Chapter 28 Pierce
PIERCE
I wake to sunlight streaming through my bedroom windows and the warm weight of Thatcher’s body pressed against mine.
His arm is draped across my chest, his breathing deep and even, and for a moment, I let myself pretend this is just another morning.
That we have dozens more mornings like this ahead of us.
But the reality of what we decided last night returns with brutal clarity. This is our last morning. In a few hours, we’ll be back to being boss and employee, nothing more.
Thatcher stirs beside me, his eyes open to meet mine. For a split second, his smile is pure happiness, sleepy and content. Then memory returns, and I watch the joy fade from his expression.
“Good morning,” he says softly, his voice rough from sleep and the tears we both shed last night.
“Good morning.” I brush a curl back from his forehead, memorizing the feeling of touching him freely. “How did you sleep?”
“Better than I will tonight,” he admits, pressing closer. “Pierce…”
“I know.” I pull him up for a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens into something desperate. His hands tangle in my hair as I roll us over, pressing him into the mattress like I can somehow keep him here forever.
“One more time,” Thatcher breathes against my lips. “Please. I need to feel you one more time.”
I can’t deny him anything, especially not this. I roll us over, pressing him into the mattress as my mouth finds his neck, tasting the skin I’ve come to know so well.
“Slow,” I murmur, catching his hands. “If this is our last time, I want to savor every second.”
Thatcher’s eyes well with tears he refuses to let fall. “Pierce…”
I silence him with a kiss that’s deep and claiming, my tongue sliding against his as my hands map the planes of his chest. He arches beneath me, his skin already flushed with arousal, and I follow the path of heat with my mouth.
“So beautiful,” I breathe against his collarbone, leaving marks that will fade long before my memory of this moment does. “I want to remember every inch of you.”
I grasp his underwear, sliding them down his legs. The sight of him hard and wanting beneath me makes my breath catch. His piercing glints in the morning light, and I lean down to trace it with my tongue, drawing a broken moan from his lips.
“Pierce, please,” he gasps, his hands fisting in my hair. “I need you inside me.”
“Not yet,” I say, working my way lower. “Let me taste you first. Let me make this last.”
I take him in my mouth slowly, savoring the weight of him on my tongue. Thatcher’s hips lift off the bed, seeking more contact, but I hold him still, controlling the pace.
“God, your mouth,” he pants, his voice wrecked already. “I’m not going to last.”
“You will,” I murmur against his skin, pulling back before he can come. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
I reach for the lube we left on the nightstand, coating my fingers as Thatcher watches with hungry eyes. The first touch against his hole makes him cry out, his back arching as I work him open.
“More,” he demands, his voice breaking. “Pierce, I need more.”
I add another finger, then another, stretching him slowly while my mouth returns to his cock. The combination of sensations has him writhing beneath me, desperate sounds spilling from his lips.
“Now,” he begs. “Please, I need you now.”
I position myself at his entrance, the head of my cock slick with lube. “Look at me,” I command softly. “I want to see your eyes when I’m inside you.”
Thatcher’s gaze locks with mine as I push forward slowly, both of us gasping at the sensation. He’s tight and hot and perfect, and when I’m fully seated, I have to pause to catch my breath.
“Move,” he whispers, his legs wrapping around my waist. “Please move.”
I start slowly, each thrust deliberate and deep. Thatcher meets me stroke for stroke, his hands gripping my shoulders as we find our rhythm. The morning light catches the sheen of sweat on his skin, and I lean down to lick a path up his throat, tasting salt and desire.
“I love you,” I gasp against his ear, my control starting to slip. “I love you so much it’s destroying me.”
“I love you too,” he cries out, his body clenching around me. “Pierce, I’m close…”
“Come for me,” I breathe, reaching between us to stroke his cock. “Let me see you fall apart one more time.”
Thatcher’s orgasm crashes over him with devastating force, his body arching as he comes between us. The sight of him lost in pleasure, the way he clenches around me, sends me over the edge immediately after.
We collapse together, breathing hard, my softening cock still buried inside him. The silence is broken only by our racing hearts and the distant sounds of the city waking up below.
“I don’t want to let you go,” I whisper against his hair.
“Then don’t. Not yet.” His arms tighten around me. “Just a few more minutes.”
We lie tangled together in silence, neither of us wanting to be the first to acknowledge that we need to get ready for work.
“We should…” Thatcher starts, then trails off.
“I know.” But I don’t move, can’t bring myself to let go of him yet.
“This is harder than I thought it would be,” he admits, his voice small.
“We can do this,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as him. “We have to.”
Eventually, necessity forces us from bed. We shower together one last time, hands gentle and reverent as we wash each other. Getting dressed feels like putting on armor, each piece of clothing another barrier between us and what we just shared.
