“This coming from the man who just had to lick me one more time before he went to work.”
I glance over my shoulder at her and say, “Wanted to make sure you tasted the same, see if you were as good as I remembered.”
“And the verdict?”
“You tasted better.” I wink and grab two plates for our eggs. I dish out our breakfast and bring the plates to our little card table in the dining room. Emma follows behind me with silverware and our coffee. We work seamlessly together and it feels so . . . natural. I’ve never experienced this either.
She takes her first bite of the eggs and moans with her eyes closed. I watch her mouth chew and swallow which only causes me to have to readjust myself in my chair. When she takes another bite and moans, I clear my throat and say, “All right, no more egg moaning.”
“Egg moaning?” She looks genuinely confused.
I point my fork at her. “When you eat, keep your happy-stomach moans to yourself. You’re making me hard.”
“You’re getting hard watching me eat eggs?”
“No,” I adjust again. “I’m getting hard hearing you moan, which just so happens to be the same sound you make when I rub my nose along your inner thigh. So cut it out.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and studies me for a second, trying to tell if I’m serious. I am, I am so fucking serious. No egg moaning. “Fine,” she answers. “If I can’t moan while eating eggs, you can’t wear those clothes.”
“What?” I look down at my white Henley and work jeans. “What’s wrong with my work clothes?”
“There’s nothing wrong with them, they’re just . . . too tight. They make your chest look massive and heaven forbid I don’t see your abs poking through, trying to say hello. Every time you move, some kind of muscle bulges. Have you ever heard of the size up? Honestly,” she huffs.
I look down at my shirt; it’s not too tight. It fits perfectly. “It’s an extra large, that’s what I wear. It fits fine.”
She motions to my biceps. “Those pythons are trying to reach out and bite me.”
A rip of laughter pops out of me from her terminology. “Pythons?”
“You know what I mean. It’s just not fair. So if I can’t egg moan, you can’t wear those shirts.”
“Okay,” I answer, agreeing easily.
“Okay.” She nods, happy with herself. As she scoops up more eggs, I reach behind me and pull my shirt over my head where I toss it on the back of my chair. When I turn back around to face her, her mouth is open, eggs still on the fork, staring at my chest. “What are you doing?”
I look down at my bare chest and then back up at her. “You said you didn’t want me to wear that shirt around you, so I took care of the problem.”
She drops the fork of eggs on her plate and leans back in her chair while crossing her arms over her chest. “You don’t play fair, Jameson.”
I wink at her. “Never said I did, baby.”
She mumbles something under her breath and then cocks an eyebrow at me. “Fine.” Before I can respond, she grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head, dropping the garment to the floor and revealing her delicious naked body. With a wicked and smarmy smile, she picks up her fork and starts eating her eggs again . . . while moaning.
Tou-fucking-ché. With emphasis on the fucking . . .
Chapter Nineteen
EMMA
Tucker: I can’t decide what to have for dinner tonight. I’m torn.
Emma: Is this one of those interludes where you say something like you can’t choose between chicken wings or what I’m serving between my legs?
Tucker: Awfully full of ourselves, wouldn’t you say?
Emma: . . .
Tucker: I was going to suggest soup and sandwiches or beef tips in gravy sauce.
Emma: Is beef tips and gravy some kind of code for your dick and my juice?
Tucker: Christ, Emma. LOL. NO! I actually like beef tips.
Emma: So you weren’t alluding to eating me out or having sex at any point during this texting conversation.
Tucker: No.
Emma: Tucker . . .
Tucker: EMMA . . .
Emma: TUCKER JAMESON!
Tucker: Fine, I originally was going to say either spaghetti or your pussy. Happy?
Emma: Completely satisfied.
Tucker: Is it weird that I want to kiss you so fucking bad right now?
My heart floats in my chest as I read his text over and over again. The smile that graces my lips is a permanent fixture these days. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake it.
“You’re in a good mood,” Logan says, pulling my head away from my phone and back to the books in front of me.
“Huh?”
He points his pencil at me. “Your smile. Did someone tell you that you’ll never have to stick another person with a needle again?”
“Am I?” I try to make my face normal, less smiley, but it’s almost impossible. Tucker makes me happy. It’s been a month since we first slept together and since then, it’s been every night, every morning, and anytime we’re near each other. He’s insatiable. Hell, so am I. I can’t keep myself away from him or out of his bed, or out of his arms, or away from his demanding lips. And I don’t want to.
“Yeah. I haven’t seen you in days and now your head is buried in your phone rather than your books and you can’t stop grinning like a fool. What’s going on?”
Confession. I haven’t told Logan about Tucker. Adalyn knows, she knew the second she saw me after Tucker and I had sex. I think her exact words were, “You boned him, didn’t you?” It’s hard to hide anything from Adalyn. But Logan is less perceptive, or maybe my avoidance helped out a bit. I’ve just felt awkward around him ever since Tucker suggested Logan wants me. I don’t think it’s true, but then again, sometimes with the way I catch him looking at me, I do wonder.
“Nothing really,” I answer, pulling on the ends of my hair, unable to make eye contact.
“Not buying it.” He tilts my chin up with his pencil and says, “Tell me.”
Why is this so awkward? He’s my friend, so I should be able to tell him anything. Just peel the Band-Aid off, get it over with. I take a deep breath and say, “Uh, Tucker and I started seeing each other.”
“Tucker, your roommate?”
Is there really any other Tucker? I don’t say that, but come on, Logan. “Yeah, that Tucker.”
His eyebrows pull together and I’m a little surprised by his reaction. I thought they got along. “Huh, I didn’t think you were interested in him. I thought he’s your best friend’s ex-boyfriend. Isn’t that against girl code or something?”
Well, there’s the splash of ice-cold water I DIDN’T need to wipe the happy smile off my face.
I don’t know what to say. How does one really react to another person blatantly calling them out? So I just shrug and sift through my book. All the words blend together, forming one giant sentence that makes no sense.
Isn’t that against girl code or something?