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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 Jakewas 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.”
“Not hammered. A little drunk.” I straightened in my chair and spread my knees wider, an overt invitation and one he eyed a moment before arching a brow and then leaning slowly forward, big hands landing on my knees. His dark eyes bored into mine, and I could see the question in them before he spoke it.
“You know what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”No.I only knew what I was doing on a primal level, the visceral reaction that occurred when the heat of his hands spread up my thighs and into my groin, the full-body buzz that ignited at the base of my spine and radiated, more powerful than anything I’d had to drink tonight. “You can’t stay the night.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
I snapped a hand out, grabbing a fistful of his collar, and yanked until his lips were on mine. I’d wanted to taste them—regretted not tasting them—since the second he’d walked out of Monica’s bedroom.
6
TUCKER
The second our lips touched, it was like a bolt of lightning landed straight in my chest, electricity ping-ponging around my body.
I was kissing Whitt. Patrick Whitt had called me to his house because he was alone on Christmas Eve, and now I was kissing him.
Talk about a mindfuck.
He tasted like whiskey, sadness, and somehow excitement—that feeling you got waking up on Christmas morning, eager to find out what the day would bring.
I dropped to my knees, Whitt leaning closer, spreading his legs wider for me to settle between, while I tangled a hand in his dark hair, tightening a fist around the strands. My first thought was how soft it was, the way it almost felt like silk against my fingers. Everything about him was fancy as fuck, even his stupid hair.
My dick was already aching, telling me not to slow this down, while my brain was saying the complete opposite. This had been coming since the night of the threesome, maybe even before that. I’d make him come, get it out of my system, and then pretend he didn’t exist.
Whitt growled when I pulled back. “Don’t,” he grumbled like he could read my mind.
I ignored him. “You’re positive you want this? I gotta make sure, Whitt, but I promise if you do, I’ll make you come so hard you won’t have another orgasm in your life without comparing it to me.”
“Pfft.” He puffed out a breath but couldn’t hide how his pupils had blown wide.
“I’m waiting.”
