"I thought we already established that this morning."
"This morning was amazing. But this is me telling you that I want this. You. Us. Not because of protective detail or investigation or proximity. Because you're brilliant and stubborn and you challenge me and I don't want to imagine my life without you in it anymore."
Tears well in my eyes before they start to spill over. Happy tears this time. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"I'm out of practice. Four years of not letting myself feel anything."
"You're doing fine." I kiss him softly. "And for the record, I want this too. You. Us. All of it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." I press closer against him. "Now stop talking and kiss me."
"Bossy."
"You love it."
"I kind of do."
The kiss starts soft, reassurance that we're both here, both safe. Then need builds, a desperate awareness that danger still circles but right now, in this moment, we're alive and together and that matters more than anything else.
I pull him toward the bedroom. He follows, kicking the door closed behind us before spinning me around and pressing me against it. His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping along the sensitive skin. I gasp and arch into him, feeling the hard length of him against my belly.
"We should probably talk about this," he manages between kisses.
"Later."
"Safety—"
"I'm on birth control. I'm clean. You?"
"Clean. I get tested regularly."
"Then we're good." I pull his shirt over his head, let my hands explore the hard planes of his chest. His muscles shift under my palms, warm and solid. "Stop overthinking."
"You make it impossible to think."
"Good."
Clothes disappear in urgent movements—my shirt, his pants. He unhooks my bra with surprising dexterity for a man who claims he's out of practice. Then it's just us, skin against skin, all that coiled tension from the day needing release.
He walks me backward to the bed, lays me down with surprising gentleness given the heat in his eyes. He crawls onto the bed, settling himself between my thighs, bracing on his forearms.
"You sure?" he asks.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
"If you want to stop?—"
"Thatcher." I pull him down for a kiss. "Less talking. More everything else."
He chuckles. "Bossy."
"You like it."
"Yeah, I really do."
His mouth moves lower, taking its time. His lips trace the line of my collarbone, tongue following the path with slow, deliberate strokes that make my breath catch. He explores the hollow of my throat, teeth grazing just enough to make me shiver. Lower still, his mouth finds the curve of my breast. He palms the soft flesh, thumb circling my nipple until it peaks hard against his calloused skin.
