by Elle Kennedy
I will up some of that patience and wait for him to open my door. This guy refuses to let me open doors. It’s like he doesn’t understand that I have hands.
When my flats land on the pavement, Tucker takes my hand and leads me to the entrance of the building. I fight back a million questions, because I know he won’t answer them, and obediently follow him into a small lobby with an even smaller elevator. We take it all the way to the tenth floor, walk down a short hall, and stop in front of apartment 10C.
Tucker pulls a key ring out of his pocket and unlocks the door.
“Who lives here?” I demand.
“I do.”
“What? Since when?”
“Since three days ago,” he admits. “Well, technically I don’t move in until the end of the week, but three days ago was when we reached an agreement.”
“We?”
“Me and Brody Hollis, a teammate’s brother.”
“Oh.” I’m so confused, because this entire week he didn’t once mention moving to Boston. “What about your house in Hastings?”
“The lease is up in June. I would’ve had to move out anyway.” He shrugs. “It made more sense to find a place here in Boston. That way I can be close to you and the baby.” He holds out a hand. “Do you want the grand tour?”
“Um. Sure.” I’m still a bit stunned.
Tucker laces his fingers through mine and leads me through the apartment. While the exterior of the building is kind of crappy, the interior is surprisingly nice. The apartment has great outdoor light, pine floors, and an open layout. Down the hall are three doors that lead to the bathroom and two bedrooms.
“I haven’t brought any of my shit over yet,” he says.
We walk into a large, empty bedroom with a huge window that lets in so much sunlight I wish I had my sunglasses with me.
“No, really?” I tease, wandering around the bare room. I approach the window and peer out. “Oh nice. Your room’s got the fire escape.”
“And even nicer—it leads right up to a roof patio. Only the tenth floor apartments have access to it. There’s a barbecue up there, and lots of patio furniture.”
“Oooh, that’s awesome.”
We head back to the kitchen, where Tucker opens the fridge to survey the contents. “You want something to drink? There’s OJ, milk, and water. And a shit ton of beer, but you don’t get to drink that.”
“I’ll take a water.” As he pulls a pitcher out and pours me a glass, I run a hand over the spotless countertops. “It’s super clean in here.”
“Yup. One of Brody’s redeeming qualities is that he likes things clean. You know, because chicks are turned off by clothes on the floor.”
“He’s not wrong.”
“That dude’s entire decision tree consists of ‘will this get me laid?’”
I grin. “Predictability can be nice.”
“Mind if I have a beer?”
“Knock yourself out. Where is he, anyway? At work?”
“Yup. He works nine-to-five at Morgan Stanley. He’s in financial planning, which, from all I can figure out, is basically selling annuities to old people.”
I sip on my water while Tucker cracks open a beer for himself. On the counter near the microwave are a bunch of colorful brochures stacked on top of inch-thick binders.
“What are these?” I trace my fingers over the top one that says ‘Fitness. Your Time. Her Time. Any Time.’
“More prospectuses. Or is it prospectii? I picked this stuff up the other day during a business research expedition.” He paws through the stack, flicking one toward me. “This is for a women’s waxing and laser treatment business. Hollis said that it’s like being a gyno without having to go through med school. Pussy for days.”
My lips twitch. “He knows that just because he’s waxing a girl’s private parts doesn’t mean he gets to touch them again, right?”
“No, I’m pretty sure he thinks it gives him a free pass to fuck them.”
“Lovely.”
I leaf through a couple of glossy pictures of long hairless legs set next to bold type that declares this particular laser is the next best thing. Hmmm. If Tucker buys a laser hair-removal salon, maybe he’d offer me the services for free. Already, my growing belly is starting to make simple tasks difficult. I have to sit down to shave because I’m afraid of tipping over doing my one-legged, flamingo grooming dance in the shower.
Tucker flips over another brochure. “This one is to sell shovels. Door to door.”
I grimace. “That sounds terrible. There’s money in that?”
