I see a wave of emotions cover his face.
“Rory, you—“
I push that hand on his chest a little harder. “I know the score, Gabe. Always have. That’s one thing you should know about me. I can’t see the future, but I don’t bullshit myself about reality.”
I want to make plans based on this, him and me, but he’s not ready to hear that yet. And maybe it’s too new for that, but somewhere deep down I know it isn’t. It’s crazy to me that I can talk about the impending end of my career easier than Thatcher can talk about too far into the future.
He folds the paper again and sets it down gently. “That’s a big deal. The bar.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
Another silence stretches between us, softer now.
I wind my arms around his neck, practically in his lap, but his appreciative noises the closer I get don’t encourage me to stop.
“I’ve been dying to kiss you all day,” I tell him, and he slides his hands to my face, cupping it and kissing me deeply.
Damn, he’s a sexy kisser. It gets me all hot and bothered in no time at all.
“I’ve got road games starting day after tomorrow,” I say between kisses and roaming hands. “Be gone about a week.”
Thatcher nods between kisses. “You packed?”
“Not yet,” I chuckle. I’ve never held a logistics conversation during sexy times.
“You ever pack early?”
I smile into the next kiss. “Nope.”
“How comfortable would you be if we moved this into my bedroom?” he asks.
“You think Jamie’s still up?”
“No, he doesn’t usually come down at night, but you are a little loud.”
My eyes widen. “Sorry about that.”
He gives a bashful grin, a look I haven’t seen on his face before. It’s sexy. “No, I—“ He pauses, hands tracing patterns on my skin where they landed under my shirt. “I like it.” Thatcher’s bedroom eyes have me desperate for whatever he’s going to offer. “I want to make you get loud, Roe.”
I’m off him fast enough to feel it in that damn knee. Still, I pull him up beside me and try to put the couch back to rights or at least looking as if we haven’t been making out on it.
Thatcher stops me, taking the folded contract and carefully tucking it into my front pocket while giving me a look that could halt time.
“Bedroom?” he asks. “A week on the road . . .”
I groan. “Fuck, I could get used to all this,” I tell him, walking him back toward his bedroom but keeping our bodies in contact. “And you had to remind me about the road.”
His smile rises. “Life’s tough, superstar.”
Chapter fourteen
Gabe Thatcher
The Bench Social Media Group
Marge: Thatcher just walked into The Blue Line for one coffee, looking like a man who slept well and sinned better. Hair was a disaster. I’m guessing the Iceguard play out of town and left today.
Riley: He smiled this morning, can confirm.
