We don’t get last place, but we don’t win. Right after Maggie uncuffs us, we take home a solid third place victory, a souvenir pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, and a gift certificate good for a romantic dinner for two at the local steakhouse. Thatcher asks me out on a real date, and I for the life of me, can’t think of a reason to say no.
My life is wide open now.
I have no job, no fiancé, and nothing tying me down to Chicago.
I don’t even have a return ticket.
Other than the serious lack of funds, I have no reasonnotto move to Caribou Creek. I realize I might wake up tomorrow morning and decide this whole idea is crazy. But tonight, while it’s still the holiday that celebrates love, I want to give into the fantasy that I could truly build a life here—with Thatcher.
Because my bed is stripped and the sheets are still in the washing machine, Thatcher carries me down the hall to his temporary room.
“It almost feels like we’re doing something naughty,” I say as he kicks the door closed.
“Why, because I snuck a girl into my bedroom when Mom and Dad aren’t home?” Thatcher says, pulling off my sweater.
“Well, yeah.”
“Ifthatmakes you feel naughty, just wait. The night is young.”
He trails his hands up and down my stomach, my sides, my lower back. My bra clasp loosens with expert ease, and I nearly go blind when he runs his hands up beneath the loose fabric, cupping both breasts.
I shrug out of my bra as he tugs off his shirt. Dozens of tattoos cover his chest, his stomach, his arms. I could spend hours memorizing them all with my lips. I want to ask what each one represents, but then he cups my tits again, bringing his mouth to one nipple, and my ability to form coherent thoughts disappears.
It’s intoxicating watching the way he takes his time, circling his tongue around each pebbled nipple. His gaze flickers up to mine, the whiskey color turning dark chocolate. It reminds me of feeding him a dipped strawberry at the bakery. The way he licked my fingers as I held onto the stem.
With shaky hands, I reach for the button on his jeans. It takes a few attempts, but finally it gives. I tug down the zipper next, slipping my hand inside as Thatcher continues to enjoy my tits. I stroke him softly through the cotton fabric of his boxers, marveling at how hard he is. Howbighe is. Has he been hiding this giant pleasure rod all this time? Fuck me.
“You know what might be fun?” he says, gently biting a nipple.
“What’s that?”
“Using the handcuffs.”
“But wejustgot out of them,” I say on a laugh.
“I want to use them on you,” he clarifies. “If you trust me.”
“Of course I trust you, Thatch. I’ve always trusted you.”
We strip each other down until I’m left in nothing but a pair of silk panties. My attempts to rid Thatcher of his boxers are thwarted when he guides me to the bed, fuzzy pink handcuffs in hand. I lie on my back, lifting my hands over my head where he proceeds to loop the cuffs through the headboard.
“Youdohave the key, right?” I ask before he secures the second cuff.
“It’s in my jeans.”
“If you’re wrong,youget to explain this to your parents when they get home.”
“Deal.” He straddles my hips, locking my second hand into a fuzzy cuff. “Now be a good girl and let me have my way with you, Blaire.”
He sits up, still straddling my hips, and looks at me.Reallylooks at me. I don’t feel as exposed as I expect. I feal treasured and desired.
“So fucking beautiful.” His voice is gravely in a way I’ve never heard it, but the pooling wetness between my legs approves.
Thatcher takes his time, trailing fingertips across my skin. I watch his hard length grow inside those boxers, and it makes me so desperate to feel him inside me I can hardly think straight. How is it possible I’ve never noticed him this way before? Aside from a teenage girl’s crush all those years ago, I can’t believe I never looked at this man like I’m looking at him now. Like Icravehim.
Maybe I’ve never allowed myself to.
He rocks forward to kiss me, grinding his hips against mine as he slides down.
