Chapter 19 Thatcher
THATCHER
The marble lobby of the hotel gleams like fresh snow. I almost want to carry my wheeled suitcase so it doesn’t leave any marks on the polished floor.
I feel like I’ve been living someone else’s life since I stepped outside my apartment this afternoon and found Pierce waiting for me, looking like Prince Charming.
He upgraded my plane ticket to first class, so we could sit together. Then we were picked up by the nicest driver, who told me about all the New York landmarks we drove past on our way to the hotel.
And now I have to come to terms with the fact that I might be staying in a palace for the next few nights. How is this my life?
“Good evening,” the desk clerk greets us with warmth. “Checking in?”
“Yes, I should have two rooms reserved.” I fumble slightly with my ID. “Under Charles and Dellcourt? Or maybe they’re both under Van Stern Enterprises.”
Her perfectly manicured fingers tap across the keyboard while I try not to fidget.
“I’m showing only one room available. The Van Stern reservation.
” She says smiling, and just like that, I go from the princess phase of Cinderella to the ash-sweeping phase of Cinderella.
Except even then, she had somewhere to sleep.
I wonder if the hotel has a spare broom cupboard.
My stomach drops as I start to sputter a response, but then Pierce’s familiar warmth presses against my back, accompanied by that voice that never fails to make my skin tingle.
“That won’t be a problem,” he says smoothly, his hand settling on my waist with a casual intimacy that feels shocking in this public space.
What do you mean? I have nowhere to stay. That is very much considered a problem.
I glance up to find him wearing a smirk that makes my belly clench.
“Mr. Dellcourt, is that right?” The clerk’s professional demeanor brightens further. “Of course, sir. The executive suite is ready for you both.”
Oh…oh!
Pierce’s thumb traces small circles against my back as she processes our check-in, the touch hidden from view but setting my nerve endings on fire. I focus on breathing normally, on not leaning into his warmth like I desperately want to.
The elevator arrives with a soft chime. Pierce’s hand hasn’t left my waist, and in the confined space, his warmth fills every available molecule of air. Our shoulders brush as the car begins its ascent, and I watch our reflections in the mirror drift closer together with each floor we pass.
“Breathe, Thatcher,” Pierce whispers in that voice that makes my heart skip. His smile in the mirror carries none of its usual restraint. “We’re allowed to exist in the same space.”
The words ease the knot in my throat, and I lean slightly into his touch as we reach our floor. The hallway stretches before us in elegant cream and gold, thick carpet muffling our footsteps as we approach our door. Pierce’s keycard slides home with ease, and suddenly, we’re crossing the threshold.
We’re sharing a hotel room, something Pierce may or may not have planned. I’m simultaneously thrilled and terrified. What if I accidentally set the carpet on fire?
The suite takes my breath away. Floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the city like artwork, plush furnishings in subtle earth tones, and a massive king bed that makes heat rise in my cheeks. But what really captures my attention is how Pierce transforms the instant the door clicks shut behind us.
His tie loosens first. The suit jacket follows, draped over a nearby chair. When he turns to face me, his smile holds none of its usual edge.
“Come here,” he says softly, and I go without hesitation, drawn by the warmth in his voice. His hands find my waist again as I reach him, pulling me closer until I feel his heartbeat against my chest.
“Did you plan this?” I ask.
His laugh vibrates through both our bodies as he leans down to capture my mouth. I melt into him completely. His hands slide into my hair as the kiss deepens, messing up my curls more than they usually are.
When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, Pierce’s smile transforms in a way that makes his whole face look younger. “I promise I am only guilty of wanting you closer than the room next door,” he murmurs against my lips. “Welcome to New York.”
“I feel like I’m in a dream,” I say, my eyes moving from his to the cityscape beyond the large windows. The lights in all the buildings around us make the city look like it's surrounded by stars.
“It’s a magical city. I love coming here because there’s always something new to discover, and now I get to do it with you.”
I turn back to him, and even though I am dying to explore the city, there’s something else I want to do more. “Can we order room service and stay in tonight?”
