"Nope." I reach for the body wash. "But now you owe me one."
His laugh is breathless. "You're going to kill me."
"Probably. Now scrub my back. We're actually running late."
"Bossy even after I just came in your mouth."
"Especially then."
He reaches for the soap, works up a lather. His hands are firm on my shoulders, sliding down my spine, massaging as he cleans. When he reaches the small of my back, his palmsspread wide, thumbs digging into muscles that release under the pressure.
Then his hands come around to cup my breasts.
"This isn't my back," I manage.
"No?" His thumbs brush over my nipples, already peaked and sensitive. "My mistake."
I arch into his touch, head falling back against his chest. Water streams over us while he explores, learning what makes me gasp. When he rolls my nipples between his fingers, pleasure shoots straight between my thighs.
"Thatcher—"
"You said I owed you one." His teeth scrape my neck. "Just getting started on that debt."
One hand stays on my breast while the other slides down my belly. Lower. His fingers find me slick and ready.
"We don't have time," I protest weakly.
"Then I'll be quick."
His fingers circle my clit with practiced precision, the calloused pads creating friction that makes my knees weak. Pleasure builds fast, coiling tight in my core. I grip his forearm for balance, feeling the corded muscle flex beneath my fingers as my hips rock against his hand, chasing the pressure I need.
"That's it," he murmurs against my ear. "Take what you need."
Two thick fingers slide inside me while his thumb maintains that maddening rhythm on my clit. The dual stimulation is too much, the stretch and fullness combined with the relentless circling pressure. He crooks his fingers inside me, finding that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
The orgasm slams into me without warning. I come with a strangled moan, inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his fingers as pleasure crashes through me in waves that leave me shaking.
He works me through it, his fingers gentling but not stopping, drawing out every last tremor until I'm gasping and boneless against him. When I finally go limp, completely wrung out, his laugh rumbles low against my back, satisfaction evident in the sound.
"Now we're even."
"For now." I turn in his arms, kiss him slow and deep. "But we're definitely doing this again later."
"Promise?"
"Absolutely."
By the time we're dressed and ready, tension hums between us. Not the sexual kind from earlier. The kind that comes from knowing danger is circling closer.
The drive to the hospital is quiet. Thatcher's focus splits between the road and scanning for threats. He's watching, always watching.
Base security is visibly increased. There are extra patrols, checkpoints, guards positioned at key locations. The parking lot has double the usual presence.
"They're taking this seriously," I observe.
"Rivera doesn't take chances." Thatcher parks near the main entrance. "Neither do I."
He's out of the truck before I can argue, coming around to my side. His hand finds the small of my back as we walk toward the entrance, his eyes constantly scanning the parking lot, the entrance, every person within visual range.
