We go to my bedroom, where he sits on the edge of the bed while I close and lock the door. A couple seconds tick by. Then he pats his lap and says, “C’mere, darlin’。”
I’m on him in a heartbeat, my legs wrapped around his waist and my fingers in his hair. “I really did miss you,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his.
Kissing Tucker is like sinking into a hot bath. It makes my skin tingle and turns my limbs to jelly, surrounding me in a cocoon of heat that I never want to emerge from. His tongue drags over my lower lip before easing into my mouth. His hands are warm and solid as they slide underneath my tank top and stroke my bare hips.
Before I know it, we’re tangled together on the bed, clawing at each other’s clothes even while our mouths stay locked. Once we’re naked, my body strains against him, aching for release. Tucker is just as frantic. There’s no foreplay, no words exchanged. I grab a condom from my nightstand, toss it to him, and he puts it on without delay.
It’s the quietest sex we’ve ever had. It has to be, because Nana is right down the hall. And there’s something so hot and dirty about the silent way we fuck. He fills me completely, sliding in and out of my pulsing core in a slow, sweet pace that drives me wild.
“Gonna come soon,” he whispers in my ear.
I open my eyes to find his handsome features stretched taut, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he struggles to keep quiet.
The gorgeous sight succeeds in splintering the tension building inside me. As the orgasm crashes to the surface, I gasp and cling to his broad shoulders and hold him tight as he shudders on top of me.
Afterward, he rolls over and pulls me against him. His fingers thread through my hair as I curl one leg over his lower body. We snuggle wordlessly for a while, until Tuck finally breaks the silence by telling me what he’s been up to lately. We text regularly, so I know most of the stories already, but this guy’s voice is so sexy that I would listen to him recite a restaurant menu if it meant hearing that southern drawl purring in my ear.
I smother giggles behind my hand when he tells me how Dean’s girlfriend—figure that one out—knocked Dean unconscious with a paperweight last night. I kiss his shoulder when he confesses how much he’s looking forward to seeing his mom for the upcoming holidays. And when I admit how stressed I am over finals, he strokes my back and assures me that I’m going to kick ass.
Eventually we throw our clothes on and do put on a movie, but he’s the only one watching it. I crack open a textbook and start highlighting passages that I want to source in my paper. Tuck chuckles softly at the raunchy comedy on the small TV mounted to my wall.
Every so often he leans over and kisses my temple, rubs my cheek, tweaks my nipple.
Every so often I lean over and suck on his neck, stroke his beard, pinch his ass.
It’s the most perfect night I could’ve ever imagined. And in the back of my mind, a little voice keeps whispering, I could get used to this…
16
Tucker
After I get off the plane in Dallas, Mom is waiting at the bottom of the escalator with three balloons. You’d think I was coming home from the battlefield instead of a posh Eastern college.
“Look at you!” she cries.
I pick her up and swing her around before setting her back on her feet. She leans in, the familiar smell of hairspray and ammonia wafting up.
“What should I be looking at?” I tease.
She gives me a sappy mom smile before wrapping one thin arm around my waist and squeezing. “How handsome you are. You look wonderful.”
I shrug as we begin to make our way to the exit. “I feel pretty good.”
“Thank goodness. I thought you’d be depressed over how your season is going.” Our games aren’t televised often, but she follows the results online.
“Is that what the balloons are for?”
“Did you think the balloons are for you? Because they’re not.”
“Is that why the silver one says ‘Welcome Home, Son’？”
“It was discounted. I would’ve bought the ‘I’m the Greatest Mom in the World,’ but it cost five dollars more.”
“Man, the patriarchy is even ruining balloon sales?”
Thrusting the attached streamers toward me, she laughs. “It’s a terrible world, which is why we need balloons.”
“This feels suspiciously like the pink apron incident,” I say in mock protest, but I take the balloons anyway and bend down to press a kiss on the top of her head. Like the pink apron my roommates gave me, carrying a few balloons through the airport isn’t going to dent my ego.