He helps me out of my shirt. “I can get on board with that idea.”
After room service arrives, and we’ve shared an indulgent dinner by the window, watching the city lights twinkle below us, I find myself studying Pierce in the lamplight. The way shadows play across his face, how relaxed he looks.
“May I draw you?” The words slip out before I can second-guess myself.
Pierce pauses, wine glass halfway to his lips. “Draw me?”
“I know it sounds weird, but…” I set down my own glass, suddenly nervous. “You look different here. Softer. I want to capture that.”
Something vulnerable flickers across his expression. “I’ve never… No one’s ever asked to draw me before.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes.” The word comes out firm, decisive. “Yes, I’d like that.”
I retrieve my sketchbook from my bag, hands trembling slightly with anticipation. “We should dim the lights,” I say, moving to adjust the lamps until the room glows with warm, intimate light. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“I want to see all of you.”
Pierce’s eyes darken with understanding. Without breaking eye contact, he begins unbuttoning his shirt, each movement slow and hypnotic. I follow suit, my clothes falling away until we’re both bare in the golden light.
“On the bed,” I whisper, my voice already rough with want. “Just…be yourself.”
Pierce settles against the pillows, and I position myself cross-legged at the foot of the bed, my sketchbook propped against my thigh. We’re both already hard, the air thick with anticipation.
I open to a fresh page, pencil poised. “Don’t move,” I murmur, my eyes drinking in every line of his body.
“Thatcher.” His voice is rough as his hand drifts toward his thick, hard cock.
“Don’t touch yourself. Just…let me see you.”
He lets out a breath. “Fuck, Thatcher. This is going to be hell.”
“God, you’re beautiful,” I breathe, my pencil beginning to move across the paper. “Look at the line of your throat… The way the light catches your collarbone.” Each stroke of graphite feels like I’m touching his skin directly. “My pencil knows every curve of you now.”
Pierce’s breathing grows heavier as I continue. The air around us feels thick with unspoken desire. My cock is painfully hard, but I ignore it.
“The shadow under your jaw,” I murmur, pencil dancing across the page. “I’m tracing it now, following the path my tongue took last night.” His hips shift slightly, and I smile. “The hollow of your throat where I can see your pulse racing.”
“Thatcher,” he breathes.
My pencil moves lower on the page as my eyes map his chest. “These lines here,” I say, sketching the definition of his pectorals. “I’m drawing them so carefully, like I’m running my fingers across your skin. Can you feel it? The way my pencil moves across the paper is the way I want to touch you.”
Pierce’s knuckles are white where he grips the sheets, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach.
He moans, moving his hips, seeking friction where there is none. I know what he wants. I want it too.
“Your stomach,” I continue, my voice dropping to a whisper. “The muscles that tense when I touch you. I’m capturing every ridge, every shadow. My pencil is learning your body the way my hands already have.”
I look up to find his eyes locked on me, pupils blown wide with arousal.
“And this,” I say, not looking down at the paper as I sketch lower, my eyes never leaving his. “This beautiful cock of yours. I’m drawing every inch, remembering how it feels in my mouth, how you taste. The pencil moves just like my tongue did, tracing every vein, every sensitive spot.”
Pierce’s breathing is ragged now, his whole body taut with tension.
“I can see how much you want to touch yourself,” I murmur, my own arousal evident in my voice. “But you’re being so good for me, letting me capture you like this. You’re trembling, and I’m drawing that too. The way your thighs shake with the effort of holding back.”
My pencil continues its dance across the paper, each stroke deliberate and sensual. “I wish you could see what I see. How perfect you look right now, spread out for me, fighting not to come while I draw you. My pencil is making love to you through this paper.”
Pierce makes a sound low in his throat, his hips lifting slightly off the bed.
“That’s it,” I encourage softly. “I’m sketching the curve of your hip now, the way it lifts when you’re close. I can see it in your face too. That expression you get right before you fall apart. I’m capturing all of it.”
