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I have zero self-control around Tucker. The moment his hand caressed my skin and his fingers slid up my thigh, I couldn’t breathe let alone formulate a single thought.
Keep it together. You can do this, Sam.
Distracted by my thoughts, I look over when someone knocks on the open door. Tucker’s standing in the entryway with a wicked smirk on his lips. He’s wearing a navy tracksuit, the pants hanging low on his hips, paired with a fitted Strick U hockey tee. I stare far too long which earns a chuckle from Tucker.
He must be laughing at me. My mouth is hanging open, my gaze focused on all the wrong parts of him. Or, maybe right depending on how you look at it.
Oh my God, what is wrong with me? Have I gone without sex for so long I’m turning into a horny teenager around him? This has to stop. Like right now.
Tucker taps the wood hard and then strolls through the door, broad-shouldered and oozing sex appeal. He closes the door and locks it behind him.
And I still can’t breathe.
What is he doing?
Say something, Sam.
With a crooked grin on his handsome face, he takes a seat in front of me, leaning back in his chair. “Samantha…” he says in his deep, manly voice that sends a shiver down my arms, “… are you ready for me?
Am I ready? No. I gasp at his comment.
Someone sedate me.
I can’t stand to be in the same room as Tucker. One look from him, and I’m crossing my legs, too aware of how wet he’s making my panties.
Clearing my throat, I sit up straight and retrieve a blank quiz from the inner flap in the organizer on my desk. I shove it across the desk in front of Tucker with my finger. “You have one hour.”
He glances at the paper then looks up at me while licking his lips. Why does he keep doing that? I want to tell him to stop. Our relationship has to remain professional. I don’t even like him. He’s a horrible asshole who fucked me and then walked away like it meant nothing to him.
Because it really did mean nothing to him.
I was just sex.
He was just the man I chose to rip off the Band-Aid of my virginity. I knew what I was getting with him even though I was hoping for more. Maybe I hate him for all the wrong reasons. But I don’t think he deserves a second chance or my mercy when it comes to this class. Whatever grade he ends up with will be earned and not bargained for.
“You’ll have to stop distracting me,” Tucker says, sliding his chair closer to the desk. “I can’t focus when you do that.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Do what?”
“Twirl your hair around your index finger.”
I stop twisting the strand of hair and lower my hand to my lap. Until he mentioned it, I wasn’t even aware I was doing it. Call it a nervous tick, I guess.
“Stop looking at me and pay attention to your quiz,” I shoot back, a defiant smirk turning up the corner of my mouth. “Now you have fifty-seven minutes. The clock is ticking, Tucker.”
He smiles so wide it illuminates his face, reaching up to his light blue irises. Tucker has the kind of eyes you can get lost in, the perfect shade of blue that reminds me of a cloudless sky. The dimple in his right cheek creases his tanned skin. I like it when he smiles instead of smirks. There’s a boyish quality about him even though he’s all man and muscle.
That is until he speaks…
“Don’t make me bend you over this desk and spank you.” He leans forward, his elbow on the edge of the desk, his lecherous gaze luring me in. “Unless that’s what you want.” He lowers his voice, though this time it’s more sensual. “I remember how you like it.”
I cough, practically choking from his remark.
Does he have to make everything about sex?
Shit, I’m screwed if he keeps this up.
I need to get out of here, but I can’t leave. He hasn’t even written his name on the quiz paper yet.
“Tucker,” I warn, my voice trembling.
“Samantha,” he whispers, pressing his palms on the wood to lean over the desk, invading my space.
I stop breathing the closer he gets, unable to think straight. He knows how uncomfortable he’s making me, but he keeps going until he reaches for a lead pencil in the mug next to my computer.
Relief washes over me.
Still tight, my chest slowly begins to deflate, my breathing returning to normal.
He grips it between his fingers, his cocky smirk returning, and then sits back in his chair. “I need something to write with,” he says. “Unless you want me to work off my grade in other ways.
