That was so true. They judged everyone regardless of the truth or wanting to know it.

“As for a good impression—” he continued with a wink, “—they’ll think I’ve got great stamina in the sack. If you moan a little, they’ll also think I’m very skilled.”

“You are crazy,” I whispered back, trying not to smile.

But I wanted Thatcher. I wanted to really make the bed squeak. I wanted his hands on me. His mouth.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe I was crazy. Hell, maybe I was more myself than I’d ever been. But Thatcher was sitting so close he could lean forward and suck my nipple into his mouth. Six feet plus of ginger hotness. I wanted to run my fingers through that red hair, feel the rasp of his whiskers against my palm. Hell, against the insides of my thighs.

I didn’t think, only acted.

“I… I have dirty thoughts about you,” I said as I undid the thin belt at my waist, let it fall to the floor.

Thatcher stopped moving and started watching. He wasn’t saying no. He wasn’t saying anything at all. Except his eyes held the heat and desire that made me bold.

I grabbed the hem of my dress, lifted it up an inch at a time, then worked it over my head and tossed it aside. I wasn’t going to get up in the morning and have my mother look at me as if I was going to hell without doing any of the things that were going to get me there.

I wanted orgasms and Thatcher was going to give them to me. And he was just catching on to that fact.

11

THATCHER

Holy shit. Astrid in green satin bra and panties, and only bra and panties, was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. Screw a Montana summer storm. Forget my finished barn house. Who cared about my bar on a crowded summer night? I imagined her prettier than a sunset in Cozumel.

I was in big trouble here. My dick wanted out of my jeans and in her. Now.

All the blood was traveling from my brain south and I was running out of time to talk and make sense.

My fingers itched to reach out and grab, cup, stroke, and caress.

“Sweets, what are you doing?”

The bold smile on her face slipped and so did her confidence right along with it.

Fuck.

“I… thought—”

“You’ve had a lot of wine.”

She nodded and tried to step back. That was when I hooked a hand about her waist and kept her from moving away. Her skin was silky soft and warm. We had to talk fast.

“I’m not drunk. I know what I’m doing,” she countered.

“What are you doing?”