Sinful Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 5)

by Krista Ritchie

  Beckett. He’s not thinking this through. We have no access to a phone or internet, and before I say so, Akara chimes in, “None of us can call for a helicopter.”

  Thatcher nods. “We don’t have the resources right now.”

  My brother doesn’t seem deterred. So either he’s fooling himself or he has an ace in his sleeve. With a lithe movement, he spins towards the banister. “Charlie!”

  Oscar shakes his head and then turns into Farrow to say, “That kid’s got every helicopter and private plane service on speed dial.”

  Farrow whispers something back that I can’t hear.

  And it’s not Charlie who descends the staircase into the foyer.

  Joana Oliveira tosses her backpack on the growing pile. “Why does everyone look like they just got their asses kicked by me?”

  Everyone is ominously silent.

  “What they’re not telling you,” Beckett suddenly says, “is that we’re stuck here.”

  Her face plummets. “What?” She whips to Oscar with wide, horrified eyes. “Bro.”

  Oscar holds up a comforting hand. “I know—”

  “My fight is in two days.” Joana shakes her head in distress.

  Quinn motions to his sister. “We’ll get you there, Jo.”

  Oscar rubs his forehead, not as assured or willing to promise their sister. This has now turned into a royal dilemma and not how I saw this informal meeting going.

  I haven’t even taken a sip of coffee.

  Really, I like Jo. From our short time together, I’ve found her put-up-or-shut-up energy very refreshing and rather amusing when directed towards SFO, who see her as a little sister. But right now, the air is very strained.

  “I can’t miss this fight,” Joana emphasizes to her brothers.

  Beckett tips his head to her. “Welcome to the Screwed Club.”

  Oscar’s eyes flash with protective heat. “Beckett, watch yoursel—”

  “We’re not in the same situation.” Joana cuts off her brother and spins on Beckett with angry brown eyes. “You’re a ballerina. I have a televised fight, and if I’m not there, I have to forfeit. I don’t have an understudy.”

  Beckett restrains a soft smile.

  She cringes. “Are you grinning?”

  “Yes,” he says honestly. “Look, I don’t have an understudy.” He stiffens more. “I have a douchebag, asshole who’s vying for my spot. If I’m not there, he’ll replace me, and I’m out of work for an entire season.” He inhales a sharper breath, and then he rotates to the staircase. “CHARLIE!”

  Jo storms through the foyer with a blistering stride and cracks the door open. She rocks back. “Holy shit.”

  Cold sweeps inside like a mad, furious rage, and I block the slapping wind with a hand to my face. Until Thatcher steps in front of me and shields me from the freeze.

  My pulse skips.

  I’ve already peered outside. Where the view is an endless sea of glaring white.

  “What do you want?” Charlie climbs down the stairs in nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs. He rubs at his eyes, sandy-brown hair matted from sleep.

  Beckett looks over his shoulder. “Can a helicopter fly through that?” He nods his chin towards the door that Oscar begins to shut.

  Charlie barely glances at it. “Not unless you want to die.”

  “No one leaves the house,” Akara declares, speaking to his men and to my family. “I don’t care where you have to be. Or how important the shit is that you’re missing. No one goes anywhere until the storm ends.” He stomps off, leaving uncomfortable silence in his wake.

  28

  JANE COBALT

  2 Days Snowed-In

  Only 2 days away from Christmas Eve, an anxious urgency permeates through Mackintosh House like an inescapable toxin. The need to be home for the holidays is a ticking clock we all hear and feel.

  I speak quietly. “Charlie said he’s sick of everyone. Beckett won’t look at me, but Sullivan and Luna seem to be faring well. For now at least.” I sit on the washer/dryer combo, a plaid tartan blanket snug around my shoulders. And I have a rare high-up view of Thatcher as he’s seated on the cold tile.

  Since early this morning, I’ve taken inventory of food, firewood, and other necessities like medicine. Thatcher and I split up most of the day to lessen Tony’s suspicions about the twin swap.

  I’ve only been in the laundry room for a couple minutes, and already, Thatcher is looking up at me with heady, concerned eyes.

  “How are you doing?” he asks, his voice so very deep.

  His question blooms inside me, a budding rose through the thick impenetrable ice.

  I must’ve forgotten myself in the equation.

