Page 90 of Cold Comeback
His hands hovered at my shoulders, unsure. I let him get a grip and direct me, letting him know I was good with whatever he wanted.
He let me set the pace, but after a minute, he took control, hands guiding my head with gentle authority. It was the hottest thing I'd ever experienced.
When I felt him get close, I slowed, pulling away, letting his cock slap gently against his stomach. He made a noise of protest, but I crawled up, straddling his hips, forcing eye contact. "You said you wanted whatever I wanted. So, let me have it."
He made a strangled sound, half laugh, half groan. "You have no idea how much I want that."
I braced myself on either side of his head, trapping him, and bent to kiss him again. He tasted like sweat and desperation, tongue insistent against mine, hands roaming everywhere—my back, my ass, my chest. I fumbled for my bedside drawer and groped blindly inside, hand closing around a small box and bottle.
He took the box from my hand, flicked it open, and rolled the condom down onto me with a practiced touch. His fingers lingered on the base, and then he looked up at me from under his lashes—almost shy, but not quite. "You're an overachiever even in bed."
I blushed, which was ridiculous, but my whole body was already in that state where everything felt raw and overexposed. "You want to keep score?" I pushed.
"Always," he said, then rose on his elbows and bit my jaw, gentle but possessive.
I slicked my fingers and reached for him, circling his rim until the tension in his thighs gave way. He arched into my hand and made a low sound in his throat. He was looser than I expected. He didn't boss me, didn't give orders, just let me take the lead.
I worked him open slowly, savoring the way his hands gripped the bedspread, and how his toes curled.
He took the second and third fingers easily, impatient, greedy for them.
"You can—fuck, Gideon, just—"
I lined myself up, hands braced on either side of his shoulders, and waited. One more half-second, making sure he wanted it. His legs came up around my waist, and he pulled me the rest of the way in.
The first thrust was slow, deliberate, the heat of him so intense I had to grind my teeth together not to come right then.Thatcher's mouth dropped open, a shaky exhale escaping, and he locked his ankles behind my back to pull me deeper.
"You—" He cut himself off with a choked sound, then repeated it, softer. "You feel so fucking good."
I pressed in, slow at first, letting him adjust. When I bottomed out, we stayed there, locked together, soaking in the weight of it. It wasn't a conquest, a performance, or a way to shut out the world. It was him and me, and no walls between us.
"Move," he said, his voice a soft growl. I did, though not hard or wild, only a steady, grinding rhythm that made the headboard bump the wall in time with my pulse.
His hands tangled in my hair, nails scraping my scalp, and he pulled me down for a kiss so deep I felt it in my toes.
Thatcher's words broke through, half-laughed, half-gasped, "Is this how you plan to end the documentary? You're doing a bang-up job of making it emotionally satisfying."
I could barely breathe enough to answer, but I managed, "If they want a climax, let's give them one."
Thatcher's laughter shivered through me. I could have spent the rest of my life there, splitting the difference between joking and desperate need.
His body took over. He hooked his knees higher around my waist, changing the angle, and I went deeper, hips snapping forward.
He cried out—no words, only raw sound—and arched into the bed, head thrown back. He gritted his teeth, fighting it.
"Come on," I whispered, right in his ear, every syllable a challenge. "You know you want to."
He broke then, not with a scream, but the kind of quiet gasp that made my chest feel like it was on fire. He came hard, shuddering, clamping around me so tight I nearly lost it right then.
I barely managed one more thrust before I followed, heat flooding through every nerve, like coming home and burning down the house at the same time.
We ended up in a tangle, sweaty and shaking, the sharp edges of his jaw pressed into my neck, and our legs tangled together. Thatcher started laughing, soft at first, then wild enough to shake the mattress.
"What?" I asked, fingers tracing lazy circles on his back.
He buried his face in the pillow, then looked at me, smile wide and unguarded. "I just realized—I never thought I'd get to fuck my captain. It was a fantasy in my head before I got here."
"Technically, you didn't," I said, nuzzling his ear. "You made the captain do all the work."
