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And now I am kind of glad in a way he did.
He forced me to sit up and pay closer attention.
I like what I see on the surface and under all that cocky.
He is going away until March. I won’t see him after tomorrow morning, and then I complete what I have set out to do: allow myself time to grieve and breathe, then I can work on how I explain to Tucker about my future. My business will be up and running. I’ll have settled into my routine, and then maybe I can contact Alice and see how it plays out.
Figuring I have it all worked out, I yawn again, deciding I might take a wee cat nap for half an hour.
I get up off the bed and shimmy out of my tight jeans, pulling my knee-high white socks up. Arching my back, I tug out the band, holding my ponytail in place, and massage my head before fluffing my hair out.
“Oh, that feels good,” I moan. My ponytail is a habit from my bounty hunter days, but my head gets tender after too many hours.
I stare at the bed, deciding whether to lay on top or wriggle underneath the puffy navy comforter. It looks expensive. I bet the sheets are a thousand count and soft as butter.
It’s not like he didn’t tell me I could have his room for the night. He wants me to relax. A cat nap under the comforter would be cozy.
I yawn again.
I look at Teagan’s black satin pajama shorts I’ve laid out on the edge of Tucker’s bed with WINE O’CLOCK written across the butt, which brings a smile to my face. I will keep my blouse on and swap out my jeans to be comfortable and not get Tucker’s bed dusty from having worn them riding from Temecula to L.A. earlier in the day.
And then Tucker’s voice interrupts my thoughts, making me jump out of my skin.
The man is a freakin’ Ninja.
Twenty-One
A TRUCE AND ONE-UPPING THE NICKNAME
Tucker
I am about to knock on the partially open bedroom door when I silently curse, my hand hovering in the air. I turn to stone, doing well not to drop the water bottle I carry.
I bumped into Alice in the kitchen a few minutes ago with said water bottle in her hand, letting me know she was taking it to Ophelia. I thought I would be a good host and play at delivery boy.
The sight that greets me is Shakespeare bent over in a black thong, pulling up one knee-high sock and then repeating the action with the other—her bubble butt cheeks gloriously bare-ass naked saluting me.
Ishouldlook away, but I currently can’t seem to drag my eyes away from the scene in front of me.
Before I can make a move, Hamlet is arching her back, tugging on her ponytail, shaking her mane out, moaning as she massages her head.
What form of torture is this?
My cock jerks in my shorts.
Two perfect, round, naked globes are all it takes to transform me into a dick statue.
I glance to the ceiling and thank the powers above for the perfect timing while Caveman grunts his approval, and I tend to agree with the Neanderthal.
I’m grateful I grabbed a pair of baggy workout shorts and an oversized, zip-up, black hoodie earlier when she was in my bathroom because my jeans would be painful with this raging hard-on I’m sporting, and I need all the camouflage.
I knew if Ophelia was going to nap in my bed, I couldn’t sit about without expelling some energy, so a workout in my gym was going to keep me distracted.
Now in hindsight, as I readjust the front of my black sweat-shorts, I’m not sure it will do the trick.
Everything about Ophelia has my inner caveman wanting to mark her as his, but I must play my cards right, and walking into my bedroom with my shorts resembling a big top circus tent isn’t the impression a friend should be giving to another friend—but a lover?—hell, yes. I would proudly rock an erection in front of my woman.
I stand here with my focus on the floor, thinking of the time eighteen-year-old Teagan got drunk and vomited all over my head when I was putting her into the backseat of my car to take her home from a party a group of us attended. It took me a good week to clear the smell from my car.
