Chapter 15 Roe Monroe
Chapter fifteen
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Riley Novak: Saw Roe Monroe and Gabe Thatcher walking downtown last night. Together. Talking close. Real close.
Patti Jensen: That wasn’t talking. That was soft smiling. Soft. SMILING. Thatcher.
Stan Gordon: You’re all going to have to back off and let them find their way.
I end up staying the night. Somehow.
I wake up, a little disoriented by not being in my own place and not being in a hotel, but damn the bed is comfortable, the clean, still-crisp sheets sliding against me as I burrow deeper into the incredible way the pillow next to me smells.
I shift to my side and shove the pillow under my chest, feeling my morning wood turn into something more serious when I wake up enough to register that the scent is Thatcher’s.
With a groan, I burrow deeper still, only shooting a hand out to find my phone on the nightstand. I have way overslept—8:30 a.m.—which is the longest I can remember sleeping in since rehab.
Pulling my face out of the Thatcher-scented pillow, I notice the quiet of the house, the lingering smell of coffee, and something else I can’t quite place. Thatcher’s house always smells of vanilla and fresh wood, so the scent I can’t place must have been breakfast for him and Jamie.
Last night I practically fell asleep when I made the mistake of sitting on the couch after eating soup Thatch had made.
I was just so damn comfortable. Thatcher’s house is like home—warm and relaxing—and the lack of sleep from being on the road caught up with me.
I can remember Thatcher’s voice low in my ear, and him pulling me to my feet and putting me to bed.
I snuggle down further in Thatcher’s king-size bed. Maybe it’s bigger than that. I could sprawl out and so could he with plenty of room.
The sound of quick footsteps comes from the staircase, and I hear the door open.
“See you, Dad!” Jamie calls loud enough I can hear it perfectly, and Thatcher’s reply, at a normal volume, is muffled. Then the front door closes.
Pulling myself out of the bed is a slog, but the thought of Thatcher’s scent on Thatcher’s skin, and his warm body next to mine is enough of an incentive.
I rush through my morning essentials, surprised to see my leather toiletry bag in his bathroom until hazy memories surface of being half asleep while he asked me if I needed to take any medication and him placing a toothbrush in my hand last night.
I head toward the kitchen, and Thatcher looks over his shoulder from his stool at the island when I turn the corner.
“Hey,” he says, standing up, and I pull him to me, wrapping my arms around him.
His breath catches on my ear.
“You sleep okay?”
I nod, still inhaling him. Why does he smell so damn good?
We pull apart and I feel a bit sheepish.
“Thanks for letting me stay over last night.”
Thatcher grins, slowly disentangles himself from my arms, and walks toward the coffee. I have to swallow hard when I see he’s already got a cup out for me, waiting.
“You were exhausted, Roe. There was no reason to go home.”
I nod, and don’t tell him how his house feels more like home to me than my own. I love it here.
I take the coffee from him, and it’s got the exact amount of cream that I like, just enough to make it look like hot cocoa and not coffee.
“Thanks.” I lean on the counter. “Sorry if I made it weird with Jamie, though. Staying over. We haven’t even talked about that.”
Thatcher comes up next to me. Close enough I can feel the warmth of his body.
“Jamie went to bed and then he left with Arch just a bit ago to watch the Knights game in the city this afternoon with Arch’s family. It’s a school holiday. So I doubt he even registered that you stayed.” Thatcher’s hands rest on my hips. “Did he wake you up?”
“Nah. I’m an early riser, so this is more than I’ve slept in for years.”
Thatcher frowns, and I can’t help but sit my coffee on the counter long enough to press a gentle thumb to the crease on his forehead.
“What are you worried about?
“I’m worried about how tired you were.”
“I always sleep like shit on the road. Hard to notice when you’re up all night partying, through, so it is kinda a new revelation.”
Thatcher huffs a laugh, and I pull him into a kiss.
It starts slow, familiar now that we’ve shared a few. Quick and hungry then low and wanting. Sweet.
There’s something different about this one, but the feel of Thatcher’s tongue against mine makes my head too dizzy to puzzle it out.
“I missed you,” I mumble against his lips.
Thatcher pulls back, like he needs the inches of distance and light to really read me.
“I was ready for you to be back before you left, Roe. And I liked having you in my bed last night.”
