by Meghan Quinn
Before he grabs a piece of pizza, he steps forward, encroaching on my space and places his hands on my hips, his fingers igniting a wave of heat in my body.
What the?
Before I can ask what he’s doing and get too distracted by the delicious smell of his cologne, he lifts me up on the counter and then steps toward the pizza box to grab a slice for himself. He sits on the counter across from me and says, “Now you’re living under my roof, I demand that you have fun these last few months of college. No more of this taking care of people shit. We are all grown-ups, if we decide to sit in a pile of poison ivy, that’s our own damn fault.”
I laugh out loud, thinking back to the party last summer where Amy sat in poison ivy and I spent the night with her bare ass in my face as I tried to dab it with itching lotion.
Continuing, he adds, “I’m serious. You have a few months before you have to start acting responsibly. Might as well let loose these last couple of months, right?”
“I have been letting loose.”
“Yeah, but I want to see it, not just hear about it.” He winks and takes another bite of his pizza. No wonder Sadie had such an off-again on-again relationship with this man. He oozes sex appeal with just one simple wink.
“It’s nothing special, you know. Me drunk and all.” I pick at the cheese on my slice, feeling a little nervous around him, a feeling I’ve never felt before. All because one wink? Get a grip, Emma!
He shakes his head and takes a sip of the Angry Orchard he bought for us, wincing as he swallows. “I’m not just talking about getting drunk, I want to see you loosen up.” He takes another bite and holds up his finger while he chews. Once he swallows, he says, “I’ve known you for a long time, Emma, and every time I’ve seen you, you were either playing nurse for our dumbass friends, or your nose was stuck in a book, studying—”
“For good reason. You don’t want a nurse treating you who has no idea what she’s doing, now do you?” Does he think I’m boring? Gosh, I hope not.
“I really don’t.” He chuckles. “But that being said, I have a rule for this household.”
“Yeah? Is it buy furniture so we don’t have to sit on counters?”
Chuckling, he shakes his head. “Didn’t you see the last issue of uh . . .” He scratches the back of his neck and looks up at me through his eyelashes, boyish charm written all over his face. “Shit, I don’t know any decorating magazines, there goes my joke.”
“Oh, does Playboy not offer interior decorating ideas? Is it really just about the articles?”
He nods and points his bottle at me right before he brings it to his lips. “That and the tits, Emma. You can’t forget the tits.”
I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never looked at one.”
“Seriously?”
I nod. “Seriously. Why would I? I don’t want to diddle myself to bare-breasted women.”
The strain in his neck is evident as he swallows hard from my comment. He clears his throat and asks, “Do you diddle yourself?”
“Do you think that’s an appropriate question to ask your friend?”
He studies me, his intense once-over drawing a line from my toes to my eyes, causing a shiver to run up my spine. “Fuck yeah, it’s an appropriate question.”
“Fine, do you self-mutilate?”
“Yes,” he says without skipping a beat. “Come on, that was a toss-up question. Every guy does and if he tells you otherwise, he’s a liar who probably does it twice a day.”
“Twice a day? Doesn’t that hurt after a while?”
Tucker laughs and hops off the counter to grab another slice of pizza. When he stands next to me, I catch a second whiff of his cologne . . . what is that heavenly smell? A little sweet, a little woodsy, with a huge dose of pheromones . . .
“Babe, if you’re using any kind of lubricant, you can rub one out as many times as you want.”
Babe? God, that’s cute coming from him.
“Yeah? What’s your record for one day of masturbation?”
Did. I. Just. Ask. Tucker. Jameson. How. Many. Times. A. Day. He. Masturbates?
Emma!
“Like how many times?” He bites his slice but doesn’t retreat back to his counter; noooo, he stands next to me, his broad frame making me feel tiny.
Answering his question, I nod.
“Hmm, all-time record?” He calculates in his head, a smirk on his face. “I would have to say about thirty.”
“Thirty?” I nearly choke on my drink as I spit out the number. “How on earth could you get hard thirty times in one day?”
