Our lips collide in a scalding, sensual kiss that melds me against his chest. I rise on the tips of my toes. Electricity spindles up my limbs, from each toe to my head. My fingers descend to his ass, and his tongue parts my lips. Yes.
A high-pitched noise tickles my throat, and his hand slips beneath my flannel top. Scorching my skin. We are overflowing magma. Heat gathers, and our bodies scream blistered pleas for skin-on-skin contact everywhere.
And then, he breaks the deep kiss, his forehead nearly pressed to mine, and I scrounge my lungs for lost breath.
“You’re…” I breathe hard, words scattering into oblivion. You’re very good at kissing and very good at stopping. You’re more and everything.
He straightens up, resting a hand on top of my head. Our eyes still hot on each other. I eagerly search his gaze, and he tells me, “We’re still kerosene.”
Flammable.
Combustible.
I smile. “Sounds disastrously right.”
He kisses my temple, and we work together to sort through our clothes. He unpacks and slips his button-downs on hangers that I remove from vests and blouses.
“I called the Tri-Force earlier this morning,” I admit.
His gaze tightens. “About Tony?”
“Oui.” Twenty-eight-year-old Tony Ramella is unfortunately my new 24/7 bodyguard.
And it’s not everyday I speak with the Tri-Force: Price Kepler of Alpha, Akara Kitsuwon of Omega, and Jon Sinclair of Epsilon. The three leads are essentially Thatcher’s superiors. My four-way phone call with them didn’t last long, but it felt necessary.
I pass him a hanger. “I thought if I requested Tony to be transferred elsewhere, they’d be more open to the idea.”
Thatcher shakes his head, already knowing they wouldn’t be. He used to be a lead, so he would have a very good read on the Tri-Force. But I had to see if I could do something more to change this situation.
I turn more to his chest and look up. “It’s not right that they listened to Beckett’s request for Donnelly to be transferred. But yet, when I ask for one, they say, give Tony a chance.”
My brother has been secretly using cocaine, and once he heard about Donnelly’s family history with drugs, Beckett decided to have him moved. Quitting his drug use to keep Donnelly around wasn’t an option, apparently.
Thatcher rakes a hand through his disheveled brown hair. “Donnelly has been with Beckett for a long time. Tony hasn’t been with you for even a day yet. In their heads, that’s the difference.”
I consider this. Softly, I say, “I still wish Price would take my unease into account.”
He nods a few times. “I do too.” He stares off for a split-second, then focuses back on me. “You know since Tony is my stepmom’s brother, Price thinks my issue with him is just some family horseshit that’s affecting a client.”
And I’m not supposed to be aware of feuds in security.
I’m supposed to just be an heiress to a billion-dollar empire, and he’s supposed to only be a bodyguard, one hired to protect my family.
But now that he’s more to me, the curtains inside the security team have been pulled back, and I can see the in-fighting and the unprofessional conflicts that the Tri-Force would rather stay hidden.
We stare deeper at each other, more knowingly. We both know that part of my unease does stem from his feelings.
You see, bad blood seeps between Thatcher and Tony, originating from adolescence, and I can picture this darkness crawling and festering while Tony is on my detail. Not to mention, his pompous personality is particularly grating to be around.
Thatcher adds, “It shouldn’t matter why you feel uncomfortable, just that you feel uncomfortable at all. That’s enough. In any other circumstance, it would be enough for a transfer, and it’s my fault it’s not.”
“You’re not to blame,” I defend.
“I fucked them, Jane,” Thatcher says strongly. “Price is punishing me—”
“Precisely,” I interject. “Price is the one who’s not taking my feelings into account.”
Heavy silence drops.
His features are grave. “Price took that action because of what I did. I’m not telling you who to blame, but I have to accept my part in this.”
I study him and his solid, unwavering self-assurance. Thatcher is used to trekking forward with weight. He’s always quick to carry ownership for the team’s decisions and mistakes like it’s just what should happen. Like “strapping on blame” is included in a morning routine, right after making the bed and brushing your teeth.
I realize it’s engrained in his DNA the same way that rallying at someone’s side with blades and armor is written in mine.
“Okay,” I nod. “I asked the Tri-Force how long of a chance I’m supposed to give Tony.”
Thatcher keeps his protective gaze on me while he hangs up his last black button-down.
“They said he could be on a two-month probationary period with me, and afterwards we’d reassess to see if it’d work long-term.”
Thatcher narrows his eyes and walks to the closet, hanging up his clothes. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped. If Tony does something out of bounds, the Tri-Force would cut the two-months shorter.” His jaw clenches at that thought, and he returns to the bed, his stride incredibly strict.
The idea that something “out of bounds” could happen is disconcerting. I try not to cringe. Thatcher went to high school with Tony, so he knows him better than I do.
“Has Tony ever made an unwanted pass at a girl before?” I ask.
“No,” he says sternly. “…not as far as I know.” His red-hot gaze pins on the wall. “I would’ve already broken his hands if he did.”
I store our folded clothes in a plastic bin, which Walrus promptly hops into. I smile, a small one, and I lightly bop his wet nose with my fingertip. “So what we do know about Tony: he’s obtuse, he can’t tell you and Banks apart, and he’s capable of having sex with another man’s girlfriend.”
Evidence: he slept with Thatcher’s high school girlfriend.
I continue, “That alone makes him an awful person and a prick.” I pause. “Anything else pertinent?”
He shakes his head, neck stiff. “Banks would tell you Tony mostly just spews shit without thinking.” He grabs my notebook off the bed, and we both check the clock on the nightstand.
I’m supposed to be at security’s townhouse by 8:00 a.m., just to briefly go over my notes with Tony since he’s new to my detail. I still have time, but if I’m late, I worry he’ll show up in my living room unannounced.
Thatcher meets my gaze. “Can I check your preference notes?”
I nod. “But I don’t have a lot written yet. I wasn’t sure how specific I should be.”
“I can help you.” He flips open the spiral notebook, his severe focus like a loaded gun. Deadly when needed.
Thatcher is my most powerful catnip. I’m transfixed to him, all the while dazedly placing my bin, with Walrus, under the bed.
He stops on the right page. “You’ll need to type this out and either email him or print it. He can’t read your handwriting.”
My stomach twists. “…I forgot he couldn’t.” I’ve been so spoiled having Thatcher, who made a huge effort when he started on my detail. Learning to read my illegible handwriting and all. “I might as well type it now.”