In Ruins Page 3

  It should be awkward for me to be sitting with Tucker like this, his body stretched behind mine, his fingers teasing the exposed skin of my waist beneath the water. But it isn’t.

  Tucker leans into my ear, his breath caressing my neck, and I stifle a gasp. “You drive me crazy, do you know that?” His voice is barely a whisper.

  I shake my head vaguely, but lean a little closer to his lips, wanting so desperately to feel them on the sensitive skin of my throat. But that would cross a line. That would take us from friends who flirt to something else entirely. That would mean his teasing isn’t just teasing, that he really does want me, and even in my inebriated state, I know better than to let myself fall for his game, to get my hopes up.

  “You’re the one always teasing me,” I remind him.

  His chuckle vibrates through my entire body. “Maybe that’s to get you back for how much you tease me without even realizing it.”

  I turn a little more, and find myself half sitting on his lap. “How do I do that?”

  Tucker’s smirk, both familiar and newly intent, makes my heart race and my belly flutter. “With this perfect body,” he says, deep and husky, his fingers ghosting up my arm and shoulder, and under my jaw. “With this gorgeous face.” He runs the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. “With this smartass mouth. You distract the hell out of me, Princess.”

  He leans in a little more and I choke in a shallow breath. He used to call me Princess to make fun of me, but lately it’s been almost…affectionate. And you’d think it would be weird, considering it’s the same thing my dad used to call me. But it just reminds me of the last time anyone showed me real affection, and all I feel is grateful to have it again.

  But Tucker is only my friend, so why is he teasing me like this? “Surely you have Sarah to keep you distracted,” I counter.

  Tucker turns me suddenly until I’m straddling his lap, his features screwed into an exasperated scowl. “What the fuck, Carl? I hooked up with Sarah once, over a month ago. Why do you keep bringing her up?”

  I frown, surprised by his frustration, and even more so by his revelation. “She said…” I try to remember what exactly she said, but I’m too drunk, and I think she more implied than said anyway. I guess my jealous mind fell right for it.

  Tucker’s brow furrows, luminous green eyes earnest for once, and they completely disarm me. “You really don’t know how much I want you?”

  I’m too tipsy to come up with some witty response, or some sexy invitation, and my lips part, but all I do is shake my head.

  “How can I prove it to you?” he asks hastily.

  “Take me home with you.” The words are out of my mouth before I have the chance to talk myself out of it. But I don’t regret them. This is what I want.

  “Fuck, yes,” Tucker exhales, and his mouth is so close I think he’ll kiss me, but he doesn’t. His eyes search around, and then he’s pulling me out of the hot tub and wrapping me in a towel.

  He leads me around the side of the house until we’re alone, and then finally and suddenly, Tucker’s mouth crashes down on mine.

  I’m held prisoner in my towel as his lips capture mine, and for once I don’t fight back. I surrender.

  I feel a desire I’ve never known before, and I know without question that I was right to wait. I didn’t hold on to my virginity out of principle, I just never felt like I wanted to have sex. But right now I’m desperate to know what it’s like to feel this fire everywhere.

  Tucker pulls away, his chest heaving with exertion, and touches his forehead to mine. “I’ve wanted to do that for years,” he admits.

  My pulse races in excitement and my heart beats wildly, but my buzz is no longer from the alcohol. I am high on Tucker Green. “What stopped you?” I whisper.

  “You think I don’t know you’re too good for me, Princess?” He shakes his head. “But God help me, right now, I can’t seem to give a fuck.” His gaze drops back down to my lips, and like he can’t even help himself, he’s kissing me again as if I’m the oxygen he needs to breathe. I shrug off my towel, my fingers aching to touch him, and I rush to trace the lines of his obscenely defined abs.

  He sucks in a sharp breath. “Fuck this, let’s get out of here.”

  I nod my eager agreement.

  “Stay here.”

  I hate being ordered around, normally. But right now, I obey him without question, and I don’t dwell on what the reason for that might be.

