I wasn’t letting her go.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Emily
I woke to gray morning light filtering through unfamiliar windows and the warm weight of Tucker’s arm draped over my waist.
Oh God.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
What had I done?
I lay there, frozen, staring at the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling while my brain tried to catch up with reality. Tucker Barrett’s cabin. Tucker Barrett’s bed. Tucker Barrett’s very naked body pressed against mine.
And I was naked too.
Because we’d had sex.
Amazing, life-altering, probably-ruined-me-for-all-other-men sex.
My cheeks burned just thinking about it. About the things he’d done. The things I’d let him do. The things I’d begged him to do.
I needed to leave. Now. Before he woke up and this got awkward. Before I had to face him in the cold light of day and see regret in those dark eyes. Before he could tell me it was a mistake, that he’d gotten caught up in the moment, that I shouldn’t read too much into it.
I’d rather die than hear those words.
Carefully—so carefully—I started to extract myself from his arm. He made a sound in his sleep, something between a grunt and a growl, and I froze. But he just rolled onto his back and kept breathing deep and steady.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
Moving like a ninja—or at least like someone who really, really didn’t want to get caught doing the walk of shame—I slipped out of bed. The floor was cold under my bare feet, and I had to bite back a yelp. I grabbed my clothes from where they’d been scattered on the floor in last night’s frenzy and clutched them to my chest.
Don’t think about last night, Emily. Don’t think about his hands, his mouth, the way he’d looked at you.
I tiptoed toward the door, wincing as one floorboard squeaked. Almost there. Just a few more steps and I’d be free. I could get dressed in the living room, grab my purse, and—
“Going somewhere?”
I froze, hand on the doorknob, heart leaping into my throat.
Tucker’s voice was rough with sleep and something else. Something that made my stomach drop.
Slowly, I turned around.
He was sitting up in bed, the cover pooled around his waist, forearms on his thighs. His hair was messy from sleep—and from my hands—and his jaw was tight. His eyes were dark and unreadable, but the set of his shoulders screamed tension.
“I was just—” I clutched my clothes tighter, suddenly so very aware that I was standing there completely naked, trying to sneak out like a thief. “I thought I’d let you sleep.”
“Right.” His voice was flat. “That’s why you were sneaking around like you’d robbed the place.”
Heat flooded my face. “I wasn’t sneaking.”
“No?” One dark brow arched. “What do you call tiptoeing around?”
“Being considerate?” I tried for levity, but it came out defensive. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Considerate would be saying goodbye.”