“According to the franchise documents, yep, but I have my doubts.”
“What else do you have?”
“Sex toys, laundromat, fitness clubs, a bazillion food options. Fast casual is all the rage.”
“You sound enthused by a whole big zero of them.”
“I know.” He scoops the pamphlets into a pile and tosses them into a recycling bin. “Maybe a franchise isn’t for me.”
I nibble on my bottom lip, hesitating for a moment. “What would you be doing if it weren’t for this?” I circle my hand around my belly.
“Stringing myself up by my tie,” he says. “Mom wanted me to buy the local realtor’s business—”
I bite my lip even harder.
“—but I’d rather be waxing some guy’s ass crack than selling houses in Patterson, so you can get that anxious look off your face.”
His gaze strays to my belly again. Since the ultrasound, he can’t stop staring at it. I’m not much better. I always have my hand over the curve or under it, and now it feels even more special because I know my baby girl is right beneath my palm.
I climb onto the counter stool and gesture for him to come closer. “Wanna touch?”
“Always.” He swings around the counter to squat down in front of me, his hands framing the bump on either side. “Hey gorgeous. Daddy’s here.” He peers up at me, auburn hair tousled, light-brown eyes full of affection. “Has she been kicking at all?”
“Some.” I pull his hand to the side where the baby often tries to kick her way out of my uterus. “Try here.”
We wait, holding our breath. Tuck’s hand presses firmly against me, and the warmth of his palm sinks into my skin, spreading until all my nerve endings begin to tingle.
Inappropriate! He’s communing with his child, not trying to fondle you.
Except…it feels so good. Tucker and I haven’t slept together in months. And lately, fucking him is about all I can think about.
Sure, it’s what got me into this condition in the first place, but at night, when the baby is keeping me awake, I remember how he felt between my legs. His hair-roughened thighs scratching against my skin as he plunged inside. I remember the thickness of his cock and the delicious way he’d stretch me when he entered. I remember his teeth on my breast, scraping downward until he caught a nipple in his mouth. I remember it all and it makes my breath short and my skin so sensitive.
The fingers on my stomach tighten. “Sabrina,” he says gruffly. “What’re you thinking about, darlin’?”
My unfocused gaze zeros in on his face. As I lick my lips, I remember the heavy weight of his shaft on my tongue. “You.”
His breath hitches. “Me as your friend or me as something else?”
“Something else,” I whisper.
He slowly drags his hands down my stomach to the tops of my thighs. My legs part involuntarily, and his thumbs graze the waistband of my yoga pants.
“Be specific,” he whispers back.
I’m suddenly transported to the first night we spent together, when he lounged like a sultan in his truck telling me—no, ordering me—to come take what I want.
“I’m thinking about your cock in my mouth.”
His fingers dig into my thighs. “Really? Because I’m thinking how much I want to shove your pants down and lick your pussy until all that worry is driven out of your head.”
Said pussy clenches at his words. “I’m…d
amn it, I’m fat now.”
“No. You’re perfect.” Then he surges to his feet, lifting me up against him.
“Wait.” I squirm in his grasp. “I’m too heavy.”
“You’re full of bullshit,” he retorts and strides to the living room. Without releasing me, he lays me down on the black leather sofa.
I squeak in protest. “This is your new roommate’s couch!”
“What my new roommate doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Now strip. I’m hungry, woman.”
All the blood in my body pulses under his heated gaze. We stare at each other for a moment, and then we’re both hurrying out of our clothes. His shirt comes off and is tossed across the room. My shirt and pants follow. His jeans and boxer briefs are next. When I remove my bra, he curses.
“Holy fuck.” There’s a note of awe in his voice as he stalks forward to join me on the couch. His hard cock bobs with each step he takes.
“I know. They’ve grown.”
He kneels between my legs, reaching up to cup my heavy boobs. “They’re fucking amazing.”
I shiver when his thumbs rub across my erect nipples. “And very sensitive,” I pant out.