He’s laughing now. His hand is wrapped around his waist as he bends over. That gives me a great view of his back muscles flexing with every bout of laughter. The sound is deep, earthquake-esque, shaking my entire body to its core.
“You’re stupid.” Mature, I know. I hop off the counter and carry my drink and another slice of pizza toward my bedroom. I don’t make it past the kitchen doorway before Tucker is wrapping his strong arm around my waist, halting me in my progress. I freeze from his hold, and goosebumps spread like a curtain of arousal as his low laugh filters through my ear. His heat surrounds me, capturing me.
“Don’t be like that. Remember, loosen up.”
I turn on him, our bodies only a few inches a part, and I hold back the catch in my breath, not wanting to show him how much he’s affecting me right now. I’m tired, that’s what this is all about. I’m just tired. And it’s been QUITE a long time since I’ve had sex.
“Fine, you want me to loosen up?”
He nods, putting some more distance between us to grab his drink that he clearly is only drinking to quench his thirst, not because he’s loving the appley taste. “I do, that’s why I’m setting the rule that once a week, you have to put down the books and do something fun.”
“Oh, is that how this is going to work?” I tease. “Your house, your rules?”
“Damn right.” He smirks over his drink.
“Do I have any say in the matter?”
He shakes his head and then a slow, drawn-out smile starts to spread across his face. Uh oh, something is brewing in that handsome head of his and I’m not actually convinced I’ll handle whatever he’s coming up with.
Shit.
Chapter Six
TUCKER
“Grab a pen and a pad of paper,” I say to Emma as I bring the pizza box into the dining room along with our six-pack of gross cider.
“Should I be nervous? You’re not going to make up some kind of weird blood pact where we have to eat the eye of a squid and share a tentacle Lady and the Tramp style, are you?”
“What?” I laugh and shake my head. “No, just get the pen and paper. Christ, woman.”
She disappears into her room where she shuffles around all her belongings and fumbles over boxes. I consider going in to help her but once the thought passes through my mind, she’s already coming back into the dining room.
She eyes the pizza box on the floor and asks, “Are we doing the whole picnic thing?”
“Yeah, call it adventurous. Now sit that little ass of yours down.” I pat the hardwood floor next to me.
She holds up a finger and says, “One second.” Once again, she disappears into her room but quickly reappears with two throw pillows in hand. She tosses one at me, which I catch with ease. “Don’t want your ass to get sore from not having a chair.”
“Considerate.” I lift to the side and sit down on the fluffy cushion, welcoming the barrier between the hardwood floors and said ass. Even if it is on a fluffy, girly cushion. God, are those tassels?
With pizza box in between us, Emma sits down, placing the pad of paper on her lap and readies her pen. “Okay, what are we doing? Playing hangman? I just want to warn you, I’m really good. I once used the phrase chocolate hostage.”
“What the hell is chocolate hostage?”
A light pink blush creeps over her cheeks as she looks down at her paper and mindlessly doodles on the side. It’s
cute.
“It’s nurse slang for someone who’s having difficulty in passing stools.”
For fuck’s sake.
I shake my head, tying to rid the image that seems to be sticking in my mind. “That’s fucking disgusting. Do you really say that?”
She shrugs. “It’s fun having your own language. Makes some of the dark parts of the job not so heavy. It can lighten the mood at times.”
“I get that.” I swallow hard. “But please, keep your nurse slang to yourself. Chocolate hostage is going to burn my brain for a while.”
“Are you picturing an old man?”
I nod. “Who’s sitting on a bed pan.” I shiver. “Fuck, okay, change of subject. Thanks for ruining my appetite by the way.”
“Anytime.” I glance over at her to catch the smile on her face. It’s . . . it’s beautiful. So genuine, so fucking happy. I haven’t been on the receiving end of a smile like that in a while. “Do I have pizza on my face?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts. Quickly she wipes the back of her hand over her cheeks and lips. “Did I get it?” Fuck. I was staring? At Emma?
