Page 30 of Cold Comeback (Richmond Reapers #1)

As I pushed the fabric off my shoulders, his mouth trailed over my collarbone, stubble grazing my bare skin. His tongue was hot, insistent, and my hands went automatically to his hips, steadying myself against a building wave of desire.

He laughed, low and unguarded, and wriggled into position to lie half on top of me. "Mr. Gideon Sawyer…"

"I thought you said you hated interviews," I managed, which made him grin wider.

"This isn't an interview. This is—" He kissed me again, tongue parting my lips, and I forgot the rest of the sentence.

I let him take off my shirt, and his shirt hit the floor at the same time.

Thatcher's body was harder than mine, lean and cut. He looked like an elite athlete, only ruined a little by the dark circles under his eyes.

He leaned in, his mouth catching the edge of my jaw, causing me to shudder.

Thatcher grinned. "You're shaking. Am I that intimidating?"

"You wish."

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and tugged. "You want me to—"

"Yes," I said. I didn't know what question I was answering, but it was Thatcher, so it had to be true.

He knelt astride my hips. His hands slid up my bare chest, thumbs tracing over the edges of my pecs and the sculpted ridges of my abdomen.

He dipped his head, sucked a mark into my collarbone, and laughed when I gasped. "I want to see how many places I can get you to react," he said, and left a trail of teeth across my chest, fast and then slow.

"Sadist," I growled.

"Only in the best way."

He bent and put his mouth over my nipple, biting just sharp enough to get a reaction out of me, then soothed the sting with his tongue. I bucked up under him, and he pinned my shoulders to the mattress with both hands.

"You don't have to be polite," Thatcher murmured. "I know you like it rougher."

I did, but I wasn't ready to admit it and always had to guard my back.

I ran my fingers up the back of his neck and yanked him down for a kiss, smashing our mouths together until my teeth hurt.

Thatcher was half hard, denim tight at the crotch. I wanted him—had always wanted him.

He broke away long enough to drag his jeans down his thighs. I kicked mine off in a tangle. I was achingly hard, pulse hammering in my ears, but I wanted to take my time. I wanted to memorize the shape of him.

"You're staring," he said. His comment might have sounded cocky, but it didn't.

"You want me to stop?"

He shook his head. "I want you to do whatever you want."

I rolled us, pinning him to the bed. His hands came up in mock surrender. "You sure?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yeah."

His lips parted, and I kissed his body, tasting the salt of his sweat. I kissed down his neck and over his chest.

I pressed my mouth along his hip bone, teeth scraping just enough to make him jolt. Thatcher's thigh shook against my ribs.

"Fuck," he whispered, and rolled his head back. "You're showing off."

"Maybe." I tugged his boxers down until he was fully exposed. He glanced down at me, cheeks flushed, and for a second, I thought about stopping to see if he'd beg.

That would have been cruel, and I wasn't evil when it came to Thatcher.

My fingers circled his thick shaft. His mouth opened, but he was silent, as if he didn't want to give me the satisfaction of a moan.

I stroked him, slow at first, then faster, watching how the muscles in his abs clenched and fluttered. When I bent and took him into my mouth, he made a sound like I'd punched him in the gut—involuntary, desperate noise.

His hands hovered at my shoulders, unsure. I let him get a grip and direct me, letting him know I was good with whatever he wanted.

He let me set the pace, but after a minute, he took control, hands guiding my head with gentle authority. It was the hottest thing I'd ever experienced.

When I felt him get close, I slowed, pulling away, letting his cock slap gently against his stomach. He made a noise of protest, but I crawled up, straddling his hips, forcing eye contact. "You said you wanted whatever I wanted. So, let me have it."

He made a strangled sound, half laugh, half groan. "You have no idea how much I want that."

I braced myself on either side of his head, trapping him, and bent to kiss him again.

He tasted like sweat and desperation, tongue insistent against mine, hands roaming everywhere—my back, my ass, my chest. I fumbled for my bedside drawer and groped blindly inside, hand closing around a small box and bottle.

He took the box from my hand, flicked it open, and rolled the condom down onto me with a practiced touch. His fingers lingered on the base, and then he looked up at me from under his lashes—almost shy, but not quite. "You're an overachiever even in bed."

I blushed, which was ridiculous, but my whole body was already in that state where everything felt raw and overexposed. "You want to keep score?" I pushed.

"Always," he said, then rose on his elbows and bit my jaw, gentle but possessive.

I slicked my fingers and reached for him, circling his rim until the tension in his thighs gave way. He arched into my hand and made a low sound in his throat. He was looser than I expected. He didn't boss me, didn't give orders, just let me take the lead.

I worked him open slowly, savoring the way his hands gripped the bedspread, and how his toes curled.

He took the second and third fingers easily, impatient, greedy for them.

"You can—fuck, Gideon, just—"

I lined myself up, hands braced on either side of his shoulders, and waited. One more half-second, making sure he wanted it. His legs came up around my waist, and he pulled me the rest of the way in.

