Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Marge: In a development that shocks no one but has melted all available ice in Fox River Falls, I think I stumbled upon an intimate moment between Thatch and Roe
Riley: What did you see?!
Marge: One hell of a kiss. Also, please, someone check on Roe. He looked like he saw God and then remembered he still has to play hockey
Alex: I hate to break tradition, but we need to let this be. At least for a bit. They have this now.
I don’t check The Bench. I know what it says. I can feel it—vibrating through my phone, crackling through town like electricity in dry air. News of me kissing the hot hockey dad is already everywhere.
The kiss. Me and Thatcher. Out in the open. Under lights. In the world’s nosiest town.
Thatch will hate this—hate the gossip.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like that, but I can’t regret it.
Hell no.
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor like it’s going to give me answers. The room is too quiet. My phone’s on the nightstand, screen dark. I haven’t heard from him since the kiss last night.
We left it at those kisses, heated but buffered by the layers of clothing. They should have been buffered by being out in the middle of town, but that didn’t seem to have much effect.
I’d explored his mouth thoroughly, enjoying the slide of his tongue against mine, his lips covering mine and taking what they wanted. His phone had buzzed after some indeterminable amount of time because it was time for him to pick up Jamie.
Still, even after he’d stepped back, brought back to earth by his phone, he’d taken a few steps forward when it was time for us to part, and I’d pulled him back for another kiss I couldn’t help but think held a hell of a lot of promise.
I don’t know if he’s waiting for me to be the first to reach out, or if he’s regretting it, or if it didn’t mean to him what it meant to me.
Maybe I imagined the way he looked at me when we realized we could be seen by anyone—like maybe it didn’t matter.
I pick up the phone . . . just hold it for a second.
Then I type.
Me: Hey. About last night . . .
I delete it.
Try again.
Me: You want to talk?
That feels worse. Too vague.
Delete.
One more time.
Me: If you’re free tonight, I’d like to see you.
Send.
My chest aches the second I do. But then the three dots appear almost instantly.
Hot Hockey Dad: There’s a workshop behind my house. At 8. Door’ll be open.
I read it three times before I put the phone down.
It’s just after eight when I walk up the gravel path behind Thatcher’s house.
The snow’s been shoveled but the ground’s still hard, crunching under my boots.
The lights in the workshop are on—soft and yellow behind the old windows—and there’s smoke curling from the chimney.
I hadn’t really registered the workshop when I was here before.
I don’t knock. The message said the door would be open, and it is. I step inside, and the warmth hits me first—real heat, not the kind you get from vents, but from fire and wood and something that smells faintly like cedar.
Then I see him.
Thatcher’s standing at a workbench, sanding the edge of what looks like a table leg. He’s in an old sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up, sawdust clinging to his corded forearms. He doesn’t look up right away. Doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
Just finishes what he’s doing, then finally turns.
“Hey.”
It’s soft. Measured. But not cold.
“Hey,” I say back, and shut the door behind me.
A long moment passes.
“I wasn’t sure if I’d hear from you,” he says.
“I wasn’t sure I’d text,” I admit.
He nods. Sets the sandpaper down.
“I don’t know what that was last night,” I say. “But it didn’t feel like nothing.”
He looks at me for a second, like he’s working through how honest he’s ready to be. Then he says, “It wasn’t.”
Another silence.
Not awkward. Not easy either. Just full.
“I don’t . . . do this,” I say. “Not like this. Not with someone who could matter.”
“I don’t know what that means, Roe. Is that supposed to scare me off?”
“No,” I say. “I’m just trying to be honest here, Thatcher. I don’t know what the hell this is, but I want you, and not for some friends with benefits type thing or some one-off.”
He smiles. It’s faint. Wry.
I step closer.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me.
“I don’t do this either. I date . . .” He pauses. “But that’s it.” His eyes are wide and honest. “It’s never intimate. Never goes beyond a meal in public, if I’m being honest.”
I step closer. “You want intimate, Thatch?” I tease, and his eyes darken in response.
“I’ve had a lot of temporary in my life.
I don’t want to start something that’s gonna break us both open.
And I don’t think I can do something casual, with you.
I’m not sure I’m built for casual anymore. Not after this last year.”
Well, I said I was going to try to be honest. Guess that just about does it.
He swallows. Looks down for a second, then back up.
“I don’t know what this is, or where it’s going,” he says. “I can’t make promises, Rory.”
It’s enough.
“I can’t either.”
I step in close, and this time, when I kiss him, it’s slow. Intentional. No one watching even if they want to. No chance of being seen.
Just us.
