The silence stretches, thick and charged.
“No?” he murmurs. “Then what do you want, Baby? Tell me.”
My heart slams against my ribs, but my voice doesn’t waver.
“I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
He moves like something unleashed, a low sound rumbling out of his chest that goes straight through me.
His hand closes in the collar of the flannel I’m wearing—his shirt—and pulls me flush against him.
My hands come up instinctively, gripping his skin, and I swear I’ve never felt anything so solid, so real.
Muscle under my palms. Heat. Strength.
The rough scrape of his stubble when his mouth claims mine.
He tastes like the mountain—clean and wild and unapologetically male—and I melt into it, into him, into the freedom of wanting without shame.
I was freezing before.
Now I’m burning.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against mine, breath heavy, control hanging by a thread.
“Off,” he growls softly, hands sliding with intent.
And I don’t hesitate.
Not this time.
Not ever again.
“You first,” I tell him, and his eyes go wide.
He sucks in a breath.
I move back and sit on the bed in my panties and tank.
Thatcher’s eyelids drop, and he does what I say.
He takes off his clothes.
And. I. Am. Floored.
I’ve never been to a male review, but I’ve seen that Channing Tatum movie, and I swear to God not one of those men has a thing on Thatcher McCrae taking off his clothes.
I grab the hem of my tank top, and I pull it over my head just as he pushes down his pants, taking his boxers with them.
He groans as I cup my tits.
And I whimper when he takes his cock in his fist.
“Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs.
I want to tell him he is too, but I can’t speak. Not yet.
