Chapter 16 Pierce
PIERCE
The city hasn’t quite woken when I first open my eyes.
Thatcher sleeps beside me, his body radiating warmth that makes leaving the narrow bed seem impossible.
His arm lies heavy across my chest, possessive even in his sleep, and my chest blooms at how right this feels, how dangerous that rightness might be.
Thatcher’s peaceful expression and the way his curls spill across his face and the pillow in perfect chaos make my fingers itch to trace the curve of his jaw.
His apartment is small and cramped compared to my place, but there’s something about waking up surrounded by his sketches on every wall, his art supplies scattered across surfaces, that feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived.
Thatcher makes a soft sound in his sleep, his arm tightening across my chest. I should wake him, have a proper conversation about what we’ve done.
Giving in to our chemistry was inevitable. I’m not na?ve enough to think we wouldn’t end up where we are. But I’m also not na?ve enough to believe this can work.
I’m his boss. We can’t work together and do…whatever it is we’re doing.
I begin extracting myself from Thatcher’s embrace carefully. His arm slides from my chest as I ease away. The sight of him in his own bed, wrapped in sheets that smell like him, makes me want to throw my whole life away to stay here with him.
One more reason to get up.
I head to his tiny kitchen via the living room and pull on last night’s discarded underwear and sweatpants. The coffee maker looks ancient, but it obediently hums to life. My conflicted thoughts return as it brews.
Fear of what might happen if anyone finds out about us. What would it do to his reputation, my reputation? No matter how you look at this, if we’re found out, he will always come out the losing party.
I can’t bear the thought of Thatcher being the topic of the office gossip mill, not to mention we can’t work together, not if we’re in a relationship.
But I also can’t stand the thought of looking up from my computer and not seeing Thatcher on the other side of the wall, talking to Anthony or complaining to his coffee cup.
Fuck. With my history of allegedly cheating on Lior, he’ll have my balls on a plate if he finds out.
The coffee finishes brewing as footsteps pad softly behind me.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still rough from sleep. He moves closer until I feel his warmth against my back.
I hand him a mug without fully turning, and he makes a soft sound of appreciation as he takes his first sip, the noise uncomfortably similar to others I drew from him last night.
“You know how I take my coffee?” he asks, surprise coloring his tone.
“Two sugars, splash of cream,” I reply, aiming for casual but probably missing by miles. “You talk to your coffee cup aloud in the office.”
His laugh makes me finally turn to face him properly. He’s wearing nothing but underwear and my old Harvard hoodie from last night, the hem falling mid-thigh, and his curls are a beautiful disaster.
The sight makes my conflicting thoughts even more conflicted because all I want to do is lick him head to toe and see him squirm under my touch. I want to claim him as mine and keep him. Protect him from all the assholes who don’t believe in him.
He leans against the counter with his bare legs crossed at the ankle. The borrowed hoodie rides up slightly as he shifts, revealing more skin that carries evidence of our night together. My fingers itch to trace the marks.
“You’re staring,” Thatcher says playfully. “See something you like, Mr. Dellcourt?”
“Several things,” I admit, watching color rise in his cheeks. “All of them are highly inappropriate for a boss to be thinking about his personal assistant.”
His smile turns wicked as he sets his coffee aside, pushing off the counter with grace. “Good thing we’re not at the office then,” he murmurs, closing the distance between us. “No need for professional distance here.”
My hands find his waist, fingers sliding beneath the sweater to trace skin still warm from sleep. Thatcher makes a soft sound as I pull him closer, his own hands coming up to rest on my bare chest.
“We should talk,” I say, even as my fingers continue their exploration. “About this…”
Thatcher’s expression shifts slightly. “Do we have to?” he asks softly. “Can’t we just…have this moment? Before reality intrudes?”
I give in because I’m weak.
Who’d have thought the downfall of Pierce Alexander Dellcourt would be a man who’s fifteen years younger, likes to doodle, talks to ants, and looks oh so good in borrowed clothes.
I lean down to capture his mouth in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens as Thatcher presses closer. His hands slide up to tangle in my hair, and I’m just thinking about lifting him onto the counter when there’s a sharp knock on the door.
“Meatball, you better have some clothes on because I have a key, and I’m not afraid to use it! Open up! I brought coffee and gossip!”
We spring apart like teenagers caught by parents. Thatcher’s eyes go wide with panic.
