Page 89 of Cold Comeback
"This isn't an interview. This is—" He kissed me again, tongue parting my lips, and I forgot the rest of the sentence.
I let him take off my shirt, and his shirt hit the floor at the same time.
Thatcher's body was harder than mine, lean and cut. He looked like an elite athlete, only ruined a little by the dark circles under his eyes.
He leaned in, his mouth catching the edge of my jaw, causing me to shudder.
Thatcher grinned. "You're shaking. Am I that intimidating?"
"You wish."
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and tugged. "You want me to—"
"Yes," I said. I didn't know what question I was answering, but it was Thatcher, so it had to be true.
He knelt astride my hips. His hands slid up my bare chest, thumbs tracing over the edges of my pecs and the sculpted ridges of my abdomen.
He dipped his head, sucked a mark into my collarbone, and laughed when I gasped. "I want to see how many places I can get you to react," he said, and left a trail of teeth across my chest, fast and then slow.
"Sadist," I growled.
"Only in the best way."
He bent and put his mouth over my nipple, biting just sharp enough to get a reaction out of me, then soothed the sting with his tongue. I bucked up under him, and he pinned my shoulders to the mattress with both hands.
"You don't have to be polite," Thatcher murmured. "I know you like it rougher."
I did, but I wasn't ready to admit it and always had to guard my back.
I ran my fingers up the back of his neck and yanked him down for a kiss, smashing our mouths together until my teeth hurt.
Thatcher was half hard, denim tight at the crotch. I wanted him—had always wanted him.
He broke away long enough to drag his jeans down his thighs. I kicked mine off in a tangle. I was achingly hard, pulse hammering in my ears, but I wanted to take my time. I wanted to memorize the shape of him.
"You're staring," he said. His comment might have sounded cocky, but it didn't.
"You want me to stop?"
He shook his head. "I want you to do whatever you want."
I rolled us, pinning him to the bed. His hands came up in mock surrender. "You sure?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yeah."
His lips parted, and I kissed his body, tasting the salt of his sweat. I kissed down his neck and over his chest.
I pressed my mouth along his hip bone, teeth scraping just enough to make him jolt. Thatcher's thigh shook against my ribs.
"Fuck," he whispered, and rolled his head back. "You're showing off."
"Maybe." I tugged his boxers down until he was fully exposed. He glanced down at me, cheeks flushed, and for a second, I thought about stopping to see if he'd beg.
That would have been cruel, and I wasn't evil when it came to Thatcher.
My fingers circled his thick shaft. His mouth opened, but he was silent, as if he didn't want to give me the satisfaction of a moan.
I stroked him, slow at first, then faster, watching how the muscles in his abs clenched and fluttered. When I bent and took him into my mouth, he made a sound like I'd punched him in the gut—involuntary, desperate noise.