His words have a sultry promise to them, and I can’t help the smirk rising on my lips.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I run my fingers under his T-shirt, dancing lightly on the skin of his stomach. I’m trying to turn him on, but the slide of his skin against my fingertips has all my blood flowing south.
“Any chance that you might be interested in sending me back to your bed?”
Thatcher catches my mouth again with a surge of lust I can feel down to my toes. His kisses become nothing but promise and want, and I meet each one.
“What did you have in mind?” he growls.
“Your cock, my mouth. Please.” The thought of this has been burned in my brain after too many sleepless nights away from him.
Thatcher laughs as he pulls me toward the bedroom. “Yeah?”
“Hell yeah.” We get to his room, and I practically push him onto the bed. “It’s all I could think about on the road.”
We go about the quick business of getting our own clothes off between kisses and attempts to get each other naked as quickly as possible. When Thatcher is all spread out for me, I can’t help but stare. He’s easily the sexiest man I have ever seen.
I kiss him, desperate to feel him against me, so I get greedy, too eager to have him in my mouth to linger.
With one knee on each side of his hips, I roll my body against his, watching his head go back against the pillow and the pulse beat hard at his throat.
I can tell by his body language he’s not used to being the center of attention. Of course he isn’t. He’s a single dad who repairs church steps because it needs doing and took care of me just because I was exhausted.
“You took such care of me last night, Gabe. It’s my turn.”
The permission in my words seems to relax him.
Thatcher lets out a filthy sound when I slide down and position myself to wrap my mouth around him, something like a curse or a groan.
But he puts his hands in my hair, seemingly to ground himself rather than to direct anything.
It feels damn good to be grounded like that, as the rest of me seems lighter than air.
I use my hand to tease him, to roll his heavy balls and see what he likes, and the salty burst across my tongue tells me all I need to know.
“Rory,” he says, a little breathlessly.
I work him over, getting so damn turned on that I want to touch myself for relief, but I’m much more focused on Thatcher.
“Not going to last much longer,” he warns, and I can tell by the way his hand clutches his thigh that he’s close. Not to mention the staccato breaths he pants out.
I pull out every trick in the book to get him there and blow his mind. I love giving a blow job as much as I like getting one, and Thatcher’s reactions have me almost frantic.
The weight of his cock in my mouth, the feel and taste of him is all intoxicating.
Thatcher clutches my head, not too hard, not pulling my hair . . . careful even in the climax of his passion. He moans and I tease him through it, loving the taste of him on my tongue and not popping off until I know he’s almost too sensitive.
He pulls me to him, his kisses languid and deep, then he rolls me under him, pulling my borrowed pajama pants down.
Without hesitation he scoots down and takes his turn.
My back arches when his mouth covers my cock, mouthing over the length. He’s not new to this, but I can tell it’s been a while for him. Not that it matters. Within a minute I’m cursing under my breath, trying not to explode too soon.
“Gabe—” I warn as the euphoria of an impending climax rolls up my spine and crawls across my skull.
Thatcher ignores my warning and takes most of my release, and I watch as he continues to stroke me with his hand, all while purposefully pulling back so some of it lands on him. Across his chest.
Lying there, still panting, I see the possessive look that crosses his face when he sees my release on his skin. My spent dick tries to rally at that look and comes impressively close.
We tangle back together, skin and kisses and a bit of sticky release mashed between us.
By the time we clean up, Thatcher suggests lunch out and then the grocery store so we can make dinner together.
He even insists on us starting a load of my laundry at his house, and it’s so normal it makes my head spin.
But Thatcher says it so matter-of-factly it just seems logical.
The obvious things we should be doing on a Monday.
So we make our way to the local grocery store. The first weird thing about grocery shopping with Thatcher is that it feels . . . domestic. Not because I haven’t done it before—I’ve done plenty of late-night snack runs and emergency re-ups on Advil after road games—but this is different.
We’re in public. Together. And we’re not avoiding each other anymore.
Not at all. We’re very obviously placing items into the same cart.
The cart has actual ingredients in it—vegetables, dried beans, some fancy cheese Jamie likes. More vegetables for one week than I’ve bought in my entire life. My grocery order is generally nothing but frozen waffles, frozen meals, and energy drinks.
“You going to carry that?” he asks, nodding toward the big bag of oranges I’m juggling like I’ve never seen a produce section before.
I shrug. “You like it when I carry things.”