An evil glint lights his eyes. “Think you can come if I suck on them?”
“Don’t know.” I drag a hand through his hair. “Let’s find out.”
Without delay, his mouth latches on to one breast while his hand squeezes the other. The hard pull of his mouth makes me arch off the cushions. Oh God. It’s like there’s a direct line between his tongue and my pussy. When he groans, I feel it everywhere. My hips come off the couch, seeking pressure to alleviate the ache but finding nothing.
“Fuck me,” I plead.
He falls backward on his ass and pulls me down on top of him, somehow never once losing contact with my breasts. I straddle him and try to rub my wet core against his cock, but my stupid belly gets in the way and a moan of frustration escapes.
His response is to slip a hand between us. Shoving my panties aside, his fingers find my slick skin and begin to rub. Two fingers glide along my pussy while his thumb strums my clit like a guitar string. And suddenly it’s almost too much. I come in a mindless rush of pleasure, moaning his name, and even when I float down from the blissful high, it’s still not enough. I reach down and give his cock a desperate stroke.
“This,” I gasp. “I want this.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With a glittery, hungry gaze, he tears my panties off and nudges me onto my back. Then he grips his shaft and guides it to my entrance. I suck in a breath at the first push of his broad head spreading me.
He stops abruptly in mid-glide. “You okay?”
I can see his arms straining as his lust pushes hard against his self-control. I want to be taken hard, though. I want him to remind me that I’m beautiful, that I’m lust-worthy, that I’m still rocking his world.
I curve my legs around his hips and try to pull him in deeper. “I’m more than okay. I need you to fuck me. Please.”
The fierce look that passes over his face is breathtaking. He jacks in deep, hard and hot, filling me up with his cock until that’s all I know. I haven’t felt him close to me like this in so long. It feels like…a homecoming.
His mouth finds my neck, the tender skin behind my ear. He trails wet kisses along my shoulder and collarbone. He sucks on my nipple again, and stars flash in front of my closed eyelids. One hand slips beneath my ass, holding me slightly off the couch, and his hips move, stroking, stroking, stroking until he hits that one spot that has me crying out again.
He’s relentless, plunging inside me again and again. The head of his shaft rubs against that soft bundle of nerves inside me until I’m a gasping, writhing mess.
“I missed you,” he chokes out. “So fucking much.”
I don’t say it back because I’ve forgotten how to talk. The pleasure is too intense, fogging up my brain. He continues to ravage my breasts, one and then the other. And then he sits up, takes hold of my hips, and thrusts into me harder and faster than before.
The leather beneath my shoulders chafes my skin. My hair is plastered across my face and I’m having a hard time drawing each breath, but none of that matters as I’m lost in the maelstrom of sensation. All I register, all I know, is him. How good he feels, how much my body craves him, how hard my heart beats for him.
How I’m deeply in love with him.
“Come for me,” he rasps. “Come all over my dick, Sabrina.”
The pleasure builds inside of me until finally it detonates, shattering my composure, melting my body. Tucker whips his head back and groans out his own release, while I lay a wrecked mess beneath him.
How he finds the strength to get up and walk to the kitchen, I don’t know. I’m too out of it to do anything but murmur a thank you when he comes back with some wet paper towels and gently cleans up the moisture trickling down my thigh.
Before I can protest, he rejoins me on the couch and throws a blanket over our naked bodies. He pushes an arm under my head and cocoons me in his heat, while I pray that this isn’t the day Brody Hollis decides to come home early from work.
As Tucker strokes my hair, the words of love that sit like lead in my throat fight to get out, but I swallow them back. It was just sex. We both needed the release, that’s all. I can’t read anything more into it, and I can’t even trust my own feelings these days, not with all the pregnancy hormones running rampant in my blood.
I snuggle into his sweat-dampened body. This is enough for me. Whatever he can give me is enough. I won’t ask for more.
“What were you and the doctor whispering about before?” I ask eventually.
