Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Me: Why do I have your number in my phone?
That was innocuous enough. Didn’t mention our hookup, didn’t tell him how much I’d thought about it, didn’t ask him the same.
I frowned at the quick reply.
Tucker: Who dis? Plenty of people have my number.
Because I was an egotistical bastard, it aggravated me to no end that Tucker didn’t know immediately who was texting him.
Me: I’m sure they do.
Tucker: Laura?
Me: No.
Tucker: Shit. Melinda?
Me: No.
Tucker: Sarah.
Me: No.
I drank another swallow of beer. This was entertaining. I wondered how many names he could get through before one or both of us got bored of the game.
Tucker: Jake.
What the hell? Who the fuck was Jake?
Fuck this game. The entertainment had been short-lived and quickly replaced by the feral ache of frustration mingled with desire. I tossed my phone aside only to pick it up again when it chimed twice in quick succession.
Tucker: What’s up, Whitt?
Tucker: Think I can’t use google to reverse lookup a number, you dumbass?
Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. Definitely drunk.
Me: My number isn’t public in any way. My agent made sure of that.
Tucker: No shit, which makes it easy to figure out it’s you.
Me: You didn’t answer my first question.
Tucker: No clue. Are you in Florida?
Me: Yeah.
Tucker: With your family?
Me: Nah. They’re not getting in until tomorrow. It’s just me, a fire, some whiskey, and a stupid tall Christmas tree that I switched to the rainbow lights. I hate white lights.
Tucker: Are you drunk?
Me: No, I’m just sharing my light preference. The colorful ones are more festive.
Tucker: You’re drunk.
Tucker: Do you want something from me, bro, or are you just reaching out to send holiday tidings?
Fuck, I didn’t even know how to answer that, and I stared at the message for a long minute, trying to read between the lines. Was he somehow implying he’d be up for something if I asked? I didn’t want to ask, though. I didn’t want to ask Tucker for a goddamn thing. But I absolutely wanted something from him. That was undeniable, or so said my cock.
I inhaled deeply, blew it out, and hit the mental “fuck it” button again.
Me: I want you over here in 25 minutes.
This time, I was the one left waiting. I counted three minutes that he stewed on my message, and I fully expected him to beg off since it was Christmas Eve, after all, and he was with his family. Mostly, I just wanted to see how he’d handle my demand, so my eyes almost bugged out of my head when his reply finally came.
Tucker: On my way. Better be worth my time, Bougie.
I almost called it off based on that stupid nickname, but goddamn, the prospect of getting off with him again already had me on fire, and now I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I quenched it.
Twenty-three minutes later, the security system chimed to let me know there was someone at the gate, and Tucker’s voice came over the intercom. “It’s me. We still doing this?”
I buzzed him in without a reply, went and unlocked the front door, leaving it open a crack, and returned to my chair in front of the fireplace after a quick stop in the kitchen for a beer.
“Who’s Jake?” I asked when I heard Tucker’s footsteps approaching. I didn’t turn around, not yet. I didn’t want to until I was sure I could keep my reaction cool and on the level since the last time I’d been this close to Tucker, I’d been naked and grinding my way to an explosive orgasm.
“Merry Christmas to you, too.” Tucker’s steps halted, then resumed, slower. I could feel him behind me, just a sense of presence, and I let my head drop back on the chair and angled it toward him.
“Merry Christmas,” I replied. He always seemed bigger in person. He smelled crisp and clean and looked like a filthy fantasy come to life. All the memories of his naked body—smooth brown skin, his short-cropped hair under my fingertips—I’d been repeatedly shoving into the compartments of my mind came rushing out at once, and I swerved my gaze back to the fire to keep from staring at him like a predator. Why had I thought this was a good idea? Swallowing against the ache in my chest, I waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen. “Plenty of drinks in the fridge or bar if you want one.” Who’s Jake was what I’d wanted to ask again, but I didn’t. His nonanswer was answer enough, and I was tipsy, but not tipsy enough to show my ass like that.
“I don’t want a drink, Patrick.” Suddenly, he was right there, moving around the club chair to stand in front of me, a colossus framed by the fireplace, his shape delineated by the orange glow of the fire. Fucking gorgeous. His gaze moved over me slowly and with a painful thoroughness that both excited me and put me on edge, leaving me feeling naked and raw. “You’re hammered.”