  Tucker heads back to the yard and returns a minute later with my cover-up and bag, his shorts pulled over his still-damp swimsuit. I slip my cover-up over my head and Tucker is pulling me around to the front drive before I can even fish out my phone to text Tina that I’m leaving.

  We climb into Tucker’s car, and he starts texting someone, and my heart plummets at the thought that it might be Sarah.

  “I’m designated driver and Cap’s supposed to stay at my place tonight,” he explains. “Just telling him to Uber it home instead.”

  “You’re just going to leave him?” I ask.

  “He’ll understand, trust me,” Tuck says cryptically.

  I don’t question him further; I don’t want him to change his mind.

  We ride in silence. I practically tremble with nerves, but they are the nerves of certainty. The nerves of knowing I won’t turn back—the surrealness of being here, with him, about to do what I’ve fantasized about for longer than I’d care to admit.

  He pulls into his drive, murmuring something about his mom being away—visiting her sister or something. When we get to the front door, Tucker pauses. A brief, strange look masks his features before he inhales long and harsh, as if he’s trying to slow things down. For a moment I worry he’s having second thoughts about crossing this line.

  But then he kisses me. Not hot and hard like at the party, but slow and deep.

  He pulls away and smiles a new smile. Not his knowing, cocky Tucker-smirk, or his carefree, playful Tucker-grin, but something almost shy, almost vulnerable.

  A flash of a memory reminds me of the first time I ever saw Tucker look vulnerable. The Father’s Day after his dad died when we were in the seventh grade. I lost my father in an entirely different way a few years earlier, and we were the only ones in our art class with no one to make a card for. We bonded that day. It was the day we went from classmates who teased each other to friends. Real friends.

  I reach out to trace the curve of his mouth, and instantly he’s back. Tucker smirks with lustful intent, and then he’s unlocking his door and pulling me up the stairs.

  “I’ve pictured you on my bed a million times, Princess.”

  I laugh. “I’ve been on your bed before,” I remind him. Never alone. In fact I’ve never been alone with him in his bedroom at all. But in a group of friends, hanging out, watching a movie, I’ve been here, and the room is familiar and comforting. His scent fills the air, relaxing me despite the anxiety inherent in what I’m about to do. What we’re about to do.

  Tucker’s smirk stretches wider. “Not the way I’m talking about.” He tugs me to him, resuming his kiss.

  I reach for his T-shirt and pull it over his head, and he maneuvers to help me. His fingertips brush the tops of my thighs as they grasp the hem of my cover-up, then it’s gone and I’m standing in my damp swimsuit, which is really just a few scraps of material that happen to be connected by a thin mesh cloth, making it a one-piece instead of a bikini. Tucker’s eyes rove over me from head to toe and back again, lingering on a few choice parts, and I watch, riveted, as his eyes darken and his smirk vanishes.

  I step closer and let my fingers explore his intricately sculpted body, starting at his chest before tracing the grid of his stomach. He sucks in a sharp breath as my gaze wanders south to where he strains against his board shorts, and I hope he doesn’t notice my thick swallow.

  He won’t know how new this all is to me. I know he’d never suspect that I’m a virgin, and even less so that the extent of my sexual experience was giving my first boyf
riend a hand job when I was fourteen. I’ve kissed plenty of guys, and most of our friends have done far more than that, so people just assume that I have, too. I don’t have a reputation for being a slut or anything, but no one would guess that kissing is pretty much all I’ve done.

  So Tucker doesn’t know how bold it is for me to slowly let my hand continue down past his waistline, and palm him over his bathing suit.

  My desire for him is so heady it makes the room spin, and I stumble before regaining my footing. I blink up at Tucker, my vision blurred by lust and alcohol, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s looking at me funny. Almost suspiciously.

  “How much have you had to drink?” he asks out of nowhere.

  I shake my head. Because the answer is too much, and Tucker is too good of a guy. If he realizes how drunk I am, I have no doubt he will stop this.

  He takes a step back, pinning my jaw between his fingers and bringing his eyes down to my level. I try to appear focused and in control, but his expression confirms that I’m failing.

  The room tilts suddenly and I grab on to his shoulders to anchor me. But it doesn’t stop me from taking another staggering step, and he catches me around my waist as I fall into him.

