Chapter 7 #2
I take him into my mouth, lips stretched around his girth, tongue flat against the underside.
He's hot and heavy on my tongue, the taste of him flooding my senses—salt and musk and purely male.
I hollow my cheeks and suck, taking him deeper until he hits the back of my throat.
Above me, he groans and braces one hand against the tile wall, the other coming to rest in my hair.
"Fuck, Gwen."
I work him with mouth and hand, establishing a rhythm that has his thighs trembling. My fist twists at the base while my tongue traces the thick vein along the underside. When I flick the sensitive spot just beneath the head, his breath catches.
When I take him deep enough that my nose brushes the coarse hair at his base, he curses low and filthy.
I pull back, swirl my tongue around the crown, then sink down again.
His hand tightens in my hair—not pulling, not controlling, just holding on like I'm the only thing keeping him upright.
The muscles in his abdomen flex and cord with each measured stroke of my mouth.
"You feel so good," he groans. "Your mouth—Christ."
Power rushes through me. This controlled, tactical man completely undone by what I'm doing to him. I increase the pace, sucking harder, using my tongue along the underside of his shaft.
His hips start to move, shallow thrusts he can't quite control. "Gwen, I'm close. You should—"
I hum around him and take him deeper instead. His whole body goes rigid.
"I'm going to—"
He comes with a strangled groan, pulsing hot in my mouth. I swallow and work him through it, only pulling back when he's spent and shaking.
I stand, water still cascading over us. He's staring at me like I just rewrote every tactical manual he's ever read.
"You didn't—" he starts.
"Nope." I reach for the body wash. "But now you owe me one."
His laugh is breathless. "You're going to kill me."
"Probably. Now scrub my back. We're actually running late."
"Bossy even after I just came in your mouth."
"Especially then."
He reaches for the soap, works up a lather. His hands are firm on my shoulders, sliding down my spine, massaging as he cleans. When he reaches the small of my back, his palms spread wide, thumbs digging into muscles that release under the pressure.
Then his hands come around to cup my breasts.
"This isn't my back," I manage.
"No?" His thumbs brush over my nipples, already peaked and sensitive. "My mistake."
I arch into his touch, head falling back against his chest. Water streams over us while he explores, learning what makes me gasp. When he rolls my nipples between his fingers, pleasure shoots straight between my thighs.
"Thatcher—"
"You said I owed you one." His teeth scrape my neck. "Just getting started on that debt."
One hand stays on my breast while the other slides down my belly. Lower. His fingers find me slick and ready.
"We don't have time," I protest weakly.
"Then I'll be quick."
His fingers circle my clit with practiced precision, the calloused pads creating friction that makes my knees weak.
Pleasure builds fast, coiling tight in my core.
I grip his forearm for balance, feeling the corded muscle flex beneath my fingers as my hips rock against his hand, chasing the pressure I need.
"That's it," he murmurs against my ear. "Take what you need."
Two thick fingers slide inside me while his thumb maintains that maddening rhythm on my clit. The dual stimulation is too much, the stretch and fullness combined with the relentless circling pressure. He crooks his fingers inside me, finding that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
The orgasm slams into me without warning. I come with a strangled moan, inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his fingers as pleasure crashes through me in waves that leave me shaking.
He works me through it, his fingers gentling but not stopping, drawing out every last tremor until I'm gasping and boneless against him. When I finally go limp, completely wrung out, his laugh rumbles low against my back, satisfaction evident in the sound.
"Now we're even."
"For now." I turn in his arms, kiss him slow and deep. "But we're definitely doing this again later."
"Promise?"
"Absolutely."
By the time we're dressed and ready, tension hums between us. Not the sexual kind from earlier. The kind that comes from knowing danger is circling closer.
The drive to the hospital is quiet. Thatcher's focus splits between the road and scanning for threats. He's watching, always watching.
Base security is visibly increased. There are extra patrols, checkpoints, guards positioned at key locations. The parking lot has double the usual presence.
"They're taking this seriously," I observe.
"Rivera doesn't take chances." Thatcher parks near the main entrance. "Neither do I."
He's out of the truck before I can argue, coming around to my side. His hand finds the small of my back as we walk toward the entrance, his eyes constantly scanning the parking lot, the entrance, every person within visual range.
Inside, the hospital feels different. More security personnel in the hallways. Checkpoints at key access points. Everyone's on alert.
Preston intercepts us near the surgical wing.
"Gwen. Glad I caught you." He falls into step beside us. "Administration asked me to make sure all key personnel were briefed on the new security protocols."
"Captain Caine already filled me in. Commander Garrison fled, Briggs is still at large."
"Then you know we're treating this as an active threat." He glances at Thatcher trailing a few feet behind us. "Your protective detail continuing?"
"Until the situation's resolved."
