In Ruins

by Danielle Pearl

  Tucker groans again, and then makes quick work of my shirt, tugging it over my head. My breasts are free and he’s kissing me and kissing me, and I feel my bare chest pressed against a man’s for the very first time. Tucker’s chest is a masterpiece, firm where I am soft, curved but not round, and our hands explore each other as he tongues the shell of my ear.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful, Princess. Tell me you want me,” he rasps. His hand slips between our bodies, tentatively lifting my breasts, feeling their weight. He brushes his thumbs over the sensitive peaks, and pleasure shoots between my legs and I gasp.

  “Tell me, Carl,” he demands.

  “I want you.” It’s a confession. One that’s rung through my head a thousand times, but that I’ve always hidden behind playful quips and combative challenges.

  Tucker’s eyes fall closed, like he’s savoring my words, and I press light, tentative kisses to his jaw, reveling in the rough sensation of his stubble against my swollen lips.

  My hips rock upward all on their own, and Tucker answers the motion with his own. He pulls back to meet my gaze, and then his fingers slip under my shorts—his boxers—and he slowly peels them down my legs, never breaking our eye contact as I swallow down my nerves.

  His gaze reveals so very much. He’s reading me, making sure I’m still with him, and God am I with him. But his eyes also blaze with a passionate need, a fire I’m starting to believe has burned a long time, maybe even as long as my crush. And I could be fooling myself, but they may even hold emotion beyond his friendly affection. Or perhaps it’s simply the reflection of my own.

  No, heart, this isn’t about you.

  I need to keep my feelings in check. This is about sex. Nothing else. And there’s nothing I could do right now worse than fooling myself into hoping for more.

  Tucker’s gaze finally leaves mine to rake my naked body for the first time. No guy has ever seen me naked before, ever. I’m not an insecure girl, but there’s something inherently nerve-racking in this, and I am, after all, human. Tucker must have seen plenty of girls naked before, and for the first time I find myself wondering if my breasts are too small, if my hips are too wide, and I hate myself for it.

  He doesn’t say anything for a few moments, and his silence doesn’t help my anxiety any. But then I notice the change in his breathing as it quickens and deepens.

  His eyes fall closed. “Why do you have to be even hotter than I’ve imagined?”

  I flush all over. I have no other response.

  Tucker’s hand slips slowly down, down, across my hip bone and between my thighs and we both gasp. No one’s ever touched me there—except, well, me—and I’m so turned on right now, and the feel of his big, rough hand against my sensitive skin is just unreal.

  His gaze shoots to mine. “Princess…you’re so wet for me,” he marvels, and my cheeks flush with heat.

  My instinct is to challenge him back. “Take off your pants,” I demand. I want to see him, too.

  Tucker smirks, but he doesn’t hesitate. This is one challenge he’s eager to accept.

  Then he’s naked, but the shadow from the blanket hides him from me, so I kick it off of us. Tucker chuckles as my eyes find their target. I would never admit to him that I’m seeing my first naked guy at seventeen, and I hope my rapt fascination doesn’t give me away.

  He’s long, thick, hard, and darker than I’ve imagined, and I try not to feel intimidated.

  And then his lips are back on my neck, his fingers between my legs, and my attention is refocused. His hand designs a rhythm like a conductor leading an orchestra, and my hips mindlessly play for him like a virtuoso until I think I’m going to explode in a crescendo of harmonious bliss. But he slows his ministrations and the music is hushed but not silenced.

  “I want you to come around my dick, not my hand,” he whispers gruffly into my ear.

  Yes. “Yes.”

  He grabs a condom from his bedside table and tears it open with his teeth. I watch intently as he rolls it on and positions himself between my legs.

  His eyes meet mine and I stare, hypnotized, into my new favorite color—a beautiful deep green that reminds me of spring.

  Are you sure? they ask me.

  Hell yes, mine reply.

  And then he’s pushing forward. At first he doesn’t get very far, and I widen my hips.

  “Fuck, Princess, you’re so tight.”

  I chew my bottom lip, trying not to panic. The last thing I want is for him to suspect I’m a virgin. He won’t want that responsibility. He will stop this. I tighten my legs around him and push his ass with my heels, urging him forward, and he pushes harder.

  And then he’s partly inside me and there’s a sharp, almost blinding pain.

  “Yes,” I gasp to hide it.

  Thankfully he stops for a moment, and I take the time to get used to him. Somehow he knows to go slow, and he rears carefully back, and pushes slowly back in, gaining more ground this time as he groans a sexy, guttural sound that reverberates right in the part of me that seems to both resist and welcome his invasion at once.

  “Why do you have to feel even better than I’ve imagined?”

  Why do his words turn me on as much as his touch?

  “Tucker,” I breathe his name, relishing the way he responds to hearing it.

  His pace picks up, his strokes deepen, and I lose myself. I lose myself in Tucker Green.

  I find myself moaning, almost whimpering, and it’s utterly shameless. I’m glad he doesn’t know it’s my first time, that he’s not treating me like glass.

  The harder and deeper he moves, the more I want to match him.

