My Best Friend's Ex

by Meghan Quinn

  “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.

  Expertly, he moves my shirt so my breasts are still covered, but so my back is exposed to him, along with my neck and shoulders.

  Quietly, he asks, “Is this the side that hurts?” His lips press gently against my skin, sending a vivid tingling sensation down my spine.

  I nod, unable to make any kind of formation of a sentence.

  What hurts?

  No clue.

  Like a whisper, his lips dance over my skin, starting at the spot behind my ear, down the side of my neck, to the tip of my shoulder, relentlessly making rousing and heady chills spread all over my body. When his lips lift off me, I almost groan in protest but halt my objection when his strong, and very large hands replace his mouth, his thumbs kneading in an upward motion from my trapezius to the base of my skull. Each deep, thought-out stroke from his thumbs melts my body further and further into relaxation until I feel like a puddle on the counter, unable to hold up my own body.

  He switches between stroking upward with his thumbs to making small, methodical circles along my strained muscles sending my mind into a tailspin of lust. He’s touching me with his fingers. Massaging me. All I want to do his throw myself at him, beg for him to break up the tension that’s been billowing in my body ever since I moved in.

  “How does that feel?” he whispers.

  “Good,” I answer, breathlessly.

  “Is it hurting because I wouldn’t let you move an inch last night?”

  “Maybe.” He didn’t let me move?

  He presses deeper with his thumbs and brings his mouth to just behind my ear. “I’m sorry, but I would do it again. Having you in my arms, pressed into my body, it helped me forget.”

  Forget.

  Two syllables.

  It’s the large word that created the wall that exists between us. I need to stop existing in this haze of lust. What if he can never let go?

  Is that what I want? Sex with Tucker? Yes. But do I want more?

  Maybe I need to get my head together as well.

  There is so much for him to let go, not just forget, but let go. Even from our conversation last night, it’s easy to see how tormented he is from losing the baby, from losing Sadie. The hurt in his eyes, the demons that lurk behind his anguished expressions, it’s almost like staring into an empty soul at times. But then somehow, he washes away the emptiness, puts on a charming smile, and is fun-loving, sweet, and sexy as sin. He wants me. Sort of.

  Which only makes me torn. I’m torn between diving head first into a relationship with a man still mourning the loss of his last relationship, and stepping back, acting only as a friend, patiently helping him when he’s ready to open up.

  His lips brush across my neck, his fingers now moving down my shoulders where he presses them deep into my muscles. This is not friendship touching; this is there is something naughty in your future touching and for the life of me I can’t stop it. I want him too much.

  “Does that feel better?”

  “It does.”

  “Good.” He lifts his fingers from my muscles and spins me around quickly before I can even think what’s happening. My top is halfway up my front, not exposing anything but definitely awkward, which he doesn’t seem to care about because he keeps his eyes trained on mine as he lowers me to the ground. His hands go to the front of my shirt and he starts to put it back in place. The buttons down the front are all undone beside the last two, giving him a view of the middle of my cleavage and stomach.

  I watch as his neck strains, his jaw ticking with each passing moment, his eyes still trained on mine until he takes a deep breath and looks down at my chest. Every piece of my body is on fire from the way he takes me in, his teeth nibbling on the side of his mouth, making him look even sexier than I thought possible.

  I break out in a sweat, wishing and praying that he removes my top and presses those sexy lips up and down my chest, sucking my nipples into his hot, wet mouth. God, it’s all I want. Just a little release, something to make the ache between my legs ease.

  Slowly, he traces a line from my collarbone down my chest, between my breasts, over my stomach and stops at the waistline of my pants, causing exploding passion like fireworks on the Fourth of July throughout my body. My breathing’s erratic, my chest is moving up and down in rapid succession, and my core throbbing with need. Please remove my shirt.

  Looking back at me, his head tilted to the side, he says, “You’re so beautiful, Emma.” He scans my hair and smiles. “Even with that crazy morning hair of yours. Makes me want to see what other ways I can mess it up.”

  Leaning forward, his hand goes to my cheek where he holds my head in place before he presses his lips against mine in an open-mouth kiss. His rock-hard body moves me into the counter behind us, his bare chest connecting with my exposed skin, warming me instantly.

  Wet, hot passion. His grip on my cheek grows tighter, angling my head to where he wants it, his other hand gripping my hip, pulling me closer. Tentatively, I run my hands up his well-defined chest, trying to memorize every curve and divot my fingers caress.

