. Control had always meant knowing exactly what would happen next.
Thatcher's hands wrapped around the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and suddenly the script flipped. His thumb traced a small scar near my jaw.
"I wondered about this," he whispered, lips following the path his thumb had made.
He'd been watching. Really watching. Noticing details about me the same way I'd been stealing glances at him.
"Is this okay?" I pressed my palm flat against his chest.
"Mmmhmm."
I pushed his shirt up, exposing a band of pale skin just below his ribs. His skin was hot under my hands, solid muscle twitching.
After I worked the buttons open, he watched me, eyes wide and searching. I kissed a spot above his heart, then lower, nuzzling the salt of his sweat.
I traced a circle around a nipple with my tongue, slow and deliberate, until he arched his back and moaned softly.
"Fuck," I hissed.
Thatcher wriggled out of his shirt, tossing it to the floor with a soft, nervous laugh.
"Your turn," he whispered. His fingers fumbled at the buttons of my shirt, tentative at first, then bolder. I let him undress me, holding his gaze as the fabric peeled away and my skin prickled in the cool air.
He traced my ribs, counting them like piano keys. His lips were softer than expected, almost gentle, and I had to close my eyes to hold myself together.
We kissed again.
We didn't need to go further, but it didn't stop us from pushing the boundary—his hand sliding low against my jeans, mine gripping him hard, both of us chasing the friction until every nerve in my body screamed his name.
