Tangled Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  Yes, Maximoff will do that frequently. Almost like he doesn’t even know he’s speaking out loud.

  “Oui.”

  Sulli swipes two green stripes underneath her eyes like warpaint. “And then we overheard Thatcher saying you smell like spring. I wasn’t fucking eavesdropping or anything—”

  “I was.” Luna raises a green glitter hand.

  My heart thumps hard in my chest. Please tell me they didn’t hear anything else.

  “Your door was cracked open,” Luna explains.

  Thank God.

  Relief washes over me. Thatcher and I most definitely always closed and locked the door when we had sex. Very little chance of being overheard.

  Luna rubs the green glitter on her legs, about to completely cover herself in the avocado mask.

  I try to follow their logic. “So Maximoff smells like summer. I smell like spring.” Where is this going?

  Sulli nods. “And Farrow has white fucking hair. And Thatcher always wears those plaid flannels like he’s about to chop some wood in the forest.”

  Uh-oh.

  Luna beams. “Farrow is winter. Thatcher is fall. Which makes the four of you the Seasons. ” She claps her hands accidently. “You have your own friendship name. We do our best.” She pounds a fist with Sulli.

  “The Seasons,” I say with a smile.

  “And the best part of it,” Sulli says. “Is that the media doesn’t know about it, so they can’t ruin a good thing like they always do.”

  Luna and I share a look this time. Sulli blames the media for picking up the story about Beckett’s texts so quickly.

  It spread like wildfire and made it harder for security to remove them. And even with the girl breaking her NDA, all she did was pay a fine. Beckett shouldered most of the consequences. Now he doesn’t text anyone. Not even me. He’ll only call or FaceTime.

  A knock suddenly raps on the door.

  “Jane.” Thatcher’s deep voice is a bit muffled outside. “My mom wants to know if you prefer white or red pasta sauce.”

  I’m meeting his family in a couple days.

  Security surprisingly approved the outing. Thatcher isn’t sure why they would, and I know it’s put him on edge.

  I want to make a good impression with his family. I’m nervous that I’ll fail at this too. I’ve never had to do this before, and I can’t ask Moffy for advice.

  Farrow doesn’t have much of a family. So Moffy didn’t really “meet the parents” in the traditional sense.

  I speak to the door. “I like both sauces.”

  “Say again?” He can’t hear me through the wood.

  “You can come in!” Sulli calls out to him.

  He cracks the door. Catching sight of my green face, he opens it wider. He steps in, and then spots Luna in her underwear—swiftly, he rotates. “Sorry.” His eyes are on me, back to her. “I thought everyone was decent.”

  “We are very decent,” Luna says. “I’m basically in a bikini. Plus…I’m posting it on Instagram anyway.” I watch as she holds up the phone and snaps a picture. “Sulli.” She hands the phone to her so she can help take a wide shot.

  I don’t want to be in the room when her dad sees that photo online.

  He might have a stroke.

  Hopefully Aunt Lily is with him. She always knows what to say to calm Uncle Lo.

  I focus on Thatcher and his earlier question. “I like both,” I say. “Can you tell your mom that whatever she wants is perfect? I, um…” My tongue is caught because he’s staring at me more intensely. “…you.”

  I shut my mouth, inhaling a deeper breath.

  Thatcher nods and eyes my facemask, not looking below my neck. He casts a furtive glance at my cousins.

  They can’t know we’re intimate.

  Yet, how much time do we even have left?

  “Heyhey, Thatcher,” Luna says. “You should stay.”

  “Yeah,” Sulli agrees. “Why don’t you join the facemask party?

  Luna nods. “Yeah yeah, Insta Live it for the fake dating thing.”

  He can’t see my cousins. But they are both grinning like they’ve discovered fairy dust and fountains of eternal youth. Between this and the Seasons name, I’m beginning to think Sul and Luna are like two impish pixies.

  I’m all here for it. Sitting straighter, a smile tugging my cheeks. Seeing Thatcher in a green facemask is something I didn’t know I needed until right now.

  “Do you want to?” I ask Thatcher.