  “Fuck,” he mutters to himself. “I knew this was too damn good to be true…Serves me fucking right.”

  “Tuck—”

  “It’s okay, Princess. I’m sorry. I should have realized.” He ignores my shaking head. “Come on, let’s get you some water.” He starts to lead me out of the room, but I dig my bare heels into his plush rug.

  “I don’t want to go.” But my voice comes out strange—a mix of a slur and a breathy plea.

  I start to feel dizzy, and I don’t want to stand anymore. I walk backward and Tucker accommodates me, guiding me toward his queen-sized bed, its size not distracting from the reality that it is, in fact, still a bunk bed. The thought makes me giggle.

  Tucker smiles. “Something funny?”

  “When I said to take me home with you, I wasn’t picturing the kind of sleepover that involves bunk beds.” I laugh louder, and Tucker joins me.

  “Me neither, Princess.” He sighs, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve let him down. Like I’ve let us both down. His next words confirm it. “But we’re not going to have any kind of sleepover. Not if you’re drunk.”

  I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I insist, but we both know it’s a lie.

  Tuck doesn’t bother arguing the point, he just smiles. “I’ll bring you some water.” And he’s gone.

  I lie back on his bed, watching as his ceiling spins like a fan set on low. I never would have drank this much if I knew it would ruin our night. And yet, I wonder if I’d even be here if it didn’t also give me the courage to tell him I wanted to go home with him. Still, I can’t help but feel a little wild thrill that I am here, in Tucker’s bed, even if he won’t do anything about it now. I replay our kisses in my mind, and I flush with renewed desire and a bit of giddiness. Because it’s more than just attraction. I like him. I’ve always liked him.

  “Sit up,” he instructs, his strong arm sliding under my back to help me into a sitting position, and he hands me a bottle of water. “Drink.”

  Again, strangely, I obey him without hesitation.

  “That’s my girl,” he praises, and I smile. “Do you want me to give you some dry clothes? I’ll drive you home.”

  No. My stomach falls in disappointment and mild panic. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go back to that huge house, far too vast for three people, whose halls echo with the ghosts of a once happy family. “I don’t want to leave.”

  Tucker sighs. He runs his fingers through my hair and it’s affectionate and sweet, and when he cups my jaw, I lean into his touch. I wait for his kiss, but it doesn’t come. “Do you think I want you to go?” he asks with open frustration. “I’ve waited years to get you here, Carl. But I’m not going to take advantage of you while you’re fucked up.” He shifts uncomfortably on the bed. “As much as my dick might disagree with me.”

  I gasp a surprised laugh and he smiles at my amusement.

  “If you want me, Princess, you’re gonna have to admit it when you’re good and sober.” It’s a challenge, and I wonder if it’s one I’ll have the nerve to accept.

  But it’s clear tonight’s cause is a lost one. I’m drunk, and Tucker is my friend, and a good one, too. It seems my virginity is safe for at least one more night, and I pout my disappointment.

  Tucker brushes a soft kiss to my forehead, and it does something to my heart. These tender touches are new for us, and I’m afraid they’re turning my crush into something more. Something decidedly dangerous.

  “I don’t want to go home,” I say meaningfully, and he knows me well enough to understand. He knows my house is almost always empty, especially on the weekends, when my mom likes to stay in Manhattan and my kid brother, at his best friend’s.

  “You can stay here, okay? But we can’t do anything.”

  It means the world to me that he’ll let me stay over now that he isn’t getting anything in return. Idly I wonder why it would even surprise me, but then I suppose that’s just what I’ve come to expect from guys.

  Thank you, Daddy, for the low expectations and abandonment issues.

  But, of course, Tucker isn’t just some guy who was hoping to get lucky tonight either. He’s one of my oldest friends, and my closest guy friend, and I feel a little guilty for momentarily forgetting that just because we almost hooked up.

  I avert my gaze in remorse, nodding my agreement to his terms. The kind of sleepover that does involve bunk beds after all.

