Tangled Like Us (Like Us, #4)

by Krista Ritchie

“Quinn, do you need something from the grocery?” Akara repeats. Oscar chimes in, “Speak up, little bro.”

Ever since the twenty-one-year-old joined security, Akara has been concerned that Quinn is copying Farrow’s maverick style of guarding. I am too.

and I watch her sidle right…next to me. I uncross my arms. I don’t know why. Can’t touch her.

Maximoff stands nearby, cracking his knuckles. He seems on edge about the whole scenario, but the guy is always on edge.

I haven’t even looked at the photo. My steel gaze is on her.

Imagining Jane falling in love with other men punctures something hot in me and I need to think of brighter things before I pop a blood vessel.

And then what? And then nothing. My feelings don’t matter. I can’t just break rank and say, fuck it. But something in my mind is saying, unfuck this.

“What about just calling your grandmother?” I ask Jane. Farrow chimes in, “That’s what I said before these two started tacking dipshits up on the wall.”

“Thank you for illustrating how great of a friend I am.” “The best,” Jane says in a warm s...

Maximoff is glaring at the phone, and Jane backs away from him like she can protect him from their grandmother at a distance.

Farrow has his hand on the back of Maximoff’s neck in comfort. He’s lucky.

What I’d give to be able to—no, it can’t happen—for Jane. My thoughts are now a clusterfuck. I...

Not everyone loves surprises.” Farrow rolls his eyes.

Jane jolts. I put a hand to the small of her back. “Hold on.”

Thatcher and I are embarking on a weekend getaway at a local Bed & Breakfast. Our fake couple antics are starting strong. Just packing my travel suitcase, I felt like I was on an adrenaline high.

He towers beside me like an archangel.

“It’s under Moretti.” Why was that so very sexy? He put the reservation under his name.

Constantly scanning the foyer, then glancing down at me. Checking on me.

and her honey brown eyes dart between me and the four bodyguards who flank my sides. Thatcher, Banks, Oscar, and Donnelly.

Now that Thatcher is gaining more fame, his job as a bodyguard is going to be harder, and Omega wants to protect him like they did Farrow.

Maximoff and Farrow would’ve come along. I wanted them here badly. There is a large absence that only they can fill in my life, and it’s a strange feeling not having them with me on such a huge endeavor.

Thatcher lowers his voice to a whisper. “I won’t be on comms, so text if you can’t hear us.” Hear us.

By us, he means me and him. Pretend fucking. That is precisely what we’re doing here. Making sex noises in our room so other guests can hear from the thin walls.

I am terribly thrilled to fake sex with Thatcher. Maybe it’s the Cobalt in me that thrives on st...

“I can get that.” He reaches for my suitcase, but he stops when he sees me shake my head. “I can wheel it, really. I’d rather carry my fair share.”

He hoists the suitcase up like it weighs no more than an inflatable beach ball. He is impossibly attractive.

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.

His eyes are still on me. Still burning me alive. I shouldn’t like that.

But in this moment, I don’t want him to stare at anything or anyone but me.

“If I put my cock in your pussy, there’s a hundred-percent certainty you’d orgasm in my arms. More than twice.”

When he stands, he feels even taller, or maybe I feel shorter.

I’ve decided that watching him work is utterly captivating. And I have a front row seat each and every day.

We never look away from one another, and I take a small sip. I am parched. Just not for water.

“You can’t stand on the bed with me,” I realize. Clearly, he’s too tall.

“Jane,” he says with the perfect mix of tenderness and force. “Yes?” I balance on the creaking bed. “You’re gonna have to moan.”

We stare deep into one another, magnetized, the air heady and tense.

He quickens the banging of the headboard. The intensity of his brown irises nearly steals my breath altogether.

“We don’t have to take our clothes off.” I nod heartily. “Dry humping, I agree.” “Enough to make you come.”

“We only do this if you’re okay with the guests hearing your real orgasm and not a fake one.”

“You ready?” “I am,” I say, very assured. I am so ready for him.

I’ve always been extraordinarily curious about why men do that—shed their shirts from the back instead of taking the bottom of the fabric and tugging it up and off. Their way is such an odd method, but it looks extraordinarily sexy. Like they just couldn’t bother with the fabric of a shirt anyway.

Now it seems so obvious that he was a soldier, a combat vet—his shoulders are often squared, his carriage raised in readiness like his instincts are always buzzing.

Thatcher walks to the bed, and as soon as he climbs on, the box springs let out a higher pitched creak.

We watch one another. I’m so mesmerized by Thatcher, by what his instincts tell him to do next. He may be quiet, but he’s the furthest thing from shy or timid.

I’m straddling my bodyguard. Oh my God.

I touch his hand, feeling how much smaller mine is in comparison.

He is making love to all four letters of my name. Eight hard inches inside one syllable.

“Kissing…and dry humping, they can pair well together.” He’s near my lips again, and I add, “Like peanut butter and jelly.”

I swear he smiles, but words and thoughts are lost as his mouth meets mine for the second time tonight.