“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still rough from sleep. He moves closer until I feel his warmth against my back.
I hand him a mug without fully turning, and he makes a soft sound of appreciation as he takes his first sip, the noise uncomfortably similar to others I drew from him last night.
“You know how I take my coffee?” he asks, surprise coloring his tone.
“Two sugars, splash of cream,” I reply, aiming for casual but probably missing by miles. “You talk to your coffee cup aloud in the office.”
His laugh makes me finally turn to face him properly. He’s wearing nothing but underwear and my old Harvard hoodie from last night, the hem falling mid-thigh, and his curls are a beautiful disaster.
The sight makes my conflicting thoughts even more conflicted because all I want to do is lick him head to toe and see him squirm under my touch. I want to claim him as mine and keep him. Protect him from all the assholes who don’t believe in him.
He leans against the counter with his bare legs crossed at the ankle. The borrowed hoodie rides up slightly as he shifts, revealing more skin that carries evidence of our night together. My fingers itch to trace the marks.
“You’re staring,” Thatcher says playfully. “See something you like, Mr. Dellcourt?”
“Several things,” I admit, watching color rise in his cheeks. “All of them are highly inappropriate for a boss to be thinking about his personal assistant.”
His smile turns wicked as he sets his coffee aside, pushing off the counter with grace. “Good thing we’re not at the office then,” he murmurs, closing the distance between us. “No need for professional distance here.”
My hands find his waist, fingers sliding beneath the sweater to trace skin still warm from sleep. Thatcher makes a soft sound as I pull him closer, his own hands coming up to rest on my bare chest.
“We should talk,” I say, even as my fingers continue their exploration. “About this…”
Thatcher’s expression shifts slightly. “Do we have to?” heasks softly. “Can’t we just…have this moment? Before reality intrudes?”
I give in because I’m weak.
Who’d have thought the downfall of Pierce Alexander Dellcourt would be a man who’s fifteen years younger, likes to doodle, talks to ants, and looks oh so good in borrowed clothes.
I lean down to capture his mouth in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens as Thatcher presses closer. His hands slide up to tangle in my hair, and I’m just thinking about lifting him onto the counter when there’s a sharp knock on the door.
“Meatball, you better have some clothes on because I have a key, and I’m not afraid to use it! Open up! I brought coffee and gossip!”
We spring apart like teenagers caught by parents. Thatcher’s eyes go wide with panic.
“Shit,” he whispers. “That’s Alli.”
“Meatball, I know you’re in there!” The sound of keys jangling carries clearly through the thin door.
“Bedroom,” I hiss, but it’s too late. The front door swings open just as Thatcher tries to push me toward the hallway.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t around yesterday when you needed me, but—” Alli stops dead in the kitchen doorway, taking in the scene before her. Me, shirtless, in her best friend’s kitchen. Thatcher, wearing nothing but underwear and my sweater, his hair thoroughly mussed and his neck covered in marks that definitely weren’t there yesterday.
She sets down a tray with two coffee cups on the kitchen table, her movements deliberate and amused.
The silence stretches for exactly three seconds before Alli’s face breaks into the biggest grin I’ve ever seen.
“Well, well, well,” she says, her voice rich with satisfaction. “This explains why you weren’t answering your phone.”
“Alli—” Thatcher starts, his face flaming red.
“So you’re the infamous Pierce Dellcourt,” she says, looking me up and down with obvious appreciation. “The grumpy silver fox who’s been inspiring all those very detailed sketches.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve been drawing me?”
“Shut up,” Thatcher mutters, burying his face in his hands.
“Oh, honey, you should see them,” Alli continues, clearly enjoying herself. “Very detailed. Very…anatomically optimistic.” Her eyes run an appreciative look over my chest. “Though I have to say, you definitely live up to the artistic interpretation.”
