“I’m walking you to your car.”
He lifts his hips to pull his jeans up, alerting me to the fact that he’s still half-naked. I try not to stare as he tucks his semi-hard dick away. He could go another round, easy.
My body pleads for more contact, which I ignore by climbing out of the truck. When Tucker joins me, his T-shirt is back on and his jeans are riding on his trim hips, the zipper undone. He still has his boots on.
A gurgle of hysteria shoots into my throat. He fucked me that good and he didn’t even take his boots off?
“I’ll follow you home,” he says.
“I told you, I live in Boston.”
He shrugs. “So? Roads are shit and I want to make sure you get home okay.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve made this run dozens of times before.”
“Then text me when you get home.”
“No phone numbers,” I remind him, feeling weirdly panicked.
“It’s either the text or I follow you.” Finality rings in his voice.
Figures I’d have a one-night stand with the last remaining gentleman on this planet.
“Fine.” I fish my phone out of my coat pocket. “But you’re killing off all the good feelings.”
His light brown eyes twinkle. “Shouldn’t matter, right, because this isn’t going to be repeated?”
He has a fucking answer for everything. “You should be pre-law,” I mutter. “Give me your number.”
I tap it in as he reels it off, then unlock my car and practically hurl myself into the driver’s seat. Thankfully, the engine of my sometimes-unreliable Honda starts immediately.
I crack my window down an inch and murmur a hasty, “Night, Tucker,” and he responds with a quick nod.
I watch him in the rearview mirror for nearly a block, a lone figure against the moonlit backdrop, before forcing my gaze forward. That’s where my focus has to be.
The drive home passes by in a blur, though, as my mind replays the hot sex scene on repeat. Stupid mind.
But…the sex was so good. Would it really hurt to see him again?
I park on the cracked asphalt of the carport behind my house and just sit there for a moment. Then I rake a hand through my tousled sex-hair and reach for my phone.
Me: I’m here.
The response is immediate.
Him: Good. Glad to hear it. Feel free to use this number again.
Do I want to use it—him—again? It’s so tempting. John Tucker was hot as hell, fucked like a god, and was so laidback nothing seemed to faze him. He didn’t ask me any difficult questions and didn’t seem interested in wanting more than I could offer. How often does a guy like that come along?
Me: I’ll keep that in mind.
Him: U do that, darlin’.
I run a thumb over my lip, remembering how good it felt when he kissed me. Argh. Maybe I will use that number again.
Exhaustion hits me the moment I step out of the car. I need some sleep, STAT. Tomorrow’s going to be as long and tiring as today was, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.
When I stumble through the door, Nana is sitting in the same spot I left her. I suspect the only time she moved in the four or so hours I’ve been gone was to pee out the empty two-liter Coke bottle on the kitchen table. The bottle was full before I left. There’s a different magazine in front of her, though. I think it’s the Enquirer.
She takes in my disheveled appearance. “Thought you had a cocktail party.” A smirk forms. “Looks like you were on the menu.”
Heat floods my face. Yup. Nothing like a word from Nana to set the world back in order.
I ignore the jab and head for the doorway. “’Night,” I mumble.
“Goodnight,” she replies, her chuckles following me into the bedroom.
After I’ve closed and locked the door, I pull out my phone and bring up Tucker’s name. For one long moment, I stare at it. I’m tempted to text him something. Anything.
Instead, I go to the info screen and press “BLOCK.”
Because no matter how sexy he is or how many orgasms he can wring out of me, there’s no place in my life for a second round with him.
4
Tucker
The sound of a car engine revving jerks me awake. It’s still dark out, but I can make out the tiniest sliver of light on the horizon, a grayish stripe in a black background. I flip the lever of my seat and allow the mechanism to push me upright, just in time to see a small Honda Civic pulling out of Sabrina James’s drive.
Blearily, I check the time on the dash. Four a.m. As her car drives past, I catch a glimpse of dark hair, and before I know it, I’ve pulled out in traffic behind her.