  Tucker gets up and retrieves a Port Woodmere Varsity Lacrosse T-shirt and a pair of boxers from his dresser and tosses them to me. “Get changed, okay? I’m gonna grab a quick shower. I’ll be right back.”

  But his shower isn’t all that quick, and I suspect I may be the only one going to sleep frustrated.

  I’m already in his T-shirt and underwear, curled under his duvet, when he emerges from his en suite bathroom, shirtless and in a pair of flannel pajama pants. He pauses at the foot of the bed and looks between me and the top bunk.

  Friends can cuddle, right?

  I flip open the duvet in invitation. Tucker only hesitates a fraction of a second before climbing in behind me, and I snuggle back against him. I sigh with contentment as his arms fold around me, feeling unfathomably comforted and protected as I let my eyes fall closed.

  “’Night, Princess,” he murmurs hoarsely, pressing a chaste kiss to my hair. But I’m already half in another world, the alcohol and my exhaustion, and Tucker’s intoxicating proximity, guiding me into the most peaceful sleep I can remember.

  Chapter Three

  Carleigh

  Eleventh Grade

  I wake with a start, my erotic dream so real that for a second I still think I’m in Tucker’s bedroom. And then my eyes focus, and I realize that I am in Tucker’s bedroom, and I’m not alone. I blink into bright green eyes, already awake and watching me shamelessly. We’re facing each other on our sides, and belatedly I register how close we are, the hard planes of his body pressed right up against my soft curves, my leg curled around his thigh. The hunger I felt in my dream re-materializes with a vengeance, all too real.

  “Hi,” I breathe, and Tucker smiles. It isn’t his smirk, but that new, sweet smile I had barely a glimpse of last night.

  Last night.

  The memory comes rushing back and my breath hitches.

  I almost slept with Tucker Green!

  And then I chew on my lip, realizing that, more than anything, I’m disappointed that we didn’t.

  I feel the evidence of his arousal between us, and I wonder if it’s for me, or if he always wakes up this way. I wonder vaguely if I should untangle myself from him, but the simple fact of it is—I don’t want to.

  “I keep trying to think of something smart to say,” Tucker murmurs. “Some joke or something. But all I can think is how beautif
ul you look right now.”

  And just like that, warmth floods my chest, recalling the comfort I felt in his arms, how well I slept in them.

  “We almost—”

  “We didn’t.” He cuts me off, reassuring me, as if he thinks I might be worried that in my drunkenness I made some horrible mistake.

  I blink at him.

  “You were drunk,” he reminds me.

  “I’m not drunk now.” I gaze up at him meaningfully, flushing with a combination of embarrassment, nerves, and deep desire.

  Tucker stares at me for a moment like he’s not sure if he’s hearing me right. I don’t give him a chance to misunderstand. I slide my leg forward over his thigh, one inch, and then another, until my leg is effectively wrapped around him. I brush my fingers over his bare chest, so warm from sleep, and trace the tapestry of muscle and sinew, the soft spattering of light hair.

  When I look up at him it’s from under my lashes, and I find his eyes hooded and heated. I love that I can feel his need growing between us.

  Tucker sucks in a deep breath, and then, he kisses me.

  God, does he kiss me.

  It is in no way tentative or unsure—no, it is purposeful and inexorably deep. But it isn’t hasty or fast. It’s like he’s taking his time, maybe to give me a chance to change my mind, or to let me know he’s in no rush.

  But I am. I want to do this. With him. Right now. More than I’ve ever wanted anything.

  My palm slides down, down, following the very masculine lines of his body, the trail of hair, until I’m grasping his telltale erection through thin flannel.

  The air hisses through his teeth with his sharp inhale. “Fuuuuck,” he groans, and then something in him breaks. I’m rolled onto my back and suddenly I am being utterly consumed. His lips lead the assault, laying claim to the skin of my jaw, my throat. He licks and sucks his way across my collarbone and my exposed shoulder. I’m lost in the sensations, my stomach trembling as his impatient fingers begin an exploration of their own under my shirt—his shirt—and then my knees raise of their own accord, my thighs cradling his hips, and I give in to my instinct to lock my legs around him.