Clearing my throat, I nod. “Yup, just a little bit of sauce,” I lie, trying to cover up my ass. Once again her cheeks stain in pink. I like seeing her blush, it’s so goddamn sweet. “Okay, uh, let’s make a list of rules for the house. I think it only makes sense given our first rule, you have to let loose once a night every week up until graduation.”
Shifting on her pillow, she seems to be getting in position when she says, “Oh, this is a good idea.” Like a goof, she cracks her knuckles, presses the tip of the pen to her tongue, and starts writing on the pad of paper.
Tucker and Emma’s House Rules for Living Together.
“Long title,” I comment as she writes out the first rule.
“I want to be thorough.” She lets out a long breath once she writes down the first rule and then says, “Rule number two, all rent will be paid on the first of the month.”
She goes to write when I snag the pad from her grasp, a small protest slips from her lips. “Hey, I was writing.”
“No way are you paying rent. That won’t be a rule and we aren’t making administrative rules either. We don’t need to say shit like don’t walk around the house naked and clean up after yourself. We’re smart enough to show common courtesy to one another.”
She ignores my statement and says, “I’m paying rent.”
“No, you’re not,” I counter.
“Yes, I am.” The lift to her chin says she’s being serious.
“Fine.” When I succumb, she does a little fist pump in the air. “Rent is due at the first of the month. I accept cash only.”
“Cash? Okay. I’ll have to stop by the bank, but there is one near the hospital. I could make that work.”
“Good. I won’t negotiate on the amount. Sorry, a guy has to make a living too.”
“Fair enough. I wouldn’t dream of negotiating. You did kind of save me from either sleeping in a creepy hotel, or living with six other men in a three-bedroom apartment, or shacking it up on Homeless Lane, so the least I can do is respect your rent amount.”
“Glad to hear it. Rent is one dollar a month. Have it on the counter in an envelope, Mr. Jameson marked on the front. When it comes to rent, I would like to keep things official.”
“Tucker.” There is protest in her voice. “I’m not going to give you just one dollar.”
“I’m sorry, but didn’t you just say you would respect your rent amount?”
Her face twists in frustration. “Ugh, fine. One dollar. But if I buy you a couch, I’m not going to be sorry about it.”
“Buy me a couch and get your ass spanked,” I warn.
There’s that fucking blush again. Shit, this may be too much fun.
“I thought there was an unspoken no-sex rule in the common courtesy to one another bundle.”
I lean back against the wall and peer over at her. “Funny that your mind went straight to sex when I mentioned spanking. I was just speaking of pure discipline, but now you’ve intrigued me. Rule number two—”
“We’re not having sex,” she quickly says before I can even put the pen to paper.
A light chuckle floats out of me. “Having sex wasn’t going to be a rule. Settle down, Emma. Rule number two is one night a week, we talk sex.”
“What?” Her brow pinches together. “Why would we do that?”
“It’s healthy. Plus, you’re a nurse, you have to have some good stories about people coming to the hospital for some sex act gone wrong.”
That smile of hers returns. “Sex gone wrong really picked up after Fifty Shades of Grey came out. Those first two weeks after the movie were quite enthralling.”
“Fuck, I bet.” I laugh. “Since I’ve made two rules, it’s your turn to make one. But I have the option to veto if it’s lame.”
She scoffs. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Jeeze.”
“Listen, you were going to write down rent as being a rule. Can you blame me for claiming a veto card?”
“Fair enough.” She brings her knees to her chest and leans on them as she looks out to the empty living room. “One night a week, we cook dinner together. This way we are forced to eat healthily at least once a week and it will force me to step away from my books for a second. Also, can we make a stipulation that rules can be bundled together?”
“Yes to both.” I jot down her rules and put an asterisk at the top of the paper noting rules can be bundled together.
“Question, do we have to enforce the sock rule? You know, if you have a lady friend over, you leave a sock on the door so I don’t disturb you?”