  “I’m about as well as Moffy.” My ribcage feels like a painful corset cinching my lungs. “Possibly better considering I’m sleeping more than he is. I love him dearly, but he’s going to drive himself over an edge.” My throat tightens. “It’s easier knowing he has Farrow now.” He’s the only person who can help Moffy relax.

  Thatcher assesses me. “You feel responsible for your family’s well-being too.” It’s not a question, yet I feel the need to explain.

  I shrug, tensed. “In a lot of ways, yes. But Maximoff feels more responsible since he invited everyone to Scotland, and they all believe he’ll fix this more than they think I will.”

  His frown is a dark scowl. “You help out just as much as him.”

  “He’s the leader. I’m just the second-in-command, and really, I’m lucky. I don’t envy his position, and I definitely don’t want that pressure.” I quickly add, “How’s SFO doing?” I don’t know why I’m so uncomfortable talking about myself right now.

  He skims me, the scrutiny scalding me in the chilly laundry room. It’s the second coldest place in the house, the first being the cellar. “Most of the team hasn’t racked out in over 24-hours either.”

  Our bodyguards bear a great responsibility for my family’s welfare too. And there’s strange comfort in knowing it isn’t just Moffy and me holding down the fort.

  Two men who we desperately love and trust are helping us. Plus, the rest of Omega.

  I try to take a breath.

  Skin pleats between his focused eyes. “You look scared.”

  I attempt to swallow fear, but it fists me. And I realize he captured the emotion that has me deflecting. How smart he is—this man of mine.

  I inhale. “I am.”

  He starts to stand—and quickly, I hold out a hand. “Please, don’t. You’re busy.” He has a laptop on his muscular legs, and the laundry room had the best reception before we lost all signal from the storm.

  Thatcher’s been tasked with pressing refresh on a webpage. SFO has taken turns trying to send an email to our families. A futile effort really, considering we don’t have internet. But he’s not a man who’d disobey these kind of orders, and I don’t want him to start for me.

  Thatcher reluctantly stays seated. “Talk to me then.”

  I blow out a loud breath, puffing my cheeks. “I’m afraid what happens after.”

  “After?”

  “After my brothers and cousins realize that we’re most likely going to be stuck in Scotland for Christmas. After we actually are. Because it means this is the second Christmas we’re not in Philly.”

  Last year, we were all on a tour bus.

  I continue, “The second Christmas we miss Xander’s birthday, the second Christmas I’ve taken from you.”

  Thatcher sends me a stern look. “You’ve taken nothing from me, Jane.”

  “Christmas Eve is your grandma’s favorite holiday, and who knows how many you’ll have left with her—and yes, I didn’t know how she fawns over Christmas while we were on tour.” I speak hastily. “But I know that now, and I know how much she wants you there, and now you won’t be. Not alone or with me.” I do the best I can to keep eye-contact.

  His intense gaze isn’t defeating me.

  It wraps me.

  Tightly.

  Protec
tively, and oh God, I wish I never told him to sit back down. Because I also love that he’s willing to break orders for me.

  Constantly.

  Even now.

  He nods a few times. “I won’t lie to you.”

  “Good,” I say pointedly.

  “Good,” he repeats, “because you need to hear that you’re right. We’re probably not making it home for Christmas, but you didn’t take time away from me or anyone else. We’re just spending a holiday with other people. And if my grandma doesn’t make the next Christmas…” He pauses, his jaw muscle twitching. “I have enough memories of us together to last a lifetime.” He softens his gaze. “I could just as likely die tomorrow. And I’d want to spend my final moments next to you.”

  My body caves, then rises. His declaration pricks tears, but the thought of him dying nearly doubles me over. I straighten up. “If I were to die, I’d want you beside me too. And also Banks.”

  “Banks?” His furrow-browed confusion is cute.

  “You’d need your brother after I died, and I’d want someone there for you.”

  His affection for me flows out so apparently. He padlocks nothing, and his love, so powerful and frightening, begins to eliminate the anxious toxins around us.

  Thatcher glances briefly at the laptop, then me. “I’m revising what I said.”

  A smile spreads across my face. “Let’s hear it, then.”

  “If I were to die tomorrow, I’d also want Maximoff there.”

  For me.

  If a heart could sigh happily, mine just did. The pressure that’s taken residence on my body begins to gradually subside.

