Thatcher laughs as he pulls me toward the bedroom. “Yeah?”
“Hell yeah.” We get to his room, and I practically push him onto the bed. “It’s all I could think about on the road.”
We go about the quick business of getting our own clothes off between kisses and attempts to get each other naked as quickly as possible. When Thatcher is all spread out for me, I can’t help but stare. He’s easily the sexiest man I have ever seen.
I kiss him, desperate to feel him against me, so I get greedy, too eager to have him in my mouth to linger.
With one knee on each side of his hips, I roll my body against his, watching his head go back against the pillow and the pulse beat hard at his throat.
I can tell by his body language he’s not used to being the center of attention. Of course he isn’t. He’s a single dad who repairs church steps because it needs doing and took care of me just because I was exhausted.
“You took such care of me last night, Gabe. It’s my turn.”
The permission in my words seems to relax him. Thatcher lets out a filthy sound when I slide down and position myself to wrap my mouth around him, something like a curse or a groan. But he puts his hands in my hair, seemingly to ground himself rather than to direct anything. It feels damn good to be grounded like that, as the rest of me seems lighter than air.
I use my hand to tease him, to roll his heavy balls and see what he likes, and the salty burst across my tongue tells me all I need to know.
“Rory,” he says, a little breathlessly.
I work him over, getting so damn turned on that I want to touch myself for relief, but I’m much more focused on Thatcher.
“Not going to last much longer,” he warns, and I can tell by the way his hand clutches his thigh that he’s close. Not to mention the staccato breaths he pants out.
I pull out every trick in the book to get him there and blow his mind. I love giving a blow job as much as I like getting one, and Thatcher’s reactions have me almost frantic.
The weight of his cock in my mouth, the feel and taste of him is all intoxicating.
Thatcher clutches my head, not too hard, not pulling my hair . . . careful even in the climax of his passion. He moans and I tease him through it, loving the taste of him on my tongue and not popping off until I know he’s almost too sensitive.
He pulls me to him, his kisses languid and deep, then he rolls me under him, pulling my borrowed pajama pants down.
Without hesitation he scoots down and takes his turn.
My back arches when his mouth covers my cock, mouthing over the length. He’s not new to this, but I can tell it’s been a while for him. Not that it matters. Within a minute I’m cursing under my breath, trying not to explode too soon.
“Gabe—” I warn as the euphoria of an impending climax rolls up my spine and crawls across my skull.
Thatcher ignores my warning and takes most of my release, and I watch as he continues to stroke me with his hand, all while purposefully pulling back so some of it lands on him. Across his chest.
Lying there, still panting, I see the possessive look that crosses his face when he sees my release on his skin. My spent dick tries to rally at that look and comes impressively close.
We tangle back together, skin and kisses and a bit of sticky release mashed between us.
By the time we clean up, Thatcher suggests lunch out and then the grocery store so we can make dinner together. He even insists on us starting a load of my laundry at his house, and it’s so normal it makes my head spin. But Thatcher says it so matter-of-factly it just seems logical. The obvious things we should be doing on a Monday.
So we make our way to the local grocery store. The first weird thing about grocery shopping with Thatcher is that it feels . . . domestic. Not because I haven’t done it before—I’ve done plenty of late-night snack runs and emergency re-ups on Advil after road games—but this is different.
We’re in public. Together. And we’re not avoiding each other anymore.
Not at all. We’re very obviously placing items into the same cart.
The cart has actual ingredients in it—vegetables, dried beans, some fancy cheese Jamie likes. More vegetables for one week than I’ve bought in my entire life. My grocery order is generally nothing but frozen waffles, frozen meals, and energy drinks.
“You going to carry that?” he asks, nodding toward the big bag of oranges I’m juggling like I’ve never seen a produce section before.
I shrug. “You like it when I carry things.”
He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting it. Then he leans over, pretends to look at a bag of rice, and mutters, “You’re an idiot.” And he places the rice in the cart.