"Good." His expression softens slightly. "You're one of our best surgeons, Gwen. We can't afford to lose you. Be careful out there."
"I will. Thanks, Preston."
He nods and heads toward the administrative wing while we continue to the nurses' station.
Beth catches my eye between patients and jerks her head toward the supply closet.
I glance at Thatcher, who's positioned near the nurses' station.
He nods once, understanding, but follows us at a discreet distance.
Beth pulls me into the closet and he takes position outside the door where he can monitor the hallway.
"Details. Now," Beth says, keeping her voice low.
"I'm working."
"You're blushing every time you look at him. What happened?"
"We woke up together. Things are... progressing."
Her eyes go wide. "Progressing how?"
"Use your imagination."
"Oh my god." She grabs my arm. "You look happy. Like actually happy, not just 'got through another shift' happy."
"I am happy."
"Good. You deserve this." She glances toward the door where Thatcher's shadow is visible through the small window. "He looks at you like you're the only person in the room, by the way."
"He's doing threat assessment."
"He's doing both. I know the difference." She squeezes my hand. "Be careful though. With Garrison out there."
"I will."
We step out and Thatcher immediately scans me, checking I'm fine before we continue down the hallway.
After finishing rounds, I find Thatcher positioned in the hallway near the physician lounge. The way he stands, blocking the corridor, scanning everyone who passes, sets my teeth on edge.
"We need to talk," I say, pulling him into an empty exam room.
He follows, eyebrows raised. "About what?"
"About you treating me like I'm made of glass." I cross my arms. "You've been hovering all day. Watching everyone like they're a threat."
"Everyone is a potential threat until we catch Garrison and Briggs."
"I get that. But you can't shadow me this close indefinitely. I have a job to do."
"And I have a job to do. Keeping you safe."
"By standing outside every patient room? By positioning yourself between me and every person who walks past?" I shake my head. "Thatcher, I need space to work."
His jaw tightens. "Someone tried to kill you. That same someone just ran when we got close. You think I'm going to back off now?"
"I think you need to trust that increased security and your presence nearby is enough. You don't need to be on top of me every second."
"The parking lot attack happened when you were alone."
"And you happened to be there. You saved me." I step closer. "But I can't function with you breathing down my neck."
"I'm not—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "I'm doing my job."
"Your job is protective detail. Not prisoner guard."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" I gesture between us. "You're treating me like I can't take care of myself. Like I'm helpless."
"I don't think you're helpless. I think you're in danger."
"I know I'm in danger. But I'm also a trauma surgeon who deals with life and death every day. I'm not fragile, Thatcher. Stop acting like I am."
Silence stretches between us. His expression shifts from defensive to something more vulnerable.
"I'm concerned," he says quietly. "About missing something. About them getting to you because I wasn't thorough enough."
The admission catches me off guard. "So you're hovering because you don't trust yourself to keep me safe from a distance?"
"Something like that."
"Then trust me to tell you if I need more protection. Trust that we're in this together." I reach up, touch his face. "That means you don't carry all the weight alone."
He covers my hand with his. "I'm not good at this. Letting people help."
"I noticed. Very Marine of you."
"It's kept me alive this long."
"And now it's making me crazy." But I'm smiling slightly. "Meet me halfway?"
"How?"
"You stay close but not suffocating. I promise to tell you if I feel unsafe. We compromise."
He considers this. "I don't like it."
"You don't have to like it. You just have to do it."
"You're very demanding."
"You like it."
His mouth curves into a slight smile. "Only when you do it."
He pulls me closer, kisses me hard. It's not gentle or sweet. It's possessive and desperate and everything he can't put into words.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Compromise," he says.
"Compromise," I agree.
"But if anything feels wrong—"
"I'll tell you immediately."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He kisses me again, slower this time. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming and exploring with deliberate thoroughness that makes my knees weak. One hand cups the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, while the other settles at my lower back and pulls me flush against him.
Heat coils low in my belly. I can feel every hard line of him pressed against me, the solid wall of his chest, the rigid length of him against my hip. My hands slide up to grip his shoulders, needing the anchor as his mouth moves against mine with devastating precision.
He tastes like coffee and want. His teeth catch my lower lip, tugging gently before his tongue soothes the sting. The contrast sends electricity racing down my spine. I arch into him and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating through both of us.
His hand at my back slides lower, fingers spreading wide over my hip, possessive and burning through the thin fabric of my scrubs.
We're in an exam room at the hospital and I don't care.
All that exists is his mouth on mine, his body against mine, the building pressure between us that promises everything we'll finish later.
When someone knocks on the exam room door, we break apart reluctantly.
"Dr. Abernathy?" A nurse's voice. "Your next patient is ready."
"Coming," I call back.
Thatcher's smile is wicked. "Later?"
"Definitely later."