“Tell me about your day,” I insist when we finally part. His smile is bigger and brighter than I’ve ever seen. It transforms his whole face, making him look younger and even more vibrant.
“How about I tell you in the shower?” he suggests, his fingers already working at my shirt buttons with an eager efficiency that makes my pulse quicken.
My laugh surprises me as I pull him toward the bathroom. I’ve never laughed as much as I have since I met this young, beautiful, full-of-life man. I try not to think too hard about that. Under the spray, I gather him close enough to feel his heartbeat against my chest.
For a moment, I take him in. The feel of his body againstmine. His body reacts, as does mine, but as crazy as it sounds, especially to me, having him this close is as good as finding relief.
“So,” I prompt, reaching for the shampoo. “How was the conference? Did you show them exactly what you can do?”
The way his expression lights up makes something warm unfurl in my chest. My fingers work through his curls with care as he begins to speak, each word making me prouder of his talent and courage.
“It was amazing,” he admits, leaning into my touch. “The workshop leader said my pieces have real heart. And I met this children’s book author who thinks they have series potential.”
My hands pause briefly as pride swells in my throat. Of course they recognized his talent. How could they not? “Of course they do,” I say, resuming the gentle massage of his scalp. “Have you made any contacts with publishers?”
We trade positions under the spray. I hang on Thatcher’s every word, even as my hands refuse to leave his skin. He gestures enthusiastically while water streams down his body.
“There’s this one publisher specifically looking for series, and they loved the concept of helping kids embrace imperfection,” he explains. “My new friend Talia says it’s a big topic right now in publishing because of the impact things like social media have on a child’s mental health.”
I slide my hands down his back and pull him closer. “That makes a lot of sense, and they’d be lucky to have you,” I murmur against his neck.
“They want to schedule a meeting.”
“Tell me more.” I trace patterns on his skin, loving the way his breath catches even as he talks. “I want to hear everything.”
He details the feedback he received and the people hemet. Designers, artists, publishers. After a while, he gives up talking and pushes me against the tiled wall.
“You don’t play fair. We have dinner reservations.” He looks down at where our erections are sliding deliciously against each other with the help of the soap.
“Not for a couple of hours,” I point out, dropping my voice as my hands slide lower. “Plenty of time to celebrate your success properly.”
Half an hour later, we reluctantly leave the steamy bathroom behind, trading our passionate explorations for the necessity of getting dressed for dinner.
Thatcher stands before the mirror, wrestling with his tie in that endearingly chaotic way that always makes me want to help but also watch to see what happens.
“Let me,” I say softly, moving behind him. Our eyes meet in the mirror as my hands slide around his neck.
“You’re so much better at this,” he admits, leaning back slightly into my chest.
“Or maybe you’re just finding excuses for me to touch you.”
He gasps. “I would never.”
“You totally would, Mr. Bend and Snap.”
He turns around and wraps his hand around my tie, pulling me down with it. “Have you justLegally Blondedme?”
I answer with a kiss because there’s no way in heaven or on earth that I’ll admit to having seen that movie over a hundred times.
“We’ll be late for our reservation,” I say instead.
“Worth it,” he declares, but steps back slightly to survey our reflection.
“You don’t have to wear a tie, you know? You look perfect without it.”
His careful styling is already showing signs of disruption, making me want to mess it up completely. Instead, I force myself to focus on retrieving my wallet and room key.
“I don’t want to stand out,” he says with his hand on the door.