  He stares at me and nods. But he still adds, “If you think it’ll help with the fake dating op.” It’s a cursory statement. Like he knows he has to say it in front of my cousins. I do believe he’d want to do this with me regardless of the fake dating ruse.

  Like drinking whiskey in the garage.

  “It should help.” I grab the bottle of facemask, and Thatcher sits down on an alien beanbag.

  “I’ll film,” Luna says, using her phone and Instagram account since mine is still deactivated.

  I straddle Thatcher’s lap. It’s easiest instead of bending down. His hands fall to my hips, easy and comfortable. Yet tension winds between us. Like we’re both caging our breaths.

  There are two factors at play.

  One: our Instagram viewers think this is real.

  Two: Sulli and Luna think this is all fake.

  I know this is real. Every touch has been real since we had sex at the B&B. I’m certain of that. But as we get closer and closer to Halloween, the end is near. I wish I could just…push it out of my mind.

  But it’s there.

  Present. Like the worst kind of ticking clock.

  Silence blankets the room as I rub Thatcher’s skin with a cleansing cloth. This could be the last time I touch him…

  My stomach knots.

  Enjoy it then.

  I will.

  I uncap the green cream. One dollop on my finger, I smear the green facemask down his nose like sunblock. My lips lift. “Mr. Moretti, I do say, you are quite handsome.”

  He doesn’t reply, quiet as usual. But his palm slides underneath the hem of my shirt. His skin is warm against my skin, and his hand trails to the small of my back. Goosebumps prick my flesh. Cold and hot all at once.

  I rub the mask on his cheekbones and forehead. My fingers trace every curve of his face, and it feels like one of the most intimate things we’ve ever done together.

  His eyes fall into me like the video isn’t live recording behind me. Like the world is so far, far away. I lean in. He leans in. Our lips meet briefly. Suddenly. Like they were drawn together from the start.

  We break apart just as quick. Heat compiling, but we can’t create a firestorm here.

  I glance over my shoulder. Luna holds up a finger. “And—we’re off live.”

  Sulli’s brows are sky high. “Fuck, are you to going for an Emmy or something?”

  Luna beams like she’s witnessing something extraterrestrial. “Spring and fall are rising.”

  More accurately, those seasons can’t rise together.

  Fall rises when spring ends.

  40

  THATCHER MORETTI

  “Wait.” Jane breathes against my neck. “Do you hear something?”

  I stop thrusting up into her, my senses still sharp despite Jane sitting on my cock. Despite our skin slick with sweat, limbs rubbing and intertwined. She pauses grinding and moving up and down on me.

  I’m leaning against the headboard of her four-poster bed. My hand lost in her brown hair, my other palm keeps her pressed against me protectively.

  If need be, I’d be able to carry her out of her room in a swift second. No hesitation. No faltering.

  My voice is a cavernous whisper. “Carpenter knocked a headband off the vanity.”

  She has her back to the calico cat, perched proudly on the surface. The feline audience is necessary. Or else they’ll cry at her door.

  I sense Jane focused on my eyes that sweep her room. Assessing. Landing on each cat.

  Walru
s is stalking a shadow from moonlight. Licorice is peeking out from the closet. Lady Macbeth sleeps like an old queen on the cushioned stool.

  And Ophelia is at the foot of the bed. Curled up watching me fuck her owner. We’ve shooed her off the mattress four times already.

  I focus directly on Jane. “All clear.”

  Desire wells up in her eyes. “Thatcher.”

  My pulse thumps. I cup her warm face, her pink lips unable to press together. In a permanent pant, and my cock throbs for friction while deep inside her tight heat.

  In my peripheral, I catch the glint of light under the door.

  Shadow passing by. A nearly inaudible creak.

  Jane turns her head.

  “It’s Toodles,” I whisper. The laziest cat sometimes camps out on the second-floor landing at night.

  Jane eases, focusing on each other.

  She holds my hard jaw in two delicate hands, our foreheads pressing. Looking into one another. Breath scorching my lungs. A power surge flames my nerve-endings.

  I bring her closer on instinct. Our lips meshing, rampaging carnal needs, and I rock my hips up. She whimpers softly into the kiss.

