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“She didn’t hear me out. This wasn’t the first time I pitched her the idea. We had a meeting a couple of weeks ago—Layla, Stephen Price, and me—and I explained everything. A whole slide deck. Layla said, ‘Not yet.’”
Thatcher stroked his stubbled cheek with one blunt fingertip, and my eyes tracked the movement. I wondered why he’d decided to shave his beard and whether it had been a spontaneous thing?—
“I’m sure she gave you her reason,” Thatcher prompted.
I startled and quickly looked away. “She says the company’s policy is to let the fashion brands handle social media. I strongly disagree—for all the reasons I mentioned and more besides. First of all, the fashion brands don’t care about creating Elustre brand recognition. Our product isn’t their marketing priority; theirs is. Second?—”
He held up a hand to stop me. “Show me your pitch tomorrow morning, and I’ll try to find out why the policy is the way it is. Sound fair?”
It… did. In fact, it was so reasonable it took the wind out of my sails. So I nodded and answered without thinking. “Yes, sir.”
Thatcher’s eyes darkened, remembering the last time I’d spoken those words to him, and he drew in a breath so deep his chest visibly expanded.
“I need you to go get some sleep,” he said. His voice was a low, commanding rumble.
When McGee tried to give me orders earlier, I’d gotten angry. But Thatcher’s bossy voice provoked an entirely different reaction. It curled around my balls, sent a shiver up my spine, and stole the moisture from my mouth. I nearly choked on my cracker.
“We’ll be taking on a replacement driver in a few hours,” Thatcher went on, not looking at me now. “And McGee will take one of the spare bunks. Get some rest, and we’ll tackle the rest of this tomorrow.”
I didn’t trust myself to respond without offering the man my ass, so I simply nodded and stood, doing my best to ignore the tightness in my pants and the faint scent of pine trees and woodsmoke as I passed Thatcher on the way to my bunk.
But it was a long, long while before I could calm myself enough to sleep. And when I did, Thatcher’s voice followed me into my dreams.
Chapter Six
Thatcher
I woke up somewhere in Missouri with weak morning light crawling over my face and groaned at the ceiling. We weren’t scheduled to arrive in Kansas City until midday, which meant I’d have to share the small common area of the bus with Reagan for hours.
Hours of sitting across from him at the table in the kitchenette while his aquamarine eyes watched me. Hours of ignoring the way his even teeth sank into his soft lower lip. Hours of learning about the sharp intellect, the passion, and all the many intriguing “Reagans” hiding beneath his smirking, sexy face. Hours of willing myself not to get hard for my employee.
More time alone with Reagan Wellbridge was the last fucking thing I needed.
Yesterday evening, after Reagan overheard my conversation with January, I’d managed to work with the man for only a few minutes before excusing myself, making a vague excuse about sleeping off my headache. In truth, my throbbing head had only been part of the problem. The larger, more compelling issue had been my constant arousal, which had only grown worse every moment I was in his presence.
When I’d finally made it to the privacy of my room, I’d tried not to fantasize about Reagan’s hard body as I furtively stroked myself off… but then I’d remembered the way his eyes had rolled back in his head when I’d clasped a hand around his throat in my hotel room, and that was all it had taken to bring my orgasm screaming on. I’d thought, in that fucked-out instant, that I could simply revisit that one mental snapshot in the future anytime I needed an incredibly quick release.
Not that I would, I’d quickly amended. I was a better man than that. More in control than that.
But later that night, after visiting the truck stop in West Virginia, I’d stayed at the table long after ordering Reagan to bed, trying to ignore the gravitational pull of the man in the bunk several feet behind me. I’d gotten another snack. Then a drink. I’d pulled up financial projections and sent out a couple of emails. I’d taken some of January’s ginseng and turmeric supplements. I’d checked in with McGee. And finally, after a couple of hours, I’d called a halt to my pretense of productivity.
The strange restlessness that compelled me to change my New Year’s plans had come over me again, and when I finally made it to my bedroom, I immediately took my cock out.
As it turned out, I was not a better man.
Fortunately, my second intense orgasm helped me sleep deeply through the night as the bus continued west. But now it was morning, and my restlessness was back with a vengeance.
After showering and dressing, I made my way out to the kitchenette. Reagan was already at the table, eating breakfast while scrolling on his phone, and I wondered what sort of mood he was in today.
“Morning,” I said, rifling through the box of coffee pods to find the one I wanted. “Sleep okay?”
“Not really. McGee snores like a piece of rusty farm equipment with no muffler. I considered tossing him out onto the highway, but I figured that might be the one thing that would jeopardize my platinum job security.”
McGee’s deep grumble came from behind a bunk curtain. “You’re not so quiet either, princess.”
I tucked my chin to hide my amusement. “Good call,” I told Reagan. “Homicide is a hard limit. For legal reasons.”
“Always have to check the fine print, even on platinum job security.” Reagan sighed forlornly. “Fine. No murder.”