“Shit,” he whispers. “That’s Alli.”
“Meatball, I know you’re in there!” The sound of keys jangling carries clearly through the thin door.
“Bedroom,” I hiss, but it’s too late. The front door swings open just as Thatcher tries to push me toward the hallway.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t around yesterday when you needed me, but—” Alli stops dead in the kitchen doorway, taking in the scene before her.
Me, shirtless, in her best friend’s kitchen.
Thatcher, wearing nothing but underwear and my sweater, his hair thoroughly mussed and his neck covered in marks that definitely weren’t there yesterday.
She sets down a tray with two coffee cups on the kitchen table, her movements deliberate and amused.
The silence stretches for exactly three seconds before Alli’s face breaks into the biggest grin I’ve ever seen.
“Well, well, well,” she says, her voice rich with satisfaction. “This explains why you weren’t answering your phone.”
“Alli—” Thatcher starts, his face flaming red.
“So you’re the infamous Pierce Dellcourt,” she says, looking me up and down with obvious appreciation. “The grumpy silver fox who’s been inspiring all those very detailed sketches.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve been drawing me?”
“Shut up,” Thatcher mutters, burying his face in his hands.
“Oh, honey, you should see them,” Alli continues, clearly enjoying herself. “Very detailed. Very…anatomically optimistic.” Her eyes run an appreciative look over my chest. “Though I have to say, you definitely live up to the artistic interpretation.”
“Alli!” Thatcher’s voice cracks slightly.
“What? I’m just saying.” She turns to me. “If you’re going to corrupt my innocent little Meatball here, you better be worth the HR violations. I’m Alli, by the way. Best friend, neighbor down the hall, and wholesome emotional support.”
“Pierce,” I manage, very aware that I’m half-naked in a kitchen with my assistant’s best friend, who seems to find the whole situation hilarious.
“Oh, I know exactly who you are. Meatball talks about you constantly. ‘Pierce did this, Pierce said that, Pierce has really nice lips.’” She pauses, glancing between us. “Speaking of lips, nice job on the hickeys. Very thorough work. Both of you.”
I raise my hand to my neck. Do I have them too?
Thatcher makes a sound like a dying animal. “Can we please not—”
“What? I’m proud of you! Finally making a move instead of just drawing about it.” Alli turns back to me. “You should know, he’s been pining for months. Absolutely pathetic. I was starting to think I’d have to lock you two out on the roof garden upstairs.”
“We actually tried that,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Pierce!” Thatcher hisses.
“Do you really have a roof garden here?” I ask.
Thatcher shakes his head. “It’s a six-foot square with three dead potted plants.”
“But it has the best views of the river,” Alli adds before pointing at both of us. “So this is…a thing then?”
The question hangs in the air, loaded with all the implications I’m not ready to unpack. Thatcher’s looking at me with something that might be hope, and I realize whatever I say next is going to matter.
“It’s…complicated,” I say finally.
“Everything good is complicated,” Alli replies with a shrug. “Simple is boring. Right, Meatball?”
Thatcher nods, but I can’t read his expression. “Right.”
“Good. Now, I’m going to go feed my animals and pretend I never saw Pierce Dellcourt’s very impressive chest in my best friend’s kitchen.” She heads for the door, then pauses. “But, Meatball? Next time, text me. I’ll bring three coffees. See you later, boo.”
She grabs one of the takeout coffee cups and leaves one behind. The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving us in deafening silence.
“So,” Thatcher says eventually. “That happened.”
“Your best friend is…”
“Terrifying? Yeah, she grows on you.” He looks up at me through his lashes. “She’s not wrong about the drawings, by the way.”
“Anatomically optimistic?”
His blush deepens. “I may have taken some creative liberties.”
I pull him closer, unable to resist when he looks at me like that. “I’d like to see them sometime.”
“Maybe,” he says, standing on his toes to kiss me softly. “If you’re very good.”
“Define good.”
Thatcher’s eyes darken as he steps closer, his hands sliding up my chest. “Good would be your dick inside me for breakfast, but I’ll take a blowjob.”
The coffee cups are forgotten as I lift him up, his legs wrapping around my waist automatically. He laughs against my neck, the sound breathless and full of promise as I carry him toward the bedroom.
Reality can wait a few more minutes, can’t it? Just long enough to memorize how Thatcher feels in my arms, how perfectly we fit together in this quiet morning space.