I dig my knees into the leather seat and rest my hands on his chest. The muscles flex beneath my palms, and I rake my gaze over his ridged abdomen, the light hair on his chest, and the thin line that leads directly down to heaven.
He’s as delicious to look at as he feels. I wonder how he tastes, but that will have to come later. Right now, I need him to fuck me until my anxiety about Harvard, money, and my home life is driven out completely. I want to be wrecked and he’s the perfect man for the job.
I slam down on him. A feral look crosses his face and then a large palm clamps against my ass. He powers upward, finding the leverage from somewhere, and even though I’m on top, he’s clearly in control, which is exactly what I want.
His teeth are clenched and I feel the bite of his fingers on my ass, pushing me downward with each thrust forward. I squeeze my thighs tight around him and give myself over to his care, allowing him to power me into oblivion.
“Come for me,” he mumbles. “Take what you need.”
Inside of me, his cock pulses, and then his fingers find my clit, stroking and teasing it until I go off like a rocket, shaking so hard I can barely stay on top of him.
Tucker rises part way to clasp me to his chest, pounding into me so hard that I have to raise trembling hands to the truck’s roof to prevent my head from slamming through it.
He drives into me, over and over, until suddenly he’s the shaky, mindless mess who has a hard time maintaining any control. He collapses back against the seat, taking me with him.
I allow myself a few selfish moments to catch my breath, luxuriating against the big chest beneath me. Tremors give way to contentment. A part of me wants to stretch this moment out endlessly, curled up in this guy’s lap while his hand runs soothingly up and down my spine.
“You sure you don’t want to crash at my place?” he asks.
For a second, I nearly say yes. Yes, to going back to his place. Yes, to another round of sex. Yes, to breakfast in the morning, skipping work, and spending the entire day in bed with him. The need surprises and scares me.
I take a deep breath and gather up the pieces of my composure that he fucked into tiny bits. “No. I need to get home.”
Just sex.
Right. It’s just sex. John Tucker is good in bed. So good that he should be getting a trophy. But it’s not better than I’ve had before. It only feels that way because of the stress I’m under. Or even if it was the best I’ve had, that doesn’t mean anything other than he’s one more data point in the athletes make good lovers theory. Stamina. World-class fingers and tongue. A dick that could serve as the model for the large versions at a sex shop.
I root around for my shirt and jacket. I throw them on, not even caring that they’re likely on backwards. I need to get out of this truck and into my car.
“I’m ready,” I announce. “My car is only a couple blocks from here.”
His handsome features soften. “You look a little shocky.”
I twist in agitation, but his expression shows nothing but concern. “I’m good,” I assure him.
Tucker sits up and removes the condom, tying it off and then dumping it into a nest of napkins. He fingers his keys for a moment and then starts the truck. “Where to?”
I let out a breath of relief. “Over on Forest. Big Victorian.”
“Got it.”
We drive the short distance in silence. At the first glimpse of my car, the urge to flee is hard to resist. I have the door open before he comes to a complete stop.
“See you around,” I say lightly.
“I’m walking you to your car.”
He lifts his hips to pull his jeans up, alerting me to the fact that he’s still half-naked. I try not to stare as he tucks his semi-hard dick away. He could go another round, easy.
My body pleads for more contact, which I ignore by climbing out of the truck. When Tucker joins me, his T-shirt is back on and his jeans are riding on his trim hips, the zipper undone. He still has his boots on.
A gurgle of hysteria shoots into my throat. He fucked me that good and he didn’t even take his boots off?
“I’ll follow you home,” he says.
“I told you, I live in Boston.”
He shrugs. “So? Roads are shit and I want to make sure you get home okay.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve made this run dozens of times before.”
“Then text me when you get home.”
“No phone numbers,” I remind him, feeling weirdly panicked.
“It’s either the text or I follow you.” Finality rings in his voice.
Figures I’d have a one-night stand with the last remaining gentleman on this planet.
“Fine.” I fish my phone out of my coat pocket. “But you’re killing off all the good feelings.”
His light brown eyes twinkle. “Shouldn’t matter, right, because this isn’t going to be repeated?”
He has a fucking answer for everything. “You should be pre-law,” I mutter. “Give me your number.”
I tap it in as he reels it off, then unlock my car and practically hurl myself into the driver’s seat. Thankfully, the engine of my sometimes-unreliable Honda starts immediately.
I crack my window down an inch and murmur a hasty, “Night, Tucker,” and he responds with a quick nod.
I watch him in the rearview mirror for nearly a block, a lone figure against the moonlit backdrop, before forcing my gaze forward. That’s where my focus has to be.
The drive home passes by in a blur, though, as my mind replays the hot sex scene on repeat. Stupid mind.
But…the sex was so good. Would it really hurt to see him again?
I park on the cracked asphalt of the carport behind my house and just sit there for a moment. Then I rake a hand through my tousled sex-hair and reach for my phone.
Me: I’m here.
The response is immediate.
Him: Good. Glad to hear it. Feel free to use this number again.
Do I want to use it—him—again? It’s so tempting. John Tucker was hot as hell, fucked like a god, and was so laidback nothing seemed to faze him. He didn’t ask me any difficult questions and didn’t seem interested in wanting more than I could offer. How often does a guy like that come along?
Me: I’ll keep that in mind.
Him: U do that, darlin’.
