Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Her eyes roll.
I kiss the tender nape of her neck.
Her head lolls back.
I fill her pussy.
I thrust.
And thrust.
And feed this unkempt hunger that I’ve left for dead in reality. Watching and feeling Jane come and come and come and pulse around my hardened need.
In the shower, I hit that peak and jerk forward in a powerful release. Cum washes down the drain. I draw out the climax with a few more strokes, and then a knock bangs the bathroom door.
“Thatcher!” Banks calls.
Christ.
I clean off quickly and crank off the water. It should be around oh-nine-thirty. I’ve been up since dawn, but the famous ones are probably waking up now. Once they leave their townhouse, we automatically go on-duty.
My brother could need to use the bathroom. Or he could be telling me he’s about to head out. Or that I need to go. My radio is on the ledge of the sink.
I step out of the shower, the cramped bathroom only big enough for a toilet, sink, and shower stall.
Banks raps the door more aggressively. “Thatcher!”
Concern kicks my ass into gear. Forgoing the towel, which fell behind the toilet, I trek across the bathroom in a few forceful steps. Wet footprints track the floor.
Buck-ass naked, I open the door, and I instantly sidestep.
Banks barrels into the bathroom.
I shut the door behind us, and my brother aims straight for the toilet. Dropping a knee, he grips the sides of the basin.
He’s nauseous.
He waits and takes a few controlled breaths.
My brows knit together. “Second one in two weeks.” He hasn’t had a migraine all summer, and now it’s a cluster-fucking short timespan.
Banks spits roughly in the toilet. “I must just be lucky like that.” He takes another measured breath.
My wet hair is dripping on my squared shoulders. Beads skidding down the ridges of my muscles, and more water pools at my feet.
I go grab my towel from behind the toilet.
About the same time, my brother eases backwards. “False alarm.” He lets out a heavier breath and slumps against the shower stall. Already dressed for work in a white button-down and black slacks with a radio attached.
His slacks soak in fucking puddles that I tracked, but he’s too spent to give a shit. “I’m supposed to be Oscar Mike in an hour.”
I dry my hair with the towel. “Take today off.”
He rubs his temple and shuts one eye. “I’m the man who fills-in for the men who take off.”
Yeah.
Every time Farrow has to take a med call, he needs a bodyguard to fill his spot protecting Maximoff, and Banks volunteered to be that bodyguard.
Which inadvertently made him a full-time floater on the team. Whenever a 24/7 guard has a family or health emergency, Banks takes over their spot. It’s not a demotion. It’s the hardest job in security. Every day he gets pulled in a dozen different directions.
He says he likes the spontaneity of the position.
But Banks took this role for me.
He said I was gasoline in a bottle. I made a massive mistake when I hit Farrow, and I couldn’t get out of my head. My brother wanted to be under the same roof as me again. Just so I wouldn’t light myself on fire with rage and fucking regret.
“You can still take off, Banks.” I dry water off my chest.
There’d be some reshuffling among the men, but we’d work it out.
Banks rests the back of his head on the shower door. “That means slamming the team with a headache which pretty much matches my headache. I’m not doin’ it.”
I give him a hard look and tie my towel around my waist. “How the fuck do you plan to go on-duty if you can’t even keep both eyes open?”
“Easy. I plan to have both eyes open and alert by then.” He tucks his hair behind his left ear, then right ear and motions to me. “I could use all you’ve got.”
He’s not asking for drugs.
Instinctively, I touch two horn pendants that lie against my sternum, and I feel along my deltoid and unclip the thin gold chain around my neck. Most of the time, I forget that I’m wearing a cornic’. Because I rarely take it off.
“Where are you needed?” I ask since he’s leaving in an hour and he didn’t say who he’s filling in for.
“I’m headed to New York. Tom needs a bodyguard until tonight because…” He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know what’s up with Ian.” Tom Cobalt’s bodyguard. “I don’t ask. I just go.”
I near him.
He holds out his hand, and I drop the necklace in his palm. He used to have a cornic’. Until he lost it in the Middle East.
But there are two pendants on my chain. “I can get you a new chain and give you the other horn—”
“No.” Banks shoots me a glare like I’m out of my fucking mind. “His cornic’ stays on your chain.”