But in this very moment, I can’t fathom him moving away from me. I’m willing to leap off a deep-end with Thatcher, no matter how terrifying.
“You can pull out.” My body is on fire as the words leave my lips.
He’s already shaking his head, and he squats down where I left my purse. He knows I keep condoms there, and his hand—his hand glides down with him. He holds my ankle like he refuses to let go of me.
Seconds later, he stands upright, all six-foot-seven of him, and he tears the foil packet with his teeth. He stops suddenly. Concern piercing his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
I realize I’m wincing. “I offered the pull-out method. Statistically speaking, one in five people who do pull-out get pregnant.” I know those facts by heart because I looked them up when I was fifteen and it’s been drilled in my head ever since. “But I offered it like it was nothing.” I shiver.
He rubs my shoulders for heat. “Because you trust me, Jane. You don’t need to feel guilty.”
I trust him. With my life.
With my body.
I’m so willing to just lay down on a freeway for him, and maybe it is trust because I’m certain he’ll stand in front of traffic protecting me. But it’s something else too. Because smart people don’t choose to lie down on busy roads.
An overwhelmed feeling avalanches suddenly and brims water in my eyes. “I don’t…know what this is…” I touch my chest, pressure mounting. But I do.
I know exactly what it is.
I’m just terrified that I’ve already given my entire self to him. And what if I’m half of what I was? What if…what if I’m not ready?
Thatcher keeps his hand on my thigh. “Take a breath. Jane. Look at me.” My eyes cement on him and he inhales deeply. His chest rising.
I follow him and do the same. My head feels light as air. I wipe my cheeks. He probably thought this insecurity was resolved. “I’m being unfair—”
“No.”
“You don’t deserve—”
“Jane.” His eyes redden. “I love you. I’m here for these moments. Every fucking one. We’re going through fear, shame, guilt, back to fear together. A hundred, million times if we need to.”
I feel like my ribcage is cracking in two.
We stare at one another for a long moment, just timing our breaths. The washing machine thunders below me.
“What if love makes me do stupid things?” I mumble. “Like almost having sex with you without a condom.”
“That wasn’t stupid.” His features harden. “It was in the heat of the moment, and I would try to stop you if I knew you were doing something you wouldn’t normally do, just because of love.” He presses his lips to mine, slow and sensual. Our kiss igniting a smothered flame. He breaks apart just to whisper, “I’m going to protect you. Sempre toujours.”
I breathe in, shock and something stronger crashing into me.
Sempre toujours.
The first word is Italian, the second French.
It means, always always.
“Sempre toujours,” I repeat, letting the combination of the two sink in deeply.
His reassurance shouldn’t be so comforting. Shouldn’t fill me up. But it’s the perfect remedy, and I’m ready once more.
“I still want to.” I nod to the condom. “If you do.”
Headiness coats his gaze, and the washing machine stops suddenly, the cycle finished.
I freeze.
He checks the door and simultaneously refreshes the webpage. No internet.
My ears catch muffled voices, but they seem rather far away. Thatcher reaches around my body to switch the dial again. Vibrations crawl through me like they live inside my limbs and veins.
I hold onto his carved biceps. “I’ve never really craved anal,” I admit. “But this is…it feels really good and kind of makes me more curious.”
The corner of his lip rises, a shadow of smile. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me.”
Now I’m truly intrigued. “You think I’d like it?”
“No idea.” He sheathes his length. “But I know you’re too curious not to try.” He must see the deep interest in me. “Just tell me how soon.”
“Today,” I say without pause. “After one vaginal orgasm.” I’m so eager and invested in this adventure that he lets out a laugh.
“I’ll fuck you better than just one.” He fits between my legs, his erection pressing against my inner-thigh. He sweeps me in a quick once-over. “You’re gonna need to hold onto something.”
I look around. Nothing really to grip. Not even above me. “I’ll be fine.” I’m confident about this.
Thatcher stares at me with a hard look.
“I’m not a porcelain doll—”
He pounds into me, and I immediately reach behind my back, planting a hand on the washer. “Ahh,” I choke on a cry, trying to be quiet. Pure pleasure rattles my senses.
His jaw tightens, gritting back a groan.
My thighs are in his strong grasp, and he thrusts in hard, quick movements. Bursting the nerves along my skin like cracking embers. Slowly each one catches fire to my body, and an orgasm already rips through me.
My spine arches, and I shudder. God.
Fuck.
Ahhh… “Ahh.” I can’t capture that noise, and he covers my mouth.
Sure enough, he was right: I don’t have a good grip. I fall back onto my elbows. Breasts exposed, skirt still on. Panties not even stripped off but pushed aside. It’s the raunchy sex I lust for, and I have the best view. He crashes into me with primal need, his jaw tensed and nose flared, breath mixing with curses.
His cock slides past my cervix—oh God. Lights dance in my vision as he finds the spot of my dreams. And he repeatedly pushes against the nerve-spindling place in rhythmic bliss and skill.
He annihilates me. Body and soul.
I lose time to pleasure. Pleasure to flesh. Until I’m melting under carnal sensations. All sweat and skin and pressured points.
After another wave of euphoria, I can’t hold myself up on my elbows any longer. I collapse to my back, and Thatcher slows, eking out the movement while I climax again.
He kisses the inside of my thigh, and still hard, he pulls out. I try to catch my breath.
“Too spent?” he asks.
“Not at…” I pant. “All.” I stare at his erection. He puts on a new condom and finds lube packets in my purse and warms them between his hands. “Ready?”
“Yes.” Curiosity returns tenfold. I wonder how different it’ll feel to have him inside my ass.
He hooks his ankle around a wooden stepstool and slides it over.
“How does this work?” I wonder. “Not the mechanisms of anal, just the position I need to be in.”
“Come here.” He holds my waist, and gently, he brings me down the washer/dyer. My feet touch the stepstool, and I feel so safe here. With him.
Thatcher bites open the packet. “I’ll bend you over, and you’ll brace yourself on the washer. We’re at a good height. Copy?”
“Oui.” I smile, excitement flip-flopping my nerves, and he turns me around. So I face the washer/dryer, and I grab hold to the machine.
With his ankle, he pulls the stepstool back just slightly. I’m sufficiently bent over for him, and I crane my neck over my shoulder. Watching very keenly as he lubes himself, then teases open my hole with his finger. His grip on my ass is protective, caring, and cautious.