I smooth my lips together and then clarify, “It’s distracting.” Why am I clarifying at all? Hands full, I nod to his package. “Your dick.” End this quickly, Jane. “You’re big, which you know—we both know.” Oh my God.
He goes to speak, and I cut him off, “It’s just that you’re not wearing boxer-briefs.” He’s my boyfriend; I shouldn’t be this flustered around him anymore.
Thatcher nods, looking me over from head-to-toe. “I almost never wear them with drawstring pants.”
“And the fabric is thin,” I add for some reason.
I swear a smile is in his eyes. But then he leaves my side and goes to his duffel.
I study him more curiously. “What are you doing?”
He crouches down and glances back at me. “Getting dressed.”
“You don’t have to.” I adjust the clothes in my arms, a hanger poking my small boob. “I like this quite a lot.” My heartbeat flutters a mile a minute. “Seeing you in pajamas just reminds me that you’re here in the early morning and not for security reasons or secrecy.”
He’s here because he’s truly with me, and the world and the security team and our families know we’re really romantically together. Some learned more recently than others.
Not all are thrilled, to say the least.
Still squatting, Thatcher rests a forearm on his knee. “You can’t even know how much I want to be here with you.” He skims my features from afar, as though tomorrow I could disappear and he needs me in his mind for a second more. “But I’m not gonna be a distraction for either of us.” His South Philly lilt fights through, and he digs for clothes in his duffel.
A smile tugs my cheeks. “I distracted you?” His seriousness draws me closer to the bed.
Thatcher grabs a pair of boxer-briefs and slacks, then he rises to a commanding stance. “The longer you stare at my cock, the more I want to push inside of you.”
My hip knocks into my bedpost. I ache for him to lift me in his arms, to fill me. I’m tempted to drop my clothes and step into his towering build. “Why don’t you then?”
“Because you’re not a normal girl.” He pulls off his drawstring pants, no hesitation or pause. His naked, muscular body resembles epic warriors in fantasy novels, and somehow he’s my protector—and so much more. I expect him to come forward and hoist me up, but he steps into his boxer-briefs.
I draw forward. “What does that mean exactly?”
“It means you have a recent unknown threat who broke into your townhouse, a new bodyguard who acts like he’s a descendant of Hercules but is more like a fucking Potato Head, and you’re supposed to be giving him your preference notes this morning. Which you haven’t finished yet.” He lifts the elastic band to his waist, then picks up his slacks. “You need someone to have your six right now. Putting my cock in your pussy pretty much hinders that.”
I love him.
The sudden abrupt feeling wells up inside of me like a balloon filling with helium. Followed closely by bubbling fear. My pulse skips.
I readjust my grip on my clothes again. “You realize I’m more used to the sexual aspect of a relationship—seeing as how I’ve only had friends-with-benefits.” My voice drops to a whisper. “Anything else is entirely new to me.”
Thatcher nods. “I know.” He puts on his black slacks. “If it means anything, it’s not like I’ve dated an American princess before.”
I nod back.
But it’s not exactly the newness of a relationship that scares me. I’m frightened of loving a man to an overwhelming degree—to where I’d need to be loved by Thatcher. Necessity is life, and I’m afraid to need his love like I need air.
I can’t tell him this. I can’t say, Oh, Thatcher, I’d rather only fall mid-deep in love with you because I don’t want to need your love like water in the Sahara. Part of me longs to feel that un-reversible depth of emotion with him, but the other part resists completely.
Regardless, I need to prioritize and focus on what’s in front of me—no, not his dick. But rather his luggage and the closet. I toss the armful of clothes on my pink duvet. Pastel blouses land in a wrinkled heap.
A worn library copy of The Outsiders peeks from his unzipped duffel. I’ve already asked Thatcher about the book—not just because it looks like it was due back to the library eons ago—but because Thatcher has admitted more than once that he’s not a big reader.
What I know: the book belonged to Skylar Moretti.
Thatcher’s older brother would read it every night, and in the end, he never returned it to the school library. Skylar’s name is even still scribbled on the card inside the flap.
The bigger fact: the book is Thatcher’s only possession of Skylar’s, besides his cornic’.
Thatcher buttons his pants. “I’m putting my duffel under your bed. All of your clothes can go back in the closet.”
I crinkle my brows. “You’re not living out of a bag.”
“It doesn’t bother me—”
“It bothers me,” I rebut. “Greatly.” I think quickly while he sidles next to me. “So you’d prefer not to unpack? Would you rather live somewhere else?”
“Hell no.” Skin pleats his forehead. “I already said I want to be here.” More strongly, he emphasizes, “I want to live with you, Jane.”
I nod, believing him. But we’re both still frowning, and I hear his voice from before saying, you’re not a normal girl. “Are you trying to give me the whole closet because I’m obscenely wealthy—because you think I’m used to this humongous amount of space and need it?”
I did grow up in a mansion that is regal enough to be a modern-day American castle. But I’ve lived in this modest townhouse for four years, and I’ve loved every minute here.
Thatcher stares into me. “No. I wouldn’t want any girlfriend of mine, rich or fucking poor, to shove her clothes under a bed to make room for me.”
I hate that I almost smile, and I hate how my heart swells. He makes me feel…doted on. It feels quite nice, and it shouldn’t. Because he can’t give me everything while I give him nothing. My parents are equal to each other in every measure of their lives.
It’s what I saw growing up.
It’s what I know works. It’s been proven to succeed.
So I have to stand by my decision, and I tug a frilly purple blouse off a hanger. “I’m not putting this back.” I fold the blouse very messily. It’ll do. As soon as I set it down, my boyfriend picks it up. “Thatcher—” I cut myself off. Because he’s not slipping the frilly sleeves onto a hanger so it can be returned to the closet.
He refolds the blouse into a much neater square.
Our gazes meet, and he says, “Don’t take out more than this.”
He’s accepting 10% of the closet. Far less than I wanted for him, but I suppose it’ll have to be enough for now.
I extend my palm. “You have a deal.”
Light touches his stern eyes, and his large hand engulfs mine as we shake.
We don’t let go.
In a quiet moment, his other hand finds the small of my back, and Thatcher dips his head down so slowly…