He chuckles. “This.”
“This?”
“Yeah, this.” He reaches under the blanket and tweaks one of my nipples. “I asked her if we were allowed to have sex.”
My jaw drops. “You asked our OB for permission to fuck me?”
“I wanted to make sure it wouldn’t hurt the baby,” he protests. “Jeez. Sorry for being a concerned dad.”
I can’t help but smile.
We both grumble in displeasure when a phone chimes. It’s his, and he reluctantly leans over the side of the couch in search of his pants. He fishes out the phone and then he’s nestled beside me again, swiping a finger over the screen.
Feeling curious—fine, nosy—I peek at the display.
And release a horrified scream.
Shooting up into a sitting position, I snatch the phone out of Tucker’s hand. “Oh my God!” I shriek. “What is that?”
28
Tucker
I know I shouldn’t laugh. The mother of my child is upset. The last thing I should do is laugh at her, but the horrified expression on her face is priceless.
“Tucker!” She punches my shoulder. “Stop laughing and tell me what the hell that is.”
I glance at the picture and lose it again. “It’s comforting,” I croak.
Sabrina punches me again.
“Logan,” I choke out. “He made this for the baby. It’s the comforting test.”
“I swear to God, Tuck, if you don’t start making sense, I’m going to send this picture to the police and tell them I’m the victim of a hate crime.”
I hiccup uncontrollably.
“Tucker!”
Wheezing, I manage to sit up. I cough for a full minute to get the humor out of my system. Then I stare at the stuffed thing on the screen.
I think it’s supposed to be a teddy bear, but somewhere during the process, shit went horribly wrong. The stitching is something out of a Tim Burton movie. One eye is a button while the other is a serial-killer style X sewn with black thread. There’s a patch of fur missing on the side of its head, and the arms and legs are all different sizes.
Underneath the pic, Logan wrote:
Grace thinks this’ll scare the BB. She’s wrong, right?
She’s not wrong.
“Why did Logan do this to us?” Sabrina demands.
; I snort. “He’s vying for godfather.”
“Start making sense!”
Swallowing another roar of laughter, I hastily clarify. “He and Garrett both want to be our baby’s godfather. I made this stupid offhand joke about how I’m gonna make them compete for the title, and they decided that was a great idea. So now they’re competing.”
Sabrina arches a brow. “And did you ever think that maybe I don’t want either of them to be the baby’s godfather?”
“Of course. I figured we’d talk about it at some point, but honestly, I think Garrett and Hannah would be awesome godparents.”
“They’re going to have to fight it out with Hope and Carin. But you’re already cutting Logan out?”
My gaze strays back to the phone. “Um. Yes.”
She finally cracks a smile. “Okay. So how does this competition of theirs work?”
I sigh. “It’s complicated. Stupidly complicated.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest,” she says cheerfully.
“There are five, I dunno, categories, I guess. Each one is designed to showcase a necessary parenting skill.” Jesus. I can’t believe I’m even saying this right now. I already had to sit through Logan’s ridiculous explanation. I feel like I’m endorsing the crazy by repeating it.
Sabrina, however, looks fascinated. “What are the categories?”
I scan my brain. “Comforting. Grace under pressure. Solid support system. Um…finances. And…shit, I can’t remember the last one.”
“How is buying a stuffed animal a sign of comfort?”
“Buying? Darlin’, that creature is homemade. They got these sew-your-own-stuffed-animal kits.”
Her jaw drops. “Oh my gosh. That’s…dedication.”
“They’re hockey players. Dedication is in our DNA.”
“How do they know who wins? Do they get awarded points?”
“I’m supposed to pick a winner in each category.” Because my friends hate me, apparently.
“Did they show you copies of their tax returns to determine who wins in the finances department?” she asks dryly.
“Naah. But that one’s a draw because they’ll both be playing for the pros. Same with support system—no way was I going to choose between Hannah and Grace. I like my balls where they are.”