“Fuck! Not helping.”
Goddamn his infinite patience as he scrapes his scruff on the inside of my thighs.
“Almost there.”
I clutch his waist, pulling him up to me.
“You have no idea how almost there we are. Get inside me now, Thatcher. I’m not joking.”
Gabe pauses, his eyes full of love and desire. “Yeah?” he asks, but he’s already sliding in.
“Fuck that feels so fucking good, babe.” I arch up, encouraging every inch until he slides home.
“Jesus,” he mutters, holding very still, either for him or me, I don’t know.
His lips meet mine and it’s game over. We both move. He strokes deep and sure and I roll my hips to meet him, not worried about all the noise I’m making when I call out for him to fuck me harder and to not stop.
Ten minutes later, we’re tangled in the sheets with the window cracked open, both of us breathing like we just finished a sprint. His hand is resting low on my stomach. My leg’s slung over his. His mouth brushes my shoulder once, then again.
“That was something” he mumbles, already half asleep.
“Catch your breath, then,” I say. “I want an uncomfortably sore ass for the train ride back. You have work to do.”
He hums and gives me a sleepy chuckle.
“Can do,” he promises, and I seal it with a kiss.
Thatcher falls asleep fast, like he always does when he’s been working late, one arm across my chest, dead weight and warm. I stay awake a little longer, listening to the wind through the cracked window and the hum of this house that always feels so full of life.
I reach for my phone without moving too much. I can feel the lure of a nap pulling me under too, so I want to set an alarm to make sure we’re up before Jamie gets home from school.
One missed call.
Jerry.
I text instead of calling.
Me: Are you serious? I’m only back in Fox River Falls for 72 hours. If the kid burns down the locker room, that’s on you.
A minute later, the reply pings in.
Jerry: I’m not babysitting your loud adopted son. Don’t make me fine him for cussing again.
Me: Please do.Tell him I’m back Monday. He can’t crash the team group chat again until then.
Jerry: Fine. But you owe me a signed puck and dinner with fewer vegetables.
I set the phone down, smile to myself, and let my eyes close.
The bar is nearly done.
Thatcher’s breathing is steady beside me.
Dom will survive a weekend without me.
I snuggle deep into the bed, hoping Thatcher’s scent is forced down into my bloodstream.
***
