Page 141 of Sinful Like Us

He is all masculinity and confidence. “Just following your lead, honey.”

My boyfriend has never been sexier. His gray sweatpants draw my eyes downward, molding his muscles and well-endowed assets. And ladies and gentlemen, he’s not wearing underwear.

Evidence:the defined outline of his incredibly large cock.

Carnal desire flames my skin, but I banish any and allwantfrom my face. I respect his job, and I’d rather not tempt him.

I tuck a flyaway hair behind my ear, my fingers skimming myhotcheek.You’re too flushed, Jane. “So…” I smooth my lips.

“So…” He almost smiles and presses a key on the laptop. “You okay?”

“Yes.”Touch me.My heartbeat dips between my legs. I cross my thighs and accidentally tangle up in the tulle of my purple skirt.Course correct.“I think my brothers and Sulli are hopeful that we’ll be home soon because of the satellite phone.” I stop fighting with my skirt. “Though, Akara hasn’t found a spot outside that won’t block the signal yet. But I still can’t believe Oscar brought one.”

Thatcher looks unsurprised. “He started packing a sat-phone when Charlie spent a week in a dead zone in Mongolia.”

“I had no idea Charlie traveled there.” I’m not shocked that this is new information for me.

My curiosity piques. “How much more do you know?”

“About Charlie?”

“Oui.”

Thatcher stretches out his bent leg. “Not a lot. Mostly his location while I was a lead, and even that didn’t always come in…” He trails off a little, watching me unearth a bottle of whiskey from beneath my blanket. “Where’d you get that?”

“I swiped it from the cellar. Second to last bottle.” I swish the liquid, then uncap it and put the rim to my lips. Warm liquid runs down my throat, and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

Thatcher stares at me like the clouds have parted and I’ve descended from the sky.

I blush under his heated stare. “What?”

“You’re the hottest woman I’ve ever been with,” he says like a fact.Point-blank, as he sometimes adds.

I pulse. “I’m learning new things about you every day.” My lips rise. “Thatcher Moretti finds whiskey-drinking hot.” I take another sip.

“Youdrinking whiskey from a bottle is hot,” he clarifies. “And you just existingis fucking hot.”

“Likewise,” I murmur, sweating beneath my blanket. “Did you know arousal increases body temperature?” I blurt out like a helpful but embarrassing factoid. “Of course you do,” I quickly add and roast thinking about our nightlong sex in the car. “It’s an obvious…” I watch his eyes dip down the length of me. “…fact.”

I stop breathing.

He stands.

“Thatcher—” I cut myself off as he grips the opened laptop. Not letting go of his orders, his duty. But he locks the door to the laundry room. His strides are confident and purposeful, and I’m like a cat clawing onto every inch he moves.

He comes up to the washer/dyer and grabs the whiskey bottle from my hand. And he sets the laptop on a pile of folded bath towels. In distance to refresh the webpage.

He swigs the whiskey, then places the bottle aside.

Now he’s so near. I clutch his muscular shoulders while his arms wrap around my waist.

His scent dizzies me: wood smoke and cinnamon. He usually doesn’t smell like the latter, and I take a deep sniff of his white tee.

Our eyes suddenly meet mid-sniff, and it’s not the first time I’ve been caught inhaling his scent. Still, I flush like I’m baking under the sun.

“You smell different—not in a bad way,” I clarify quickly. “Just different. You have notes of cinnamon, which isn’t your typical scent. I don’t think…is it?”

Thatcher doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he’s quiet as he leans past me, his arm brushing my shoulder as he flicks on the washer/dryer.