My Best Friend's Ex(61)

"What time is it?"

"Nine. You took your lovely ass time waking up this morning, but I guess I wouldn't expect anything less from you."

I rub my neck where it's sore and sheepishly reply, "Guess I was tired. I never sleep in this late. Now I feel like the whole day is gone."

"Nah, it's just beginning." He winks at me and turns back to the stove where he tends to his magical eggs. I swear he whispers sweet nothings to make them taste so good. Hell, if I was an egg and Tucker started tantalizing me with his words, I would put on my best egg show as well.

"How did you sleep?" I ask awkwardly, still rubbing my neck.

His head tilts in my direction, a droplet of water from his hair cascading in my direction. "Perfectly." When he sees me rub my neck, his brow pulls together in concern. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just have a bit of a kink in my neck. That's all."

Without a word, Tucker puts the lid on the eggs, turns the burner down to low, and places the spatula on the spoon rest-which I'm surprised he even has given his limited household items. With his finger, he motions for me to spin around. "Face the wall." 

Thankful for the depth of the counter and my ability to easily cross my legs, I slide into position just as Tucker comes up behind me. His fingers dance with the collar of my pajama top as he tries to fold it down. From the irritated grunt that comes out of him, the fabric isn't performing in the way he wants, so his hands move toward the front of my shirt where he finds the buttons. Leaning over my shoulders, his breath tickling my skin-sending a wave of goosebumps over my body-he starts to unbutton them, one by one.

Tucker is undoing my shirt.

The one and only time I'm not wearing an undershirt or bra. Of course!

"Wh-what are you doing?" I ask nervously, unsure of his next move.

"Just trust me and try to relax," he whispers into my ear, his voice so low, so thick of testosterone that my body immediately ignites into a torch of flames.

All I can do is watch his dexterous fingers undo the buttons of my shirt, carefully never opening the shirt, just unbuttoning until he gets to the two at the bottom, which he doesn't seem to care to touch.

He moves his hands back to my shoulders where he very slowly starts to push the fabric of my shirt down my back so my shoulders are exposed to the morning air. He goes inch by slow inch, his fingers grazing my skin in the process, his head lined up with mine, his lips so close to my face all I want to do is turn and kiss him. I want to kiss him so freaking madly with every ounce of passion that's building in my body.

Expertly, he moves my shirt so my breasts are still covered, but so my back is exposed to him, along with my neck and shoulders.

Quietly, he asks, "Is this the side that hurts?" His lips press gently against my skin, sending a vivid tingling sensation down my spine.

I nod, unable to make any kind of formation of a sentence.

What hurts?

No clue.

Like a whisper, his lips dance over my skin, starting at the spot behind my ear, down the side of my neck, to the tip of my shoulder, relentlessly making rousing and heady chills spread all over my body. When his lips lift off me, I almost groan in protest but halt my objection when his strong, and very large hands replace his mouth, his thumbs kneading in an upward motion from my trapezius to the base of my skull. Each deep, thought-out stroke from his thumbs melts my body further and further into relaxation until I feel like a puddle on the counter, unable to hold up my own body.

He switches between stroking upward with his thumbs to making small, methodical circles along my strained muscles sending my mind into a tailspin of lust. He's touching me with his fingers. Massaging me. All I want to do his throw myself at him, beg for him to break up the tension that's been billowing in my body ever since I moved in.

"How does that feel?" he whispers.

"Good," I answer, breathlessly.

"Is it hurting because I wouldn't let you move an inch last night?"

"Maybe." He didn't let me move?

He presses deeper with his thumbs and brings his mouth to just behind my ear. "I'm sorry, but I would do it again. Having you in my arms, pressed into my body, it helped me forget."

Forget.

Two syllables.

It's the large word that created the wall that exists between us. I need to stop existing in this haze of lust. What if he can never let go?

Is that what I want? Sex with Tucker? Yes. But do I want more?

Maybe I need to get my head together as well.

There is so much for him to let go, not just forget, but let go. Even from our conversation last night, it's easy to see how tormented he is from losing the baby, from losing Sadie. The hurt in his eyes, the demons that lurk behind his anguished expressions, it's almost like staring into an empty soul at times. But then somehow, he washes away the emptiness, puts on a charming smile, and is fun-loving, sweet, and sexy as sin. He wants me. Sort of.