“What is going on here? What’s happening between us? I mean, does the fact that we kissed change anything between us?”
I take a moment to think about her question. She wants to know what’s next for us. Are we going to let this be awkward or give in to our yearning?
Knowing the answer right away, I say, “We’re still roommates, Emma, there is no changing that and I want our friendship.” I need our friendship.
Her fingers stop immediately as she nods. “Okay, yeah. I don’t want to lose our friendship.”
I kiss the top of her head and add, “That doesn’t mean we aren’t going to fuck like bunnies all over this house. Just when the time’s right, because at some point, my head is going to be between your thighs and I’m going to love every fucking second of it.”
Her breath hitches in her chest as her body relaxes into mine.
When the time is right.
I just need to get my fucking head straight first. For Emma. For me. For us.
Chapter Fifteen
EMMA
“Oh God. Oh, fuck me,” I moan as I twist in bed. “Ahhhh.” I sit up and grip my neck, pain coursing through it. The morning sun streams through my window, blinding me enough to let me know it’s later than my usual wake-up time. Slight panic picks up in the pit of my stomach until I realize it’s the weekend. I don’t have classes or scheduled clinical.
As my anxiety wanes, the pain in my neck becomes noticeable again. Muttering to myself, I swing my legs to the side of the bed. “Stupid muscular man shoulder, putting a kink in my neck.” I rub the side, trying to ease the tightening of my muscles where I must have rested the entire night on Tucker.
God, that man. We slept together again. Platonically.
I don’t even know what to do with him. He’s my friend and still caught up on Sadie. He’s also the man I can’t stop thinking about, the man that makes one move toward me, and my entire body lights up. And let’s not forget the man who told me, straight to my face, that there will be fucking between us. Fucking. Tucker Jameson.
I mean . . . how do I even respond to that? What do I say? “Oh sure, yes, please tell me when the fucking will commence.” Do I sit back and wait, to see if it will ever happen? Or do I just decide one night to strip down to nothing, point at my crotch, and say, “Open for business.” Maybe I put an additional sign that says, “Tucker welcome here.”
I’m so confused. I feel like last night was nice, but the mixed signals confuse me. He wants me, but not yet, but we will be having sex, but he’s waiting, but then he sticks his tongue down my throat in the kitchen. I’ve never met a more indecisive man. It makes me question whether or not he is capable of deciding what to do with us.
Sighing, I stick my feet in my slippers, brush my hair out of my face—another winning morning do—and trudge out to the kitchen where I stop dead in my tracks.
Standing in front of the stove, freshly showered, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs and a spatula in hand, is the man who gave me a kink in my neck. Right now, I could really care less about the pain.
With his back toward me, I observe him in his chef element. One of his hands is tucked behind him in the waistband of his briefs, the extensive amount of muscles rippling through him flex and contract with every shift of his feet, and little droplets of water run the length of his back from his still wet hair. I’m enamored . . . once again.
Grown-up Tucker is one fine specimen.
I take a step closer, which causes the floor to creak, and draw Tucker’s attention away from the stovetop. When he turns in my direction, a slow, sexy, heart-stopping smirk catches my attention, causing every nerve ending in my body to be on hyper-alert, jumping, jiving, and dancing across my skin with excitement.
“Morning, babe.” His voice is gruff, low, still waking up from a good night’s sleep. He pats the counter next to the stovetop and motions with his head for me to sit down. Still taking in the sight in front of me, I follow his non-verbal request. Of course, when I go to lift myself on the counter, Tucker does it for me, picking me up at the waist and gently setting me down, all the while, I stare at the way his chest ripples with every movement. His thumb and index finger gently pinch my chin in a loving way as he says, “Didn’t think you were going to wake up.”
“What time is it?”
“Nine. You took your lovely ass time waking up this morning, but I guess I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”
I rub my neck where it’s sore and sheepishly reply, “Guess I was tired. I never sleep in this late. Now I feel like the whole day is gone.”
“Nah, it’s just beginning.” He winks at me and turns back to the stove where he tends to his magical eggs. I swear he whispers sweet nothings to make them taste so good. Hell, if I was an egg and Tucker started tantalizing me with his words, I would put on my best egg show as well.
“How did you sleep?” I ask awkwardly, still rubbing my neck.
His head tilts in my direction, a droplet of water from his hair cascading in my direction. “Perfectly.” When he sees me rub my neck, his brow pulls together in concern. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just have a bit of a kink in my neck. That’s all.”
Without a word, Tucker puts the lid on the eggs, turns the burner down to low, and places the spatula on the spoon rest—which I’m surprised he even has given his limited household items. With his finger, he motions for me to spin around. “Face the wall.”
Thankful for the depth of the counter and my ability to easily cross my legs, I slide into position just as Tucker comes up behind me. His fingers dance with the collar of my pajama top as he tries to fold it down. From the irritated grunt that comes out of him, the fabric isn’t performing in the way he wants, so his hands move toward the front of my shirt where he finds the buttons. Leaning over my shoulders, his breath tickling my skin—sending a wave of goosebumps over my body—he starts to unbutton them, one by one.
Tucker is undoing my shirt.
The one and only time I’m not wearing an undershirt or bra. Of course!
“Wh-what are you doing?” I ask nervously, unsure of his next move.
“Just trust me and try to relax,” he whispers into my ear, his voice so low, so thick of testosterone that my body immediately ignites into a torch of flames.
All I can do is watch his dexterous fingers undo the buttons of my shirt, carefully never opening the shirt, just unbuttoning until he gets to the two at the bottom, which he doesn’t seem to care to touch.
He moves his hands back to my shoulders where he very slowly starts to push the fabric of my shirt down my back so my shoulders are exposed to the morning air. He goes inch by slow inch, his fingers grazing my skin in the process, his head lined up with mine, his lips so close to my face all I want to do is turn and kiss him. I want to kiss him so freaking madly with every ounce of passion that’s building in my body.