I run a thumb over my lip, remembering how good it felt when he kissed me. Argh. Maybe I will use that number again.
He’s as delicious to look at as he feels. I wonder how he tastes, but that will have to come later. Right now, I need him to fuck me until my anxiety about Harvard, money, and my home life is driven out completely. I want to be wrecked and he’s the perfect man for the job.
I slam down on him. A feral look crosses his face and then a large palm clamps against my ass. He powers upward, finding the leverage from somewhere, and even though I’m on top, he’s clearly in control, which is exactly what I want.
His teeth are clenched and I feel the bite of his fingers on my ass, pushing me downward with each thrust forward. I squeeze my thighs tight around him and give myself over to his care, allowing him to power me into oblivion.
“Come for me,” he mumbles. “Take what you need.”
Inside of me, his cock pulses, and then his fingers find my clit, stroking and teasing it until I go off like a rocket, shaking so hard I can barely stay on top of him.
Tucker rises part way to clasp me to his chest, pounding into me so hard that I have to raise trembling hands to the truck’s roof to prevent my head from slamming through it.
He drives into me, over and over, until suddenly he’s the shaky, mindless mess who has a hard time maintaining any control. He collapses back against the seat, taking me with him.
I allow myself a few selfish moments to catch my breath, luxuriating against the big chest beneath me. Tremors give way to contentment. A part of me wants to stretch this moment out endlessly, curled up in this guy’s lap while his hand runs soothingly up and down my spine.
“You sure you don’t want to crash at my place?” he asks.
For a second, I nearly say yes. Yes, to going back to his place. Yes, to another round of sex. Yes, to breakfast in the morning, skipping work, and spending the entire day in bed with him. The need surprises and scares me.
I take a deep breath and gather up the pieces of my composure that he fucked into tiny bits. “No. I need to get home.”
Just sex.
Right. It’s just sex. John Tucker is good in bed. So good that he should be getting a trophy. But it’s not better than I’ve had before. It only feels that way because of the stress I’m under. Or even if it was the best I’ve had, that doesn’t mean anything other than he’s one more data point in the athletes make good lovers theory. Stamina. World-class fingers and tongue. A dick that could serve as the model for the large versions at a sex shop.
I root around for my shirt and jacket. I throw them on, not even caring that they’re likely on backwards. I need to get out of this truck and into my car.
“I’m ready,” I announce. “My car is only a couple blocks from here.”
His handsome features soften. “You look a little shocky.”
I twist in agitation, but his expression shows nothing but concern. “I’m good,” I assure him.
Tucker sits up and removes the condom, tying it off and then dumping it into a nest of napkins. He fingers his keys for a moment and then starts the truck. “Where to?”
I let out a breath of relief. “Over on Forest. Big Victorian.”
“Got it.”
We drive the short distance in silence. At the first glimpse of my car, the urge to flee is hard to resist. I have the door open before he comes to a complete stop.
“See you around,” I say lightly.
“I’m walking you to your car.”
He lifts his hips to pull his jeans up, alerting me to the fact that he’s still half-naked. I try not to stare as he tucks his semi-hard dick away. He could go another round, easy.
My body pleads for more contact, which I ignore by climbing out of the truck. When Tucker joins me, his T-shirt is back on and his jeans are riding on his trim hips, the zipper undone. He still has his boots on.
A gurgle of hysteria shoots into my throat. He fucked me that good and he didn’t even take his boots off?
“I’ll follow you home,” he says.
“I told you, I live in Boston.”
He shrugs. “So? Roads are shit and I want to make sure you get home okay.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve made this run dozens of times before.”
“Then text me when you get home.”
“No phone numbers,” I remind him, feeling weirdly panicked.
“It’s either the text or I follow you.” Finality rings in his voice.
Figures I’d have a one-night stand with the last remaining gentleman on this planet.
“Fine.” I fish my phone out of my coat pocket. “But you’re killing off all the good feelings.”
His light brown eyes twinkle. “Shouldn’t matter, right, because this isn’t going to be repeated?”
He has a fucking answer for everything. “You should be pre-law,” I mutter. “Give me your number.”
I tap it in as he reels it off, then unlock my car and practically hurl myself into the driver’s seat. Thankfully, the engine of my sometimes-unreliable Honda starts immediately.
I crack my window down an inch and murmur a hasty, “Night, Tucker,” and he responds with a quick nod.
I watch him in the rearview mirror for nearly a block, a lone figure against the moonlit backdrop, before forcing my gaze forward. That’s where my focus has to be.
The drive home passes by in a blur, though, as my mind replays the hot sex scene on repeat. Stupid mind.
But…the sex was so good. Would it really hurt to see him again?
I park on the cracked asphalt of the carport behind my house and just sit there for a moment. Then I rake a hand through my tousled sex-hair and reach for my phone.
Me: I’m here.
The response is immediate.
Him: Good. Glad to hear it. Feel free to use this number again.
Do I want to use it—him—again? It’s so tempting. John Tucker was hot as hell, fucked like a god, and was so laidback nothing seemed to faze him. He didn’t ask me any difficult questions and didn’t seem interested in wanting more than I could offer. How often does a guy like that come along?
Me: I’ll keep that in mind.
Him: U do that, darlin’.
I run a thumb over my lip, remembering how good it felt when he kissed me. Argh. Maybe I will use that number again.
