Sinful Like Us (Like Us, #5)

by Krista Ritchie

“You can withstand anything,” I murmur. “You’re a Cobalt.” A lump lodges in my throat, and I bite the inside of my mouth to quell emotion—emotion that pierces all the armor I’ve ever built. I’m not sure I want to be a Cobalt these days, and even the thought feels sacrilege. My family is my everything. But I never prepared to be hurt by the people I love. By two Cobalts. By my parents.

I sigh at myself. Where is the fierce roar of a lion? “Where are the claws?” I mutter and tuck a piece of wavy hair behind my ear. God, I feel kicked down and meek. As the firstborn Cobalt, I’m supposed to be the fiercest, the most vicious and courageous of them all. Not a puddle that people can splash in.

I have the list you asked for. We can go over it now if you’re still awake. I’m in the living room. It’s late and it’s highly likely he’s fast asleep. But as I lower my phone to my lap, a message lights up the screen. THATCHER I’ll be down in a minute. A small smile tries to tug my lips. Thatcher coming at my call is new to me.

He’s an archangel. Sent to protect me. And I doubt it’ll be the first time I think it—because, dear God, the analogy fits.

“Even though you’re a lead?” “Even though I’m a lead,” he confirms. “Your safety is what matters most to me.” He holds my gaze. I don’t want to look away. I lean closer, even.

Thatcher might be hard to decipher, but I realize that I’m finding his strong presence extraordinarily comforting. His whole protective demeanor envelops the room and wraps around me—as though silently commanding: I am here for you. Warmth spreads through my limbs, and I could bask in this safe feeling for eons of time. Maybe that’s why I keep my eyes on his eyes, even as my neck aches.

“Look, it might not be my place to say something, but you should just know that you’ll get through this.” I clutch the comfort in his eyes. Earlier today, Thatcher told most everyone here that he knows what these kinds of accusations feel like.

“I know that you know me and my family better than most ever will because you’re a bodyguard, and I might never fully know you—and that’s okay.” I speak quickly. “But I’m not my mom. I’m not always so sure of myself, even when I wish I were, and I’m not a warrior goddess, even when I wish to be. I have to take that into account when constructing probabilities.” Thatcher stares at me in a way that causes my pulse to speed, heart to pound, and my lips part as I find more words to fill the quiet. “Do you agree?” I wonder. He almost shakes his head, but I see how he cuts the movement off. And he just says, “I think you’re really hard on yourself, Jane.” I like how he says my name so softly at the end, and I wasn’t searching for reassurance, but I didn’t mind that at all—in fact, I think I liked that too.

Plus, Thatcher knew the names of all my cats when he wasn’t even on my detail. That fact alone is highly attractive. And it means that he’s paid attention to my life before being assigned to protect me.

I’ve been trying not to notice how physically handsome Thatcher is, but he exudes powerful masculinity just sitting. As though he could lift me up in his arms and carry me to heaven. Somewhere safe and beautiful.

Which would be too orgasmically good to be anything other than a fantasy. And we’ve just solidified what we are to one another. Professional. Respectful. Bodyguard and client.

Fact: Thatcher Moretti taught himself to decipher my handwriting. He didn’t have to do that. My old retired bodyguard never did.

Thatcher Moretti still looks at me like his sole mission is to shield me and ground me and build a fortress of peace around me. It’s one of the greatest feelings I’ve ever felt. His love is raw, bottomless safety that deserves as much as I can give in return. But he’s already rejecting the little, infinitesimal, bitty nothing I’ve offered.

Still squatting, Thatcher rests a forearm on his knee. “You can’t even know how much I want to be here with you.” He skims my features from afar, as though tomorrow I could disappear and he needs me in his mind for a second more. “But I’m not gonna be a distraction for either of us.” His South Philly lilt fights through, and he digs for clothes in his duffel.

“You need someone to have your six right now. Putting my cock in your pussy pretty much hinders that.” I love him. The sudden abrupt feeling wells up inside of me like a balloon filling with helium. Followed closely by bubbling fear. My pulse skips.

But it’s not exactly the newness of a relationship that scares me. I’m frightened of loving a man to an overwhelming degree—to where I’d need to be loved by Thatcher. Necessity is life, and I’m afraid to need his love like I need air. I can’t tell him this. I can’t say, Oh, Thatcher, I’d rather only fall mid-deep in love with you because I don’t want to need your love like water in the Sahara. Part of me longs to feel that un-reversible depth of emotion with him, but the other part resists completely.

The bigger fact: the book is Thatcher’s only possession of Skylar’s, besides his cornic’.