  My muscles contract. Every part of Jane feels fucking amazing against me. Hands. Thighs. Pussy.

  She curls her arm around my neck. Rising higher to intensify the kiss, and my erection slides further out of her warmth.

  I plunge my tongue between her lips. She trembles and searches my mouth with hers.

  I flex up into Jane. Cock burying back into her.

  She nestles her face in the crook of my shoulder. Smothering her gasps, but I feel them hot against my skin. Pressure fists me as I pump in slow waves—fuuck.

  Fuck.

  I brush her sweaty hair off her neck and suck her nape. Her hips bow forward. Grinding, her breasts smashed against my sculpted chest. As close as physically fucking possible.

  She clenches around me.

  Goddamn. My head spins. Oxygen ejecting, and I breathe hotter breath through my nose. Gritting down to keep from grunting.

  Jane looks back, her eyes melting in pleasure while I thrust up and back down. Tonight has been one of the longest, most intense fucks of my life.

  Slow and quiet. Passionate, exhausting in the best endurance-challenging way. I don’t remember when we started. I can’t tell when we’re going to stop.

  As I push back into her, she reaches down, and I watch her touch her swollen clit. “Fuck ,” I grunt under my breath.

  She contracts around me again—and Jane lifts her glistening fingers, her shimmering eyes on me. I know what she wants.

  I clutch her wrist, and I guide her hand closer to my mouth. She smiles, and as she slides her fingers between my lips, I taste her against my tongue.

  Gripping her wrist tight, I suck her fingers.

  She crumbles to pieces, her body shuddering in silent waves. Her head against my chest. I wrap a strong arm around her back. Tucking her in close to me. I take her fingers out of my mouth and thrust deeper.

  I barely hear her muffled words.

  “Right there,” she moans. “Don’t stop. Please, please. ”

  I quicken my pace. Sweat dripping down my temples.

  Jane keeps moving her hips until she can’t any longer. A prisoner to her own pleasure that ripples through her body. Fuckfuckfuck. I press my forehead on the top of her head. Don’t come .

  Don’t come

  Not fucking yet .

  My cock screams at me for release. But I breathe harder through my nose, controlling myself. She comes down, stilling, and I lift her hips and gently pull out of Jane. We don’t shift a lot. She’s on my lap. But my rock-solid cock stands at attention against her belly.

  Jane inhales at the sight.

  I’m about to change positions. But her fingers graze my shaft, and my chest collapses, shoulders tensed against the headboard.

  Our eyes flit to each other, then to our bodies.

  “Can you…?” Jane whispers, breathless.

  I grip and tug my cock. What she wants to see. My large hand stroking my need. I hold the back of her head.

  Jane watches, open-mouthed, her arousal building back up. Her eyes glimmer and she toys with my balls—my breath knots.

  Christ. We kiss deeper, more urgently, and I can’t jack off anymore. Swiftly, I hoist her up, and she sinks back down on me.

  Pressure overwhelming me again.

  I thrust up. Careful with each pump, watching her reaction, and then I create more friction. Faster. More heat. Deeper. I shelter her high-pitched moans against my palm.

  Quiet.

  She kisses my palm and then licks it. A groan scratches my throat. Lights blink in my vision. I’m holding my breath.

  My muscles stretch beyond fucking taut. Pulled into a raw visceral place. Our eyes embrace, clinging. I never turn away from Jane. Never look away, passion overgrown, and she cries out against my hand. Her body vibrating all over again.

  God.

  I push up. And erupt, releasing hard into an explosion of emotion. My chest rises and falls heavily.

  We both come down, and as I pull out and we naturally shift to our sides under her pink sheets, I hold Jane and feel her heartbeat slow against my chest.

  Her eyes flutter closed.

  Exhaustion tries to sink me too. I’m almost there. You can’t spend the night. I should leave now, but heaviness and the warmth of her body draws me in.

  I don’t want to disturb her. Not yet. She’s sleeping peacefully. Safe and content.

  I shut my eyes, and the world goes dark.

  * * *

  Radio static fills my ears. “Phantom Two One, this is Phantom Two Actual. Maintain speed .”

