Page 8 of Sinful Like Us

Thatcher buttons his pants. “I’m putting my duffel under your bed. All of your clothes can go back in the closet.”

I crinkle my brows. “You’re not living out of abag.”

“It doesn’t bother me—”

“It bothers me,” I rebut. “Greatly.” I think quickly while he sidles next to me. “So you’d prefer not to unpack? Would you rather live somewhere else?”

“Hell no.” Skin pleats his forehead. “I already said I want to be here.” More strongly, he emphasizes, “I want to live with you, Jane.”

I nod, believing him. But we’re both still frowning, and I hear his voice from before saying,you’re not a normal girl.“Are you trying to give me the whole closet because I’m obscenely wealthy—because you think I’m used to this humongous amount of space and need it?”

I did grow up in a mansion that is regal enough to be a modern-day American castle. But I’ve lived in this modest townhouse for four years, and I’ve loved every minute here.

Thatcher stares into me. “No. I wouldn’t want any girlfriend of mine, rich or fucking poor, to shove her clothes under a bed to make room for me.”

I hate that I almost smile, and I hate how my heart swells. He makes me feel…doted on. It feels quite nice, and it shouldn’t. Because he can’t give me everything while I give himnothing.My parents are equal to each other in every measure of their lives.

It’s what I saw growing up.

It’s what I know works. It’s been proven to succeed.

So I have to stand by my decision, and I tug a frilly purple blouse off a hanger. “I’m not putting this back.” I fold the blouse very messily.It’ll do.As soon as I set it down, my boyfriend picks it up. “Thatcher—” I cut myself off. Because he’s not slipping the frilly sleeves onto a hanger so it can be returned to the closet.

He refolds the blouse into a much neater square.

Our gazes meet, and he says, “Don’t take out more than this.”

He’s accepting 10% of the closet. Far less than I wanted for him, but I suppose it’ll have to be enough for now.

I extend my palm. “You have a deal.”

Light touches his stern eyes, and his large hand engulfs mine as we shake.

We don’t let go.

In a quiet moment, his other hand finds the small of my back, and Thatcher dips his head down so slowly…

Our lips collide in a scalding, sensual kiss that melds me against his chest. I rise on the tips of my toes. Electricity spindles up my limbs, from each toe to my head. My fingers descend to his ass, and his tongue parts my lips.Yes.

A high-pitched noise tickles my throat, and his hand slips beneath my flannel top. Scorching my skin. We are overflowing magma. Heat gathers, and our bodies scream blistered pleas for skin-on-skin contacteverywhere.

And then, he breaks the deep kiss, his forehead nearly pressed to mine, and I scrounge my lungs for lost breath.

“You’re…” I breathe hard, words scattering into oblivion.You’re very good at kissing and very good at stopping. You’re more and everything.

He straightens up, resting a hand on top of my head. Our eyes still hot on each other. I eagerly search his gaze, and he tells me, “We’re still kerosene.”

Flammable.

Combustible.

I smile. “Sounds disastrously right.”

He kisses my temple, and we work together to sort through our clothes. He unpacks and slips his button-downs on hangers that I remove from vests and blouses.

“I called the Tri-Force earlier this morning,” I admit.

His gaze tightens. “About Tony?”