Page 96 of Tangled Like Us

“It’s a WPW pay-per-view match. World Pro Wrestling.”

Realization washes over me. “I’ve heard of WPW before, but I wouldn’t know the names of any big matches,” I say aloud. “I’ve never seen one.”

Thatcher is about to answer, but we reach our rooms.

Banks sticks his key in a door across from ours. The plaque reads:Metropolis.The Moretti brothers exchange a look that I can’t decipher, and then Thatcher nods before Banks disappears.

Thatcher and I are officially alone.

It makes what we’re about to do more real. Share a bed together for the night. Though, security reminded us to sleep on opposite ends. Bonus points if Thatcher takes the floor.

No cuddling produces zero temptations.

Or so they believe.

I think they’re placing complete trust in Thatcher’s professionalism. And I also think they’ve forgotten to add other variables. Like how I’m easily aroused by Thatcher, and all he has to do is be himself.

Assertive, considerate, stern and protective. And more, so much more—some layers I’ve only just glimpsed.

Thatcher uses the skeleton key and unlocks the door. I trail inside behind him, and he has me stop at the entrance. He checks the bathroom, and while he assesses the rest of the space, the interior catches me off guard.

Pretty pale green wallpaper lines the room, and a king-sized bed overpowers the space, a glittery champagne comforter tucked nicely in the iron frame. Three pink stained-glass windows above normal panes let in soft light, and a Victorian velvet chaise rests near the bathroom door.

It’s eclectic and gorgeous and I’m immediately in love.

“This okay?” Thatcher asks, closing the door behind me.

“More than okay.” I place my suitcase near the foot of the bed. “It’s like someone dug around in my head and this exploded out of it.”

“Hold on.” He drops his backpack beside the chaise and then checks the latches on the windows. He tests the locks.

All seem to be secured, and then he snaps the blinds shut. The only source of light now comes from the stained glass above.

The sun has already begun to set, and I pull the tassel to a frilled lamp, a warm glow bathing the bed.

Quiet lingers, and nervous anticipation sizzles my skin and flip-flops my stomach. I eye him curiously, watching as he sits on the edge of the chaise and unties his boots.

If I don’t fill the silence, I may boil to death—or in the very least, sweat through my long-sleeve fuzzy shirt.

“Who from security proposed this idea?” I ask, placing my beet-shaped purse on the nightstand.

He yanks off his boots. “I’m not sure. I came into the meeting and it was already the most popular option.” He rolls up the sleeves of his black tee and then grabs his backpack.

He lifts his head, staring more strongly into me. His gaze is a thousand-watt bulb. Scorching me head to toe.

He asks, “Have you changed your mind about doing this?” His husky voice somehow contains deep concern and reassurance all at once.

“No, not at all.” I push a frizzed strand of hair off my cheek. “Is it odd to say that I’m actually excited? I’ve never faked an orgasm before. Usually I just tell the guy that they didn’t please me, and I’ll provide pointers and then let them solve the rest. So this is a first—the faking orgasm part.” I intake a short breath, my eyes widening at my unraveling thoughts that I’m purging out loud.

Does he even want to know about your orgasms, Jane?

He’s stoic. Not breaking eye contact, but his hands have paused unzipping his backpack.

I speak faster. “Which just means that I’m not one-hundred percent positive I’ll be the very best at faking an orgasm—but I am excited to try. Truly.”

I can’t blink.

My face is most definitely on fire.