  “This is Phantom Two One. Roger that.”

  Humvees on gravel and dirt mix with the static. “Viper Two Two, cleared hot .”

  I wake.

  Eyes snapped open. I’m covered in sweat. My head pounds.

  Jane sleeps soundlessly next to me, her freckled cheek on my bicep. I check the clock. Zero four hundred hours. Unholy shit . I overslept.

  I needed to leave an hour ago. I carefully shift my arm out from under Jane. Lifting the sheet and blankets higher on her bare, beautiful body.

  I stand off the bed. Cats greeting me, all five rubbing up against my calves while I find my clothes, as quietly as I can.

  I move in systematic order. Boxer-briefs on, black slacks on—I pull a black crewneck over my head, and then I grab my radio, holster my gun to my waistband.

  And I find her sticky pad on the end table. About to jot down a quick note, but I notice her illegible handwriting. I trained myself to decipher it when I was a lead.

  I read the words clearly.

  Merci mille fois. Pour tout.

  xoxo Jane

  She knows I can translate simple French phrases. She wrote: Thank you a thousand times. For everything.

  My lungs expand. I tear her note off the pad. Pocketing it, and then I write on the top blank one.

  It’s my honor to be with you in everything.

  I place the note on the pillow next to her. And I’m at the door in two strides. I look back. Checking on my client, she breathes contently.

  I grip the doorknob. I fucking hate this part.

  Leaving Jane after we had sex.

  At the beginning, it was hard. Now it’s excruciating. The reality is, I’ve never been a frat-bro and she’s never been a quick meaningless fuck to me.

  What happened last night deserves a morning. Where she wakes up in my arms.

  But that’s not part of the agreement.

  I’ve already accidentally pushed a fucking hour. And right now, my head is killing me. I rub at my eyes, static still in my ear. But my radio isn’t on.

  Fuck me.

  I slip out of the room. No lights on. Toodles, her sixth cat, lounges sluggishly by the bathroom.

  With my long legs, I skip two stairs at a time. Bypassing ones that I know squeak. Silent as I descend.

&n
bsp; I reach the living room. Dark—but soft light illuminates from the kitchen archway. I pick up sound in that direction.

  Someone is awake.

  I strain my ears…

  And I hear Farrow. Contempt in his rough voice, and it takes a hell of a lot to push his buttons. I would know.

  Concern drives me toward his location, and I listen to his angered whisper.

  “I’m not bartering with you…” A pause is taken. “You worthless bastard… Is that a threat? Yeah?”

  Instinct pushes me through the archway.

  I see Farrow with a phone to his ear, elbows on the counter. Hunched forward in a lunge. He sees me, surprise flashing in his heated eyes. But he doesn’t stiffen or move a muscle.

  He cuts his gaze forward. “You’re in prison, you motherfucker. This call is recorded.”

  Prison.

  Donnelly’s dad or mom could be on the line. His dad is supposed to be released from prison soon, and I only ever considered that intel in terms of Donnelly’s wellbeing. But if he’s threating Farrow from prison…

  My brows pull together, and then a sharp ringing pierces my head—I touch my ear. My heart rate spikes.

  Fuck this.

  I walk tensely to the sink. Turn on the faucet and splash water on my face.

  Farrow watches my movements. Still talking on the phone. “No. Never…” His jaw muscle tics, and then he hangs up.

  I rub water off my eyes. “Was that Sean Donnelly?” I name Donnelly’s dad.

  “Yeah.” Farrow leans his side casually on the counter. Just in drawstring pants, tattoos scatter his chest, ribs, arms, and neck. He’s assessing me as much as I’m looking at him.

  I grip the sink’s ledge. “Is he going to be a problem?”

  Farrow eyes me up and down. “I’ll let you know when I know.”

  He’s not sure yet. I nod once. And I splash more water on my face before shutting off the faucet. My heart rate is starting to slow. I dry off my forehead and jaw using the hem of my shirt.

  Farrow goes to the fridge and tugs a water bottle out of the door. He extends the drink to me. Like I once tried to do for him in Greece.