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“Ooh, that could be my dad calling you back,” Reagan teased. “Would you like to ask him for those details now?”
I slid a hand down to pinch his ass, and he yelped. “Shush.”
“He could be asking about me,” Reagan continued. “You could tell him how very talented I am.”
“Jesus,” I muttered, simultaneously amused and horrified. I climbed out of bed, dragging him with me. “Come on. I’m gonna shower that filth off you.”
“Isn’t the shower kinda small for both of us?” Reagan wondered, allowing himself to be dragged.
“Definitely. But I’m going to enjoy watching you like a lecher.”
His laughter dispelled any remaining tension from the mention of his dad’s call.
In the end, we both tried to fit in the shower together anyway, making a soppy mess of the small space as the bus trundled east again and reality remained thousands of miles away.
It wasn’t until we were dressed and ready to face the day that I retrieved my phone and saw who the missed call had been from.
Layla.
Her flu test was finally negative.
Chapter Eleven
Reagan
We had exactly fifteen hours to enjoy each other’s company—and naked bodies—before picking up Layla in Omaha, so of course, Thatcher’s first priority was… checking his email. After our shower and performing the synchronized kitchen dance we’d choreographed that allowed two people to prepare breakfast simultaneously in the tiny space, Thatcher had immediately pulled out his laptop to deal with some urgent business matters happening in Zurich.
I didn’t mind at all. For one thing, consuming enough calories to replace the ones I’d burned last night and this morning was a high priority—sex with Thatcher was like a high-intensity workout, and I’d be damned if I couldn’t keep up with the man’s stamina. For another, I enjoyed the routine we’d developed. I enjoyed that we had a routine. And I especially enjoyed that today, for the first time ever, I didn’t have to hide the way I watched Thatcher as I shoveled yogurt into my mouth. If I wanted to drool over his long, strong fingers as they tapped his keyboard, I could. If I wanted to stare greedily at the sexy V of exposed skin just below his neck where his shirt was unbuttoned, nobody would stop me. If I wanted to imagine rubbing my lips all over his heavy stubble and licking my way into his mouth, today, I could finally do so without a single repercussion?—
“If you don’t stop doing that with your spoon,” Thatcher said conversationally, his eyes still on the screen, “I’m going to take you back to the bedroom, spank your ass, and fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for the rest of the day.”
I shivered so hard I choked on my yogurt. Holy fuck, why was that so hot?
“When did you shave your beard?” I demanded after getting my coughing under control with a sip of coffee—Thatcher’s coffee since mine was already gone.
At this, he looked up, a crease between his brows. “Pardon?”
“Your beard. Last time I saw you, a few months ago, I guess, you still had it. But then at the gala, you didn’t. And now… Are you growing it back?”
Thatcher scratched at his stubble and shrugged. “I am. I like the beard. I’m not sure what prompted me to shave it New Year’s Eve. I wanted a change, I guess. A wild impulse.” He smiled wryly. “But I quickly remembered I’m not an impulsive sort of person.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I smiled slowly. “Propositioning a man at a gala?” I whistled through my teeth. “Seems pretty impulsive, Thatcher, especially for someone who usually… plays it straight.”
His cheeks went red above his beard. Had I known Thatcher could blush? “I wouldn’t say usually. I’ve been actively bisexual for a long time. A great many people are aware of my sexuality.”
“Meaning, the men you’ve hooked up with,” I said with a smirk.
He spread his hands in a gesture of agreement. “I think it’s great for people to come out publicly if it feels right or important to them, but that’ll never be me. The last thing I want is to give the media more reason to speculate about my personal life.” He cocked his head, studying me. “I imagine it’s the same for you? Patricia’s never mentioned any nice gentlemen you’ve dated.”
I shrugged. “I’ve never officially come out to them, no. My parents are supportive of my brother, and I’m sure they’d support me, too. My mother would have no problem throwing eligible bachelors my way. But if people don’t have to come out as straight, why should I have to come out as pan? Someday, if there’s a good reason, I’ll have that conversation, but for now, I seem to be doing an okay job of finding my own eligible bachelors.” I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively. “Hell, sometimes they find me.”
Thatcher snorted. “I had meant to find a man I arranged to meet on an app,” he admitted. “I was supposed to recognize him by his distinctive feathered mask…”
“No,” I breathed, leaning toward him in delight. “So you’re telling me that some poor schmoe was waiting and waiting for a hot, dominant Roman warrior to make his New Year’s Eve…”
“And instead, I ended up in bed with my friend’s son? Yes. If you hadn’t been wearing that same mask, if it hadn’t been too dark in that ballroom to see your hair and your eyes…”
“And if you hadn’t shaved your beard and my mother hadn’t specifically told me you were supposed to be out of town…”