  Sparks of arousal fly between us as his tongue thrusts against mine, tangling, molding, melding together, like we’ve been doing this for years, like our mouths have known only each other, were meant for one another. A low groan erupts from his chest as he dives in deeper, pressing me further and further into the counter. The hand g
ripping my hip slips inside my open pajama top where the warmth of his palm spreads over my side. He trails his hand north and all I can do is hold my breath and wait for his touch, wait for the connection of his palm to my breast.

  Oh God, please. I moan in his mouth, my hips starting to rock against his where I am greeted by his hardened length, probably one of the most amazing feelings I’ve ever experienced. I did this to him. I turned him on, and that in general has my libido skyrocketing through the ceiling.

  “Fuck, you taste good,” Tucker mutters as he moves his mouth across my jaw to my ear and then down my neck. I rest my palms behind me on the counter, bracing for whatever he has in store.

  I’m tempted to run my fingers through his hair, guide him to where I desperately need release, but I hold back. I don’t want to push him. I want him to want this. Me. I want him to want me. When his lips meet my collarbone, he kisses the length of my shoulder. Gently he starts to push my shirt to the side and a part of me wants to cry in relief. Please keep going, Tucker. I want you. Need you.

  But when he kisses my arm and replaces my shirt, I’m close to breakdown in frustration.

  And then his hand inside my shirt retreats.

  And then his mouth, followed by his other hand, leaving me cold, turned on, and beyond frustrated. When I think he’s going to step away, he doesn’t. Instead he looks down at my chest, and the rapid rise and fall of it. His hands lift to my shirt where he starts to button up my shirt for me.

  I’m not even joking when I say my vagina starts to cry, my sensitive nipples as well, pretty much my entire body is weeping for the loss of hope, for the loss of what could have been one epic climax on the kitchen counter.

  I must not be good at hiding my disappointment because Tucker says, “Don’t look so sad, babe. It will happen.”

  Don’t look fucking sad? Is he kidding me? He teases and tantalizes, touches and twists my heart each time he runs his hands over me. He may be confident we’ll get there and fuck like bunnies. But what if he is wrong? What if he can’t let go? I’m horny. I’m angry. I’m turned on. I get that Tucker needs time, but why the fuck does he have to use my body for his desire while he doesn’t even know if we’ll become a we?

  Trying to be light about the heady situation surrounding us, I say, “No other guy teases like you. I swear to God, they would have given in by now.”

  Tucker tilts my chin up after he’s finished buttoning my shirt. “I’m not every like every other guy, Emma.”

  I step past him and go to the coffee pot where I busy myself, my back turned toward him. Of course he’s not like every other guy; that’s an easy assessment just looking at him. He has a type of sex appeal that draws you in, drowns you, and leaves you wanting . . . begging.

  I’m scooping the coffee grounds into the filter when Tucker wraps his arms around me and presses his head against mine. “Don’t be salty.”

  I feel his erection press against me and I can’t help it when the words fly out of my mouth. “How can you say that when clearly you have a boner right now? How can I not be salty when you have pushed me way past sexually frustrated? Pretty sure my vagina is a nasty shade of blue by now, Tucker.”

  He chuckles into my ear. CHUCKLES!

  “You’re sexually frustrated?” His hands start to snake under my pajama shirt where he plays with the waistband of my pants, his fingers grazing the elastic of my underwear. Once again, my body heats up, my palms go to the counter as I try to hold myself up, my chin dropping to my chest.

  His finger dips what feels like a millimeter inside my underwear where he plays with me, caressing my pubic bone but never getting anywhere close where I need him to be.

  He slowly pushes his thick cock against me. Oh God. His voice trails over my neck as he says, “You’re not the only one sexually frustrated, Emma. I want to fuck you more than you know, but not yet.”

  “Why not?” I practically cry in frustration.

  His hands flee from my pants and he quickly turns me around and pins me against the counter. He moves his hips against mine, his arousal causing my mouth to water. “Because when we fuck, we’re going to do it in my bed, where I can spend hours tasting every inch of your body, where I can hear you moan my name with every climax, and where I can watch this beautiful face come apart when I’m buried nine inches deep inside of you.”

  Gulp.

  Nine inches.

  Oh God.

  He leans forward and kisses me ever so lightly on the lips before turning me back around, swatting me on the ass and saying, “Fuck, Emma. I want you.” He walks toward the stairs and then looks back over his shoulder, and I have to honestly say, I have just been smoldered with the Mr. Darcy look. “Five minutes. Need five minutes. Then you’ll make us some coffee while I cook us some new eggs.” And just like that, he takes off to this room, leaving me confused, horny, and wanting more and more.

  ***

  Because when we fuck, we’re going to do it in my bed, where I can spend hours tasting every inch of your body.