  I smile more and quirk a brow. “Are you copying me, Mr. Moretti?”

  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 all want from my face. I respect his job, and I’d rather not tempt him.

  I tuck a flyaway hair behind my ear, my fingers skimming my hot cheek. 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.

  “You drinking whiskey from a bottle is hot,” he clarifies. “And you just existing is 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.

  It rumbles to life beneath my ass.

  Dear God.

  My body shakes with the vibration.

  Arousal builds, and I inhale another lungful of his scent. “It’s more of a feminine fragrance than what you wear…” I freeze.

  All rational thinking vacates my brain. Because rationally, I trust Thatcher and know he’d never cheat on me. Rationally, there are only three other girls in this house, and two are my cousins.

  There has to be another reason.

  Yet, my mind places him in this moment with other girls. Where he’s loving, sexy, and assured, all for them. My stomach overturns and clenches.

  I could never share him with another woman, I realize.

  “Luna was spraying her body mist in the living room.” He seizes my gaze with a look of unadulterated fealty. He must know what I was concluding, and instead of being hurt at the unwarranted assumption, he just wants to reassure me.

  I love him.

  I expect fear to be exterminated at the thought of love and Thatcher, but a bit lingers. Like a thorny vine ensnared around my heart, one my head refuses to snip.

  Give yourself to him.

  He can’t promise that I won’t lose my agency. It’s something that I have to work through on my own, and what if it takes years?

  At least I understand the fear. I suppose that’s the first step in learning to let go and move forward. I just hope I can.

  I nod, easing some. “It does smell like Luna.”

  “She said she was winterizing the house, and I got hit with it.” He grips the back of his white tee, pulling the fabric off over his head. His sculpted abs come into view, dog tags lying against natural hair on his chest.

  He spreads my thighs in one swift movement, my dangling legs no longer obstructing the washer door. My lungs expand and contract in heavy waves.

  His hand brushes away my blanket and tulle skirt—to plant on my bare thigh like it has found a home, a resting place, a heaven and hell and will not move unless some exorcist performs a ritual.

  If eyes could be lip-locked, ours are attached in desirous, soul-bound fashion, and I’m not ready to look to the left or right.

  I just want him.

  His fingers press into my soft flesh as he tosses the shirt in the washer/dryer, and then he knees the door shut. “I don’t want to smell like Luna’s body mist
.”

  “Fair point,” I breathe.

  My eyes glide down his chest, and a thousand animalistic thoughts stampede in my head. There are risks involved with having sex in the laundry room with Thatcher who’s pretending to be Banks.

  Yet…

  “Thatcher.” His name is throaty and desperate off my lips, and my arms swoop back around his neck. He shoves into the embrace. Until our lips unite in a blistering, soul-bodied kiss. His fingers on top of my panties, massaging me above the fabric.

  A moan strangles our kiss.

  My moan.

  His free hand cups the back of my head, strong and controlled. He deepens the intensity of the kiss like he can put my noises to bed.

  The muscles in my belly tighten. Nerves firing in too many places to make sense. The friction on my clit, the vibration under my bottom, the taste of him on my lips—it’s a full-body sensation and I’m being submerged under it all.

  Between our kisses, I remind him, “Your laptop.”

  He reaches out and sightlessly refreshes the page.

  I scoot closer into his hand between my legs. But also so I can clutch his ass. I dive my hands beneath his sweatpants and bite his bicep.

  “Fuck,” he grunts and his eyes make love to me a thousand different ways.

  He tears off my peach-hued blouse, then pulls up my bra to my collarbones. In one swoop, my breasts are exposed to the chilly air, and I’m grinding into his hand. “Please.”

  He holds the back of my head like I’m his to protect. And to love and to supply many earth-shattering orgasms.

  He curls the crotch of my panties aside, his large fingers pulsing in me, and I let out a whimper, my limbs trembling. His other thumb feels feather-light over my hardened nipple.

  “Jane.” He says my name like he’s already fucking it.

  Wetness pools between my thighs, and I see the sheer length of his hardness against his sweatpants.

  Oh…

  My.

  His lips crash against mine again. Hands begin exploring. I move away from his ass to take hold of his cock, his waistband falling low past his muscular hips.

  I rub him in deep long strokes. He curses under his breath, and I want him in me too fiercely. Our bodies are reacting in hungered need for closer contact. In me.