“Put your hands on me, Gabe,” I whisper, breaking the kiss just long enough to do so. “Fucking touch me.”
I don’t have to tell him twice. He moves into action like he was just waiting for permission.
Thatcher pushes my Iceguard hoodie up, and I practically whine as he keeps his touch from me, not even brushing against my heated skin while he does it.
“Patience,” he whispers, giving me another kiss that doesnothingfor my patience.
He pulls back, watching as my shirt follows the hoodie, then stares at my torso. One long finger traces down the trail of dark hair that runs from my navel to the top of my briefs, and then his hand falls away. I shimmy impatiently, and he chuckles, finally spreading those big hands across my core, pulling my hips and drawing me even closer.
I groan, kissing him with little nips as his work-roughened hands cover my abs, my back, anywhere they can map.
It feels amazing, his touch every bit as sensual as I imagined.
I push against him, needing the friction of my hard dick against his muscled thigh.
“Fuck,” he whispers, one hand sliding into my hair as he drags me in for another kiss, slotting his lean leg between mine.
His other hand finds my belt, but I cover his hand with my own, stopping him.
Thatcher’s eyes find mine, both of us breathing fast with arousal. His pupils are blown, no green to be seen.
“I get to see you too, Thatch,” I tell him before confusion can settle on his handsome features.
I pull his sweatshirt off, leaving him in a threadbare T-shirt that is the stuff of fantasy, given how it clings to his muscled chest and strains over the muscle of his biceps.
I hum in appreciation.
I pull the T-shirt off. Thatch’s stomach is softer than his arms, but still damn sexy.
“You’re hot as fuck, hockey dad.”
He makes that low chuckle I find so damn sexy.
“You’re a professional athlete, Roe.” His words are low and almost a growl. It’s so hot I might combust. He reaches for my waist, thumbs running down the V made by the muscles on my hips. “With the body of one.”
“Yeah?” I ask, going in for another kiss, this one turning frantic as our skin slides against each other as our bare torsos meet.
I may have the athlete’s body, but his makes me hot as hell.
I run my hand down the muscles of his arms and chest—muscles from use and some time at the gym.
My mouth meets his again and I can barely get words out between kisses. “I need—“ With his tongue against mine, I need this and so much more.
Gabe’s strong hand slides against my cheek, cupping my face and holding me in place.
“What?” he whispers, dark eyes finding mine. “What do you need, Rory?”
“Fuck.” My name—the one no one calls me—makes my head fuzzy with the kind of intimacy this truly is.
I push him back against his workbench, going for his belt.
“I want to see you. I want you on me. Everywhere.” I sound a bit frantic because he has me that way. My senses are haywire, so I kiss him again. “Make me come, Thatcher.”
Thatcher fumbles for something on the workbench, then he sets a tin closer to us, knocking the lid halfway off in the process.
“It’s a balm—like thick lotion. I use it on my hands,” he explains, and then groans as I get his pants down to his thighs.
My hands caress his hard length—he’s gorgeous everywhere and his cock is certainly no exception to that.