His hands find my sides, careful but sure, and I let mine press against the back of his neck. He exhales into it, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
When we pull apart, neither of us moves away.
I feel his fingers curl, bunching my shirt as he pulls me closer. This time Thatcher’s mouth finds mine, and I whimper into the heated kiss.
The scrape of his beard against my lips ignites something and the kiss turns hungry. But he isn’t quite hungry enough yet. I need all the restrained desire in his kiss to find another outlet. All over me.
“Put your hands on me, Gabe,” I whisper, breaking the kiss just long enough to do so. “Fucking touch me.”
I don’t have to tell him twice. He moves into action like he was just waiting for permission.
Thatcher pushes my Iceguard hoodie up, and I practically whine as he keeps his touch from me, not even brushing against my heated skin while he does it.
“Patience,” he whispers, giving me another kiss that does nothing for my patience.
He pulls back, watching as my shirt follows the hoodie, then stares at my torso.
One long finger traces down the trail of dark hair that runs from my navel to the top of my briefs, and then his hand falls away.
I shimmy impatiently, and he chuckles, finally spreading those big hands across my core, pulling my hips and drawing me even closer.
I groan, kissing him with little nips as his work-roughened hands cover my abs, my back, anywhere they can map.
It feels amazing, his touch every bit as sensual as I imagined.
I push against him, needing the friction of my hard dick against his muscled thigh.
“Fuck,” he whispers, one hand sliding into my hair as he drags me in for another kiss, slotting his lean leg between mine.
His other hand finds my belt, but I cover his hand with my own, stopping him.
Thatcher’s eyes find mine, both of us breathing fast with arousal. His pupils are blown, no green to be seen.
“I get to see you too, Thatch,” I tell him before confusion can settle on his handsome features.
I pull his sweatshirt off, leaving him in a threadbare T-shirt that is the stuff of fantasy, given how it clings to his muscled chest and strains over the muscle of his biceps.
I hum in appreciation.
I pull the T-shirt off. Thatch’s stomach is softer than his arms, but still damn sexy.
“You’re hot as fuck, hockey dad.”
He makes that low chuckle I find so damn sexy.
“You’re a professional athlete, Roe.” His words are low and almost a growl. It’s so hot I might combust. He reaches for my waist, thumbs running down the V made by the muscles on my hips. “With the body of one.”
“Yeah?” I ask, going in for another kiss, this one turning frantic as our skin slides against each other as our bare torsos meet.
I may have the athlete’s body, but his makes me hot as hell.
I run my hand down the muscles of his arms and chest—muscles from use and some time at the gym.
My mouth meets his again and I can barely get words out between kisses. “I need—“ With his tongue against mine, I need this and so much more.
Gabe’s strong hand slides against my cheek, cupping my face and holding me in place.
“What?” he whispers, dark eyes finding mine. “What do you need, Rory?”
“Fuck.” My name—the one no one calls me—makes my head fuzzy with the kind of intimacy this truly is.
I push him back against his workbench, going for his belt.
“I want to see you. I want you on me. Everywhere.” I sound a bit frantic because he has me that way. My senses are haywire, so I kiss him again. “Make me come, Thatcher.”
Thatcher fumbles for something on the workbench, then he sets a tin closer to us, knocking the lid halfway off in the process.
“It’s a balm—like thick lotion. I use it on my hands,” he explains, and then groans as I get his pants down to his thighs.
My hands caress his hard length—he’s gorgeous everywhere and his cock is certainly no exception to that.
I kiss him hard.
“I’m about to come in my pants. Need—“
Thatcher has my belt undone and my pants down faster than I can form thoughts.
I knock the lid off the tin the rest of the way and coat my hand before wrapping it around both of us, sliding our dicks together.
Gabe curses, and the sight of him white knuckling the workbench is one I won’t be forgetting anytime soon.
He lets go and joins me in stroking us, watching us together.
“Damn, Rory,” he says, eyes rolling back.
“Not going to last long. Feels too fucking good.”
Gabe groans what seems to be agreement and then crashes his mouth to mine again.
The man is a hell of a kisser, and it makes my head spin. It also races me toward climax, as Gabe clutches harder to me too.
“Wanna make you come, Roe.”
His words make my brain short-circuit, and I’m not proud of the noise I make when my hand stutters right along with my brain and his sexy rough hands take over.
“Holy fuck, Thatcher. That feels . . .” I trail off, unable to describe the absolute heaven I’m in as his rough hand works us both.
We come in a mix of grunts and aborted curses, mouths still finding each other as we kiss and pull back to watch pleasure ripple across each other’s face.