My pencil moves faster now, matching the urgency building in the room. “Every line I draw is a touch, every shadow a kiss. You’re so beautiful like this, Pierce. So perfect and desperate and mine.”
Pierce’s head falls back against the pillows, a broken moan escaping his lips.
“Come for me,” I whisper, my pencil still moving across the page. “Let me draw you falling apart. Let me capture the moment you break.”
“Oh fuck, Thatcher!”
With a cry of my name, Pierce arches off the bed, his release painting his stomach in long ropes as his hands fist the sheets. I keep drawing through it all, capturing every expression that crosses his face, every line of pleasure and release.
When he finally stills, breathing hard, I set down my pencil and look at what I’ve created. It’s raw and intimate and so beautiful. Pierce in all his vulnerable, sensual glory.
“Can I see?” he asks softly, his voice wrecked.
I turn the sketchbook toward him, and his eyes widen as he takes in the image.
“Is that really how you see me?” he whispers.
“It’s how you are,” I reply, setting the sketchbook aside and crawling up the bed to settle beside him.
“Thatcher, I need you to fuck me now,” he murmurs against my lips, and I shiver at the promise in his voice.
“Pierce…”
“I’m sure,” he says before I can voice my concerns. “I need this. It’s my turn to watch you fall apart, and I want to feel you inside me when it happens.”
The thought makes my already aching cock pulse with need. “When was the last time you—”
“It’s been a while,” he admits. “But I want this. I want you.”
I reach for the lube from my bag with shaking hands.
“The piercing,” I say as I settle between his legs. “It’s going to feel different from what you might be used to. More intense.”
Pierce nods, his eyes dark with want. “Tell me what to expect.”
“The metal will hit different spots,” I explain, coating my fingers with lube. “Places that might not usually get direct stimulation. It’s going to be more intense, but in the best way.” I circle his rim gently. “I’ll go slow, let you adjust.”
Pierce’s breath hitches as I work him open, first one finger, then two. “God, Thatcher…”
“That’s it,” I murmur, watching his face for any sign of discomfort. “You’re taking my fingers so well. My cock is going to feel even better.”
When he’s ready, I position myself, the head of my cock slick with lube. “Breathe,” I whisper. “Let me in slowly.”
The first push is careful, controlled, and Pierce’s eyes widen as the metal ring enters him.
“Oh fuck,” he gasps, his hands gripping my shoulders. “That’s…incredible.”
“I told you,” I say, stilling to let him adjust. “The metal hits your prostate differently. Are you okay?”
“More than okay,” he breathes. “Move. Please.”
I begin to thrust slowly, watching his face transform with each movement. The piercing drags against his inner walls, making him arch and moan beneath me.
“Can you feel it?” I ask, my voice strained with the effort of going slow. “The way the metal moves inside you?”
“Yes,” he gasps. “It’s… Fuck, Thatcher, it’s perfect.”
I gradually pick up the pace, knowing how the added friction and pressure heighten everything. His cock is hard again between us, leaking steadily as I hit that spot inside him over and over.
“You feel so good,” I pant, my control starting to slip. “So tight and perfect around me.”
Pierce’s legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper. “Harder,” he demands. “I can take it.”
I give him what he wants, my thrusts becoming more forceful. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mixed with our breathless moans and gasps.
“I’m close,” I warn, feeling my orgasm building. “Pierce, I’m—”
“Come inside me,” he commands, his voice wrecked. “I want to feel you.”
The words push me over the edge. With a cry of his name, I bury myself deep and let go, filling him with pulse after pulse of release. The piercing amplifies every sensation, making my orgasm feel endless.
Pierce comes again, his second orgasm not as strong, but from the look on his face, it feels just as good.
We collapse together, breathing hard, my softening cock still buried inside him.
“That was…” Pierce starts, then trails off, apparently lost for words.
“Different?” I suggest, pressing a soft kiss to his neck.
“Perfect,” he corrects, his arms tightening around me. “Absolutely fucking perfect.”