“No. I wouldn’t want any girlfriend of mine, rich or fucking poor, to shove her clothes under a bed to make room for me.” I hate that I almost smile, and I hate how my heart swells. He makes me feel…doted on. It feels quite nice, and it shouldn’t. Because he can’t give me everything while I give him nothing. My parents are equal to each other in every measure of their lives. It’s what I saw growing up. It’s what I know works. It’s been proven to succeed. So I have to stand by my decision,

In a quiet moment, his other hand finds the small of my back, and Thatcher dips his head down so slowly… Our lips collide in a scalding, sensual kiss that melds me against his chest. I rise on the tips of my toes. Electricity spindles up my limbs, from each toe to my head. My fingers descend to his ass, and his tongue parts my lips. Yes. A high-pitched noise tickles my throat, and his hand slips beneath my flannel top. Scorching my skin. We are overflowing magma. Heat gathers, and our bodies scream blistered pleas for skin-on-skin contact everywhere.

“We’re still kerosene.” Flammable. Combustible. I smile. “Sounds disastrously right.” He kisses my temple, and we work together to sort through our clothes. He unpacks and slips his button-downs on hangers that I remove from vests and blouses.

My brother has been secretly using cocaine, and once he heard about Donnelly’s family history with drugs, Beckett decided to have him moved. Quitting his drug use to keep Donnelly around wasn’t an option, apparently.

Thatcher adds, “It shouldn’t matter why you feel uncomfortable, just that you feel uncomfortable at all. That’s enough. In any other circumstance, it would be enough for a transfer, and it’s my fault it’s not.” “You’re not to blame,” I defend. “I fucked them, Jane,” Thatcher says strongly. “Price is punishing me—” “Precisely,” I interject. “Price is the one who’s not taking my feelings into account.”

I realize it’s engrained in his DNA the same way that rallying at someone’s side with blades and armor is written in mine.

Thatcher might be all stoic, hard lines, but I know he wouldn’t push me into another man’s arms. I can’t let fear or insecurity distort his intentions. I can’t. He’s just trying to rebuild trust between me and my new bodyguard—someone he can’t stand. It slices a knife through my lungs.

“And I would want the same thing,” I say and then shake my head. “That’s not true, actually.” Connor tilts his head, but his stare is blank. “You wouldn’t want someone who forced themselves on Jane to be put in jail?” “No, I wouldn’t.” My voice is deep and assured. “I’d want them dead.” I’d also like to be the one to carry out the murder, but I don’t add that fact. I’m not sure Connor would appreciate how easily I could kill someone, even if it’d be for Jane. Connor sizes me up for a second.

In my head, Jane and I didn’t wake up one morning and decide that our fake relationship was real. It was gradual, and the feelings inside the fake-dating op were never fabricated. But Jane was slow to let me in, and she’d say that we were “pals who fuck” for most of that time. The technical answer is two days ago. The answer I feel is more ambiguous, and both are wrong ones to tell her dad. Make a decision, Thatcher. Steam billows from my cup and heats my face. “It’s felt like a long time,” I say. “Feelings tend to blur rationality.”

“Respectfully, sir, I’m not going to apologize for following my heart. And Jane was just following hers.” His unreadable expression puts me on edge. He stands straighter and grabs his coffee. “You remind me of someone.”

“And we never will,” Connor says. “Hyperboles are your affliction, darling.” Rose purses her lips. “Affliction? I think you mean gift. Talent.” He grins. “I meant what I said, but if you need more synonyms for talent, I can also provide those.”

“Oh…God, Mom.” Jane’s eyes are full orbs. “He’s not going to think about me as a four-year-old right before we’re about to have sex!” Not that I need to mention the fucking obvious, but I agree with Jane. “We don’t need to bring God into this conversation,” Connor says calmly.

“I know,” I tell him, not shying. “But I’ve been six-seven all of my adult life, and there’s not a single time I don’t think about the power I have in bed. Her safety is always on my mind. In every aspect of our relationship. Especially when we’re sleeping together.” “This is true,” Jane says like this is a business meeting. “I can confirm, but I’d like to keep the details of it private. Thank you.” Connor and Rose smile, clearly in admiration of their daughter. This conversation is easier with Jane here. Maybe because she glances at me and gives me a small, reassuring smile. One that pushes me to say more.

“Is there still an opening in the financial department at Cobalt Inc.?” Connor cocks his head. “You still think you’re running out of time?” “Yes, I’m still jobless and twenty-three.” Connor softens his gaze on his daughter. “I’ll look into it, but I can’t make you any promises, mon coeur.” She smiles. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

The best (and quite frankly, sexiest) part: Thatcher is unperturbed and unflustered by the tiny grenade I flung. “No,” he tells me. “I wasn’t scared.”