“I’ll meet you there since I drove in yesterday,” Thatcher says as we stand by my door, both of us reluctant to leave. “Besides, I need to go home to get dressed. My boss probably wouldn’t appreciate me turning up in casual clothes.”
I reach for him one last time, pulling him close for a kiss that tastes like goodbye. “I love you. And I would totally appreciate you in any clothes.”
“I love you too.” He steps back, straightening his tie with hands that shake slightly. “See you at the office, Mr. Dellcourt.”
The formal address feels like a knife to the chest, but I nod. “See you there, Mr. Charles.”
Watching him leave is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Two hours later, I’m at my desk, trying to focus on reports, but the numbers blur together meaninglessly.
Through the glass walls, I can see Thatcher at his desk, his usual animated energy subdued.
He’s being professional, polite, everything he should be.
But I can see the way he avoids looking directly at my office, the forced smile he gives to passing colleagues.
This is even harder than I thought it would be. Seeing him there, knowing I can’t touch him, can’t steal moments in the roof garden, or leave flirty responses to his sticky notes, is torture. Every instinct I have screams at me to go to him, to pull him close and forget about the rest of the world.
But I can’t. We can’t. It’s too risky now that James is looking for ways to hurt me.
I give up on the spreadsheets and head to Lior’s office, needing to talk to someone who understands the weight of what we’ve done.
“Come in,” Lior calls when I knock. He looks up from his computer, taking in my expression. “How are you holding up?”
“It’s done,” I say, settling into the chair across from his desk. “Thatcher and I… We ended it.”
Lior’s expression softens. “Are you sure about this? Both of you?”
“I’m not sure about anything,” I admit, running a hand through my hair. “But it was Thatcher’s choice. He can’t afford to lose his job, and I can’t ask him to sacrifice his security for me.”
“And you think this is temporary?”
“I hope it is.” The words come out more desperate than I intended. “If his publishing contract comes through, if he can follow his dreams…maybe then we can find a way. I just need to be patient, even if I don’t feel very patient right now.”
Lior studies my face for a long moment. “Do you want to work from my office for the rest of the day? Give yourself some space?”
The offer is tempting, but I shake my head. “I appreciate it, but I need to get used to being around him. If we’re going to make this work professionally, I can’t hide every time it gets difficult.”
“You’re torturing yourself.”
“Maybe. But it’s necessary torture.”
When I return to my office, Thatcher’s desk is empty. Panic flares briefly before I spot the note on my desk, written in his familiar handwriting:
Even his notes are different now. Professional. Distant. No hearts, no doodles, no warmth. Just the facts.
I sink into my chair and stare at the note, already missing the chaos of his colorful communications.
This morning, there were no sticky notes on my computer monitor, no cheerful reminders about meetings or encouragement about difficult calls.
Just the stark efficiency of a professional assistant doing his job.
My phone buzzes with a text from James.
James:
Enjoying your victory, big brother? Don’t get too comfortable.
I ignore it, but the unease lingers. James isn’t done with us. I can feel it. But what more can he do?
I’m still staring at my phone when footsteps approach. Thatcher appears in my doorway, coffee in hand, his expression neutral.
“Your favorite,” he says, setting the cup on my desk.
“Thank you.” Our fingers brush as I take the cup, and the brief contact sends electricity up my arm. Thatcher’s breath catches slightly, and I know he felt it too.
For a moment, we look at each other. The air between us crackles with everything we can’t say, everything we’re trying to pretend we don’t feel.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Dellcourt?” he asks, his voice professionally polite.
The formal address hurts more each time he uses it. “No, that’s all. Thank you.”
He nods and turns to leave, but pauses at the door. “Pierce?” he says softly, then catches himself. “I mean, Mr. Dellcourt. The Henderson call is in thirty minutes. Should I patch it through, or would you prefer to take it in the conference room?”
“My office is fine.”
“I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”
After he leaves, I stare at the closed door, already counting the minutes until I can see him again. This is going to be impossible. How am I supposed to work with him every day, watch him smile at other people, listen to his laugh in meetings, and pretend my heart isn’t breaking?
We made the right choice. I know we did. But knowing something is right doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Outside my office, I can hear Thatcher talking to Priya, his voice bright and cheerful. He’s already putting on the performance, already pretending everything is normal.
I pick up the coffee he brought me and take a sip. It’s perfect, exactly how I like it, made with the care and attention he brings to everything he does for me.
I set the cup down and try to focus on work, but all I can think about is how empty my office feels without his chaos, how quiet my life is going to be without his laughter.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Order, control, everything in its proper place. It’s what I’ve always had and always craved.
So why does it feel like I’ve just thrown away the best thing that ever happened to me?
The coffee grows cold on my desk as I stare out at the man I love and can’t have, wondering if James has any idea how completely he’s already won.