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“Shh, shhh.” Thatcher’s words barely registered. I squeezed my eyes closed, cutting off any possibility of embarrassing myself with a leaked tear of desperation and panic.
My hands tightened in his hair.
“Reagan. Sweetheart. Look at me. Look. At. Me.”
I opened my eyes to see him staring down at me with a furrowed brow. His hand brushed the messy hair off my forehead as his eyes flicked between my own. I tried offering him a reassuring smile. I was fine. Truly, I was.
Whatever he saw deepened the furrow between his brows. “Talk to me.”
I flashed the smile again. “Don’t want to talk. I want you to fuck me.”
Thatcher’s nostrils flared. “Don’t lie to me?—”
“I’m not. I really want you to fuck me.” I ground out the words. If he would simply flip me over and use my body as roughly as possible, I could lose myself and these uncomfortable feelings in the mind-blowing pleasure I knew the sex would bring.
He opened his mouth to speak but stopped. Something in his expression changed as he studied me. “You want to fuck? Okay. But this time, you’re topping.”
A shudder ripped through me that was partly from nerves—ridiculous since I’d never been nervous at topping a partner of any gender—and partly from excitement.
I’d wanted to give myself over to him. To have him drive away all my hopelessness and relentless thinking with the power of his body. Topping him meant staying in the moment. Staying in control.
But god, the idea of Thatcher wanting that from me and trusting me to give it to him… the idea of me holding him down and thrusting into his body… made my brain short-circuit. Multicolored confetti blew everywhere.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Then get on your back.”
Chapter Twelve
Thatcher
I would do anything to snap Reagan out of whatever had come over him.
The panic on his face was clear, and I figured I knew why. We’d finally given in after fighting our attraction to one another for what felt like much longer than a week, and that had put us on shaky ground even before the calls from his parents and our change of plans.
But seeing the man who’d engaged crowds across the country lose his confidence made me even more irrationally upset now than it had back at the Newport Grille in Wichita.
I treasured the vulnerable parts of him, but I’d fight like hell against his fear. And I’d be damned if I lost the witty, warm, engaging man to the dull, polite shell or even his prickly defensiveness again.
What he needed was to be in control, to remember his power and take charge of it fully. I’d never bottomed for anyone, but I was so incredibly hot for Reagan I’d take him any way he wanted or needed. And right now… right now, he needed to take charge.
I rolled onto my back and grabbed his hand, tugging it until he blinked at me and scrambled over to climb on top of me. “Fuck,” he grunted under his breath. “Gonna make me come just thinking about it.”
The weight of his muscular body pressed me into the mattress. His leg hair scratched against mine as our limbs tangled together, and the hard press of his dick against mine proved he was just as into the idea as I was.
“Lube,” he muttered, reaching across the bed to find the bottle. While he was distracted, I took the opportunity to run my hands up and down his broad back to his narrow waist and rounded ass. His body was perfection despite the hours I knew he spent in the office, and I wanted to trace the lines of that fucking tattoo until I knew them by heart.
His hands shook as he knelt over me and flipped the cap open. When his fingers reached down to find my hole, his eyes finally met mine again. “You sure this is okay?”
I smiled at him, which made his entire face light up. “Very okay.”
As soon as Reagan’s slick fingers began pressing against my sensitive rim, I shivered. If I hadn’t been so obsessed with watching his facial expressions, I would have thrown my head back and squeezed my eyes closed in overwhelming pleasure. Instead, I took in every detail. How his exploring fingers felt stretching me open, how his inky eyelashes brushed together when I reached down to tweak his nipple, how his breathing hitched as I let out a deep groan of satisfaction, and how his eyes—those gorgeous sea-glass eyes—watched me carefully for any sign that I wasn’t on board.
“Have you… do you…” He sucked in a breath before meeting my eyes. “Do this with… other men? Bottoming, I mean.”
“Never.” The word came out like a bite, fangs bared and snapping, but he needed to know the truth. “Just you.”
Something about those words flipped a switch in Reagan. Gone was the uncertainty and worry, the young man who couldn’t seem to believe he was in a position of power with me.
His eyes darkened. “Good. Fucking keep it that way.”
