“Climb up and fuck my face, Pierce.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Thatcher,” he groans, but scrambles up my body.
The first taste of him on my tongue makes me moan, the sound vibrating around him as I take him deeper. I put my hands on his ass to give him permission to let go.
“Thatcher,” he gasps, and I can feel him getting closer with every pass of my tongue. “I’m?—”
He doesn’t finish the warning before he’s coming, his body going rigid as I swallow everything he gives me. When he pulls back, I look up at him and smile.
“This might be a good time to mention I got tested after that time at the wedding. I’m negative and on PrEP,” I say.
He chuckles. “Same.”
Before I know it, he’s removing both our sweatpants all the way and settling on the couch facing me. His hand reaches to tuck my curls behind my ear.
We lie together in comfortable silence, my head on his chest while his fingers trace patterns on my skin. My couch has never seen such a good show, and I know I’ll have markson my skin for days, but I can’t bring myself to care about anything except how perfect this moment feels.
“Your father’s wrong,” Pierce says quietly. “What you’re doing at VSE, your art, all of it is important. You are important.”
The words settle the pain that meeting my father created. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For showing up.” I press a kiss to his chest.
His arms tighten around me. “Always.”
I really hope he means it because, boss or not, I’m not sure I can let him go.
16
PIERCE
The city hasn’t quite wokenwhen I first open my eyes. Thatcher sleeps beside me, his body radiating warmth that makes leaving the narrow bed seem impossible. His arm lies heavy across my chest, possessive even in his sleep, and my chest blooms at how right this feels, how dangerous that rightness might be.
Thatcher’s peaceful expression and the way his curls spill across his face and the pillow in perfect chaos make my fingers itch to trace the curve of his jaw.
His apartment is small and cramped compared to my place, but there’s something about waking up surrounded by his sketches on every wall, his art supplies scattered across surfaces, that feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived.
Thatcher makes a soft sound in his sleep, his arm tightening across my chest. I should wake him, have a proper conversation about what we’ve done.
Giving in to our chemistry was inevitable. I’m not naïve enough to think we wouldn’t end up where we are. But I’m also not naïve enough to believethis can work.
I’m his boss. We can’t work together and do…whatever it is we’re doing.
I begin extracting myself from Thatcher’s embrace carefully. His arm slides from my chest as I ease away. The sight of him in his own bed, wrapped in sheets that smell like him, makes me want to throw my whole life away to stay here with him.
One more reason to get up.
I head to his tiny kitchen via the living room and pull on last night’s discarded underwear and sweatpants. The coffee maker looks ancient, but it obediently hums to life. My conflicted thoughts return as it brews.
Fear of what might happen if anyone finds out about us. What would it do to his reputation,myreputation? No matter how you look at this, if we’re found out, he will always come out the losing party.
I can’t bear the thought of Thatcher being the topic of the office gossip mill, not to mention we can’t work together, not if we’re in a relationship. But I also can’t stand the thought of looking up from my computer and not seeing Thatcher on the other side of the wall, talking to Anthony or complaining to his coffee cup.
Fuck. With my history of allegedly cheating on Lior, he’ll have my balls on a plate if he finds out.
The coffee finishes brewing as footsteps pad softly behind me.