  My brain will NOT stop repeating Tucker’s words over and over in my head, in that deep, sleepy voice of his, even when Sadie jabbers on about a psychology experiment she’s conducting with one of her classmates.

  Did he talk to her like that? Did he tell her he wanted to fuck her? Or did he say make love? When they were in bed, did he want to taste every inch of her? Did he make her fall apart like he said he wanted to do to me?

  Did they measure his nine inches together?

  As my friend talks to me, I can’t help but think of all the questions popping up in my head, comparing what I have with Tucker to what Sadie and he had. Of course there really is no comparison. They had love, they had a true, deep-rooted bond. I have . . . infatuation? Curiosity? Loneliness? Lust?

  No, don’t downplay what you have with Tucker. It’s definitely not loneliness, although, it isn’t anything near what he had with Sadie either. They had years. Years.

  “I could not stop laughing. It was so funny. I wish you could have seen it.” Sadie chuckles, pulling me out of my thoughts. Awkwardly I laugh with her because it seems like the thing to do even though I wasn’t paying attention.

  I’m such a bad friend. Here I am, daydreaming about Tucker as Sadie sits right in front of me, catching me up on her life. Oh Emma, you’re such an awful person.

  “Gosh, I wish I would have seen it as well,” I say, even though I don’t know what she’s talking about.

  Sadie brings her coffee up to her mouth and says, “So tell me about you. What’s been going on? I really can’t believe we haven’t seen each other in a few months. How crazy is that?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Busy schedules and demanding boyfriends.” I smile over my coffee knowing fully well Sadie has been swept up by the beautifully nerdy, sexy, and charming Andrew. I don’t blame her. Our friend Smilly actually tried to set me up with him back when Sadie and Andrew were first working together at Friendly’s, the best ice cream parlor EVER! Sadie wanted nothing to do with Andrew and he was a solid catch. I don’t blame Smilly. Andrew and I actually hit it off, but the minute I saw him look at Sadie, I knew. He was infatuated with her. I settled for being friends.

  “He’s not that demanding . . . only in bed.” Sadie winks and then giggles while drinking her coffee.

  Hand to heart, if you knew this girl a year and a half ago, you wouldn’t have recognized her. She’s not the same person. Andrew has brought the happiness out of her and has helped her smile again. In high school, she was guarded, often protective of her heart. She could laugh and have fun with the rest of us, and Smilly, Sadie, and I got up to plenty of crazy. Tucker made her smile. And cry. That mixture of joy and sorrow was why I never thought they were right for each other. It was like a restless friction, like a pushmi-pullyu. But this smile? This . . . lightness? It’s like she’s been freed from a shackle. As if she has truly found herself. As if she’s emerged from a blanket of grief.

  Genuinely, I say, “I’m so glad you
’re happy, Sadie. I really am.”

  “Thank you. What about you though, are there any men in your life?”

  Ha, what a loaded question. Well, let’s see, yes, as a matter of fact there is, but it’s so beyond complicated that I can’t even begin to discuss it, let alone with Sadie. And even if I decided to talk to Sadie about my feelings for Tucker, I would have no clue how to go about it.

  I shake my head. “No. Not right now.” The lie feels heavy falling off my tongue, but the truth would feel like trudging through quicksand, so I stick with the lie, too scared to see her reaction.

  “What about Logan? Still nothing between you two?”

  I laugh. “No. Still just friends.”

  “Friends to lovers maybe?” There’s hope in her eyes.

  “We’ve been there. It didn’t quite work out. It’s the reason why I didn’t move in with him when he offered. We just would never make it work. It’s way too awkward. We are way better off as friends.”

  Sadie’s brow pinches together. “Why did he ask you to move in with him?”

  Oh shit. Did I say that? It just slipped out.

  “Uh.” I cringe. “When I was evicted from my place with Adalyn.”

  “You were evicted? Oh my God, why?”

  Crap, this was not the conversation I wanted to have right now but knowing I won’t be able to get out of this, I go for it.

  “Our landlord wasn’t paying the mortgage. The bank foreclosed on the property and gave us five days to pack up and find another place to live.”

  “Oh my gosh. Where are you living now? Are you back in Whitney Point?”

  Our hometown, where we grew up, where we have the most memories, and the most heartache. It’s about a half hour away from campus, an inconvenient commute especially for me with my schedule. Plus, I love my parents, but living with them again, no thank you. I would end up being forced into playing pinochle with them every Friday night with Roseanne Joanne—my mom’s hairdresser—as my partner. And I refuse to have RJ as a partner again; she thinks passing nines is funny.