“Jane,” Farrow says after a swig of water. “Maximoff has something to ask you.” “You do?” I cap a water jug near the unlit fireplace. Moffy gives him a tough look. “I thought you said after dinner?” “Now’s good too.” Farrow is completely at ease. And Maximoff is a rigid statue. Farrow lifts his brows. “See, that’s called changing your mind.” He shakes his head. “No idea what you’re talking about. Changing your mind? Is that like a thing people do?” Farrow smiles from cheek-to-cheek. “Okay, smartass.” Maximoff tightens the towel around his waist and runs a hand through his thick hair.

Thatcher almost steals my full attention. He’s brushing Ophelia, and my white cat is absolute mush on the floor. Yes, Ophelia, he has that affect on me too. I know the feeling deeply well.

“I trust you with my whole life,” Maximoff tells me. The fact warms me completely, but I’m also on the edge of a cliff. “I trust you with mine too.” He licks his lips. “As you know, I’m getting married, and the amount of people I trust to have their hands in the wedding is pretty much…not a lot. And when I think about who I want to remember being involved in this whole process, I always think of you first.” I start to smile. “So…what I’m trying to ask… is if you could…would you want to…?” He stumbles on his words, and it isn’t often that he does.

“Would you plan our wedding for us? I know it’s a big undertaking and a ton of work—” “Yes,” I cut him off, my smile already reappearing. “Yes?” he asks in disbelief. “Yes, of course. I will plan your wedding. I’d love to.” My heart swells just at the fact that they would want me to be such a big part of this.

“We wanted her help. You already asked,” Farrow says coolly. “And she said yes.” They wanted my help. Farrow wanted me too. I smile even brighter,

It feels like Moffy is actively trying to include Thatcher more, and my heart flutters.

“Je te dois beaucoup, ma moitié.” I owe you so much, my other half. We exchange a smile together, excitement brewing.

Farrow passes him a to-go container. “Just because I’ve dreamed up shit doesn’t mean I don’t need your opinions. We’re not doing everything I want…” He grins. “Even though that would be nice.” Maximoff lets out a dry laugh and they start teasing each other.

Don’t think about it. Fuck that—she is all I’m thinking about. Jane Cobalt is still in every compartment of my brain, and I’m not looking to cut her out. I’m not looking to shut down or shove off without her, but ever since I moved in a week ago, we’ve been zigzagging in the fucking opposite direction and not meeting at the same point.

“It’s not a gift. Silence from Jane is a fucking omen.”

My identical twin, my soul and conscience, someone I couldn’t live without. The sun could be crashing down on the world, and Banks would be right by my side burning alive to push it back into the sky.

Dog tags clink together around his neck, which he’s worn since the media and security team discovered we were in the Marine Corps.

The physical part of our relationship was always going to be easy. But to push through the bad in her life, she closes off emotionally to a lot of people. So do I, and I’ve struggled to be emotionally available to girlfriends in the past. But while we were fake-dating and sneaking around, we found an indescribable solace together. Point-blank, I wanted to tear myself open for Jane. No matter how brutal and gut-wrenching. I wanted and want to keep her safe from every cruel thing. I’m the only person she’s confided in that intensely about Nate, her fucking ex-friends-with-benefits. She’s the only person I’ve confided in that deeply about Skylar, my older brother who passed away.

I’m head-deep, un-fucking-believably in love with this girl, and I would do anything for her.

This kind of commitment isn’t easy for Jane. I know that, at least. She’s used to keeping men at arm’s length, emotionally. I think it’s partly why she’s only had friends-with-benefits. Just sex. No potential to fall in love, but she’s fallen in love with me. I want to calm whatever fears she has about us. I want to be emotionally available to Jane in a way that I’ve never been before in a relationship. But I just don’t know how.

“I never understood how you crave nicotine but I don’t.” In the military, we smoked about the same, but I quit easily coming home and I recreationally smoke a hell of a lot easier than him. He has one cigarette and he’s hungering for the entire fucking pack. “Probably because you’re used to denying yourself life’s greatest pleasures.” He rests an elbow on the bar. “To make Dad happy, someone had to take most of the shit in our family, and you were good at it.” He winces in a thought. “He made you clean his Chrysler with a toothbrush, and all you said was, yes, sir.” I must’ve been ten.

I instantly picture Jane at the mention of heaven. I’m trying to get there.

His brows furrow. “Haven’t the Cobalt brothers been icing you out?” “Like a fucking arctic wind.”