Warm like honey.
“You sleep good?”
I nod, heart flipping as I tuck the sheet around myself like some Victorian heroine, which is laughable considering he’s seen—and tasted—every inch of me.
Still.
Old habits die hard.
He walks toward me with that same steady, quiet confidence that makes me want to stare and squirm all at once.
He sits beside me on the bed and leans in for a kiss.
I panic just a little. And I close my mouth, cheeks flaming, and press my lips together.
His land on mine anyway—gentle, not pushing—and then he pulls back with an amused frown.
“What’s this?”
I let out a laugh, muffled behind my hands.
“I need to brush,” I mumble.
Thatcher’s grin is instant and wide. Unapologetically pleased with himself.
Show-off. He already smells like mint and soap and smugness.
“I see how it is,” he murmurs. “Well, the bathroom’s all yours. I put your toiletries bag by the sink.”
“Thank you.” I smile at him, and the warmth in my chest grows.
Tentative. Fragile. Real.
He leans down and kisses the top of my head, then stands and stretches, muscles shifting, and my gaze follows the happy trail of dark hair down his abs until it disappears beneath his low slung jeans.
I take a breath, steel myself, and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
Still wearing his flannel.
Still sore in all the best ways.
The hem hits just under my butt, so I know I’m technically decent—but when I stand and realize he’s watching me walk, my cheeks flame.
God.
Why does it suddenly feel like walking across the room is the most nerve-wracking thing in the world?
“You’re so fucking cute,” he growls.
I gasp, but I don’t turn around.
Then, I hear him chuckle low behind me, and it takes everything in me not to trip over my own feet.
This man is going to ruin me.
I think I might let him.
CHAPTER 29