“No.” I shake my head, keeping my eyes on the paper in front of me. “You don’t have to worry about that. Not really a ladies’ man.” But what about Emma . . . I glance at her and ask, “Are you going to be putting socks on the doorknob?”
Looking flustered from my bold question, she says, “Oh, gosh no. It’s been so long for me. You don’t have to worry about Mr. Donkey Dick coming in here and drilling me while you’re trying to catch a little shut-eye. Nope, nope, nope, the sex doesn’t happen very often for me. Nope. No . . . no sex here.”
“Okay.” I chuckle and try to focus on the rules, but what the fuck? It’s been so long for me. Sex doesn’t happen very often for me. Are the guys at her college fucking blind?
Exactly how long? Fuck, I want to know, but it’s not my business, so I bite my tongue and take a few deep breaths, warning myself from getting too personal with Emma. She’s clearly flustered, and I don’t want to embarrass her more by diving deep into her lack of sex. Not that I have much room to speak.
“Well, this is awkward,” Emma states, twisting her hands on her lap.
“Nah, it’s cool.” I clear my throat and say, “We already talked about this, but rule number four is don’t go in the other spare room.”
“That’s a given, you don’t have to write it down.” She places her hand on my arm. “Please trust me, I won’t go in there.”
I let out a long breath. “Yeah, okay.” Wanting to lighten the mood, I say, “Rule number four, we might not have to worry about it given our recent confession of apparently both being celibate motherfuckers, but this is important. If at any point in time the butter leaves the kitchen, for any uh, reason,” I wiggle my eyebrows at her, “the butter is not to be returned to the kitchen.”
Her pause in reaction throws me for a second before she throws her head back and laughs. “I don’t even want to know how you’ve been scarred in the past by misplaced butter.”
“Yeah, you really don’t.” I put a period at the end of the rule and then say, “One more rule, five seems like a respectable number. Your turn, Em.”
“Hmm, I want to make it a good one, but I’m not going to lie, it’s going to be hard to follow up the butter rule.”
“Give it your best shot,” I say with humor in my voice.
“We’re good on stuff like dishes and toilet paper rel
oading and putting the seat down?”
“Yeah, common-sense shit doesn’t count.”
“And returned butter isn’t common sense.”
I lean forward and whisper, “You would be fucking surprised.”
The shiver that shakes her whole body . . . “Gross. I really don’t want to know what happened. You keep that tidbit to yourself.”
“All right, but if you ever get the urge to know . . .”
“You’ll be the first I come to.” Shivering again, she rests her head against the wall, her neck stretching to a long length, showing off the smooth column of skin. For some odd reason, I have the urge to lean over and take in her scent, to see if she smells as sweet as she acts.
What the hell, man? This is Emma. Jesus, this hard cider must be getting to my head. Cheap girly shit of a drink.
“Oh, I got it,” Emma says, moving her head back to a neutral position. “Music Mondays. We get to pick a song for that week. We can rotate weeks. And we should write down the songs we pick. Who knows, we could have one hell of a playlist by the time I graduate.”
“Good rule. I’ll fucking school you in music selection, just a fair warning.”
“No way. Weren’t you listening to EMO back in high school?”
I pull my gaze from the pad where I’m writing to say, “People change, babe, I have good taste now. Just you wait.” I finish up writing down the rule and ask, “Who gets to pick first?”
“Rock paper scissors?”
“That works.” We get into position and clang our hands against our open palms and both say rock, paper, scissors. My paper beats her rock, making me the victor. “That’s fucking right, I go first. And since I won, I think whoever’s in charge of Music Monday is in charge of the rest of the rules that week. That way we don’t get confused. Deal?”
I hold my hand out to her, which she stares at for a second before gripping it and shaking. “Deal.”
“That a girl.” I look down at my watch, my eyes feeling tired as I take in the time. “Fuck, I’m spent. I’m going to head up to bed. Are you all set? Do you need anything?”