The first thrust was slow, deliberate, the heat of him so intense I had to grind my teeth together not to come right then. Thatcher's mouth dropped open, a shaky exhale escaping, and he locked his ankles behind my back to pull me deeper.

"You—" He cut himself off with a choked sound, then repeated it, softer. "You feel so fucking good."

I pressed in, slow at first, letting him adjust. When I bottomed out, we stayed there, locked together, soaking in the weight of it. It wasn't a conquest, a performance, or a way to shut out the world. It was him and me, and no walls between us.

"Move," he said, his voice a soft growl. I did, though not hard or wild, only a steady, grinding rhythm that made the headboard bump the wall in time with my pulse.

His hands tangled in my hair, nails scraping my scalp, and he pulled me down for a kiss so deep I felt it in my toes.

Thatcher's words broke through, half-laughed, half-gasped, "Is this how you plan to end the documentary? You're doing a bang-up job of making it emotionally satisfying."

I could barely breathe enough to answer, but I managed, "If they want a climax, let's give them one."

Thatcher's laughter shivered through me. I could have spent the rest of my life there, splitting the difference between joking and desperate need.

His body took over. He hooked his knees higher around my waist, changing the angle, and I went deeper, hips snapping forward.

He cried out—no words, only raw sound—and arched into the bed, head thrown back. He gritted his teeth, fighting it.

"Come on," I whispered, right in his ear, every syllable a challenge. "You know you want to."

He broke then, not with a scream, but the kind of quiet gasp that made my chest feel like it was on fire. He came hard, shuddering, clamping around me so tight I nearly lost it right then.

I barely managed one more thrust before I followed, heat flooding through every nerve, like coming home and burning down the house at the same time.

We ended up in a tangle, sweaty and shaking, the sharp edges of his jaw pressed into my neck, and our legs tangled together. Thatcher started laughing, soft at first, then wild enough to shake the mattress.

"What?" I asked, fingers tracing lazy circles on his back.

He buried his face in the pillow, then looked at me, smile wide and unguarded. "I just realized—I never thought I'd get to fuck my captain. It was a fantasy in my head before I got here."

"Technically, you didn't," I said, nuzzling his ear. "You made the captain do all the work."

He snorted into my neck, then rolled to his side and flung an arm over my chest, catching his breath. "You planning to knock me up and run a dynasty now? Make sure the Sawyer legacy keeps going?"

I groaned. "You sound like Pluto."

He propped himself up on an elbow, studying me. "Yeah, but you love it."

I smiled. "I do."

He kissed me again and flashed a massive grin.

"I'm not doing the interview," I said.

Thatcher's eyes opened wider. "Because of me?"

"Because of us and the team. Because I'm already tired of being Coach Hollywood."

"What will you tell them?"

"The truth."

The next morning, I walked into the conference room to find Blake and Rachel looking like they'd aged a decade overnight. Blake's coffee cup trembled slightly in his hands. Rachel checked her phone with the manic frequency of someone expecting bad news.

"Captain," Blake said, and his voice carried genuine hope. "Thank you for doing this. I know yesterday was... difficult."

I sat in the interview chair, looking at the cameras pointed at me like weapons. Rachel accidentally knocked over her coffee cup, sending brown liquid across her notes.

"Okay," Blake said, settling behind the primary camera. "Let's start with something simple. Tell us about mentoring difficult players. About second chances."

I could have given them what they wanted—some inspirational speech about leadership and redemption that would validate their false narrative about Thatcher. It would be easy. Expected. The kind of thing a good captain would do to protect his team's image.

Instead, I looked directly into the camera and said, "I'm not going to do this."

Blake's confusion was immediate. "I'm sorry?"

"Thatcher Drake doesn't need redemption. He needed a place to belong. He found it here."

Rachel accidentally dropped her clipboard, papers scattering across the floor. "But the story—"

"If you want a story about second chances, tell the truth," I continued. "Sometimes the system breaks good people, not the other way around."

Rachel was quiet momentarily, then said softly, "That's... a better story." She turned to look at Blake.

I stood and removed my microphone. "Live with the story you filmed instead of the one you wanted to create."

Blake looked defeated rather than angry. "I'm sorry we put you in this position," he said, and the regret in his voice was genuine.

I found Thatcher waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Through the conference room doorway, I saw Blake and Rachel packing their equipment. "How'd it go?" Thatcher asked.

"I told them the truth."

"Which truth?"

"That you don't need fixing. That you're exactly who you're supposed to be."

Wren appeared with her clipboard, assessed the situation efficiently, and nodded approvingly. "Good. Authenticity photographs better anyway."

Blake approached us one last time as the production crew finished loading their truck. "For what it's worth," he said to Thatcher, "you're right. You don't need fixing."

The door thudded shut, and the facility exhaled.

Knox clocked us first. "About fucking time."

"Subtle as always," Linc said, drifting in with Pluto and Bricks. No cameras. No performance.

I took Thatcher's hand. No one looked away.

"Lunch?" Knox asked.

"Lunch," I said. "Then hockey."