  And then his hand is between us, stroking me where we fit so perfectly together, and I burst.

  I pulse around him, moaning his name, holding him to me, holding him in me.

  He sucks in a shaky gasp, burying his face in my neck as he thrusts himself deep inside me and pants, “Fuck, Princess, fuck,” and then he stills.

  He collapses on top of me, gasping for breath, our chests heaving together with blissful exertion. I’m in no rush to get him off of me. I love the feel of his weight, even if it is a bit crushing, but he rolls to my side, and presses a hard kiss to my lips.

  “God, Carl,” is all he says, looking at me like he doesn’t quite know what to make of me now. Like I am some unfamiliar creature he’s only just discovered, and he would like very much to study me further.

  “Yeah,” I breathe, but I can’t help wondering if it’s always that good for him—if every girl he’s been with has experienced the same thing.

  He slings an arm around my waist and we just lie there as I cuddle into him, in no hurry to leave his bed. Considering my lack of experience, my comfort level right now is pretty astonishing. I could spend a lazy morning with him, just like this—no clothing necessary.

  I just wish I knew what he was thinking right now—if he would even want me to stick around. Because I have nowhere to be. I doubt my mother has noticed I didn’t come home last night, and my kid brother Billy is camping with his friend Kyle and his family. Tina is the only one who might worry, so I reach over the side of the bed where my purse has been unceremoniously dumped, and grab my phone to text her that I’m fine. Tucker takes the opportunity to check his own phone, and when I’m done, he’s still busy, eyes fixated on his screen.

  So I wait. And wait. I try not to watch him, to give him his privacy, but when several minutes pass and he’s still texting God only knows who, I’m flooded with self-doubt.

  Does he want me to leave now?

  And he texts and texts, and doesn’t so much as glance my way, and I have no choice but to take the hint. Tucker sits up at the same time I do, but he’s out of the bed before I can even get my legs over the side.

  It startles me. It’s been barely ten minutes and three words since he was inside of me.

  He tugs on a pair of jeans, and for a moment I just watch him, a little stunned. And still, his thumbs race over the touchscreen a
s he fucking texts and texts.

  And in this moment I absolutely hate myself. Not for giving my virginity to someone who only wanted me for sex, and not for shamelessly taking what I wanted from him in return. But for wanting more. For being this girl right now.

  And to make matters worse, I am at a severe disadvantage. I have no clothing except for a bathing suit and a cover-up, and I am without my car. Wonderful.

  “Can I—uh, borrow these?” I hold up the boxers and T-shirt Tucker let me sleep in last night, and finally he looks up from his phone.

  His expression surprises me. I expect dismissive, even callous, but he looks ambivalent. Worried and remorseful. His eyes have darkened to their usual army green, as if they’re waging some kind of internal war as he glances between me and his phone. I am competing with a piece of technology.

  Or whoever’s on the other end of it.

  I am fucking pathetic.

  “God, I’m so sorry, Carl, but I really have to go.”

  I blink at him. Is this some kind of act he puts on for all of his casual fucks? A genius way of getting rid of us while making us feel bad for him?

  Wow, he’s even better at this game than I realized.

  I hold up the clothes again and raise my eyebrows, all the while trying to be as nonchalant about this as he is, telling myself I don’t care. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.

  Tucker sighs and pushes his hand through his hair, looking exhausted all of a sudden. “Yeah, Princess, of course,” he says of the clothes.

  “Thanks.”

  He drives me home in silence, and I continue to tell myself I don’t care—that this is what I signed up for. Lies.

  I don’t look at him when he parks in my driveway, but he grabs my elbow before I can jump out of the car.

  “Carl—”

  “Thanks for letting me crash,” I say brightly, plastering on my masterful smile.

  Tucker’s brow furrows. “Yeah. Of course.”

  And then I flee from his car and into my house before the player can spit any more of his game. And I can fall for it.

  Chapter Four

  Tucker

  Present Day

  I spend an extra hour in the weight room after the rest of the guys leave. We work out as a team most mornings, but my focus was off today, too busy trying not to glare at Ben. I know he doesn’t know about my history with Carl, but I don’t trust the guy.

  I finish my last rep and head to the showers.

  I’m angry. I’ve been angry for months, and it’s a new look for me. My jokes don’t come as easily and my patience for bullshit has vanished.

  I’m angry that she’s here. I’m angry that she’s not who I thought she was. I’m angry that she’s beautiful, and that my teammates have already noticed her. I’m angry she ran out of that bar alone last night when she should fucking know better. I’m angry that she still affects me—that my dick doesn’t seem to care whether or not she’s a conniving little liar.

  I’m angry that we all go out to the same bars, the same damn parties, and that I will probably see her way more often than I realized. But most of all, I’m angry that a part of me actually wants to.

  * * *

  The second day of classes begins much like the first. I get in my workout with the rest of the team, shower at the gym, then hurry off to my first Tuesday morning class. But unlike yesterday, this one is in the Communications building, which is on East Campus, the farthest possible location from both the lacrosse house—which is just off campus—and the athletics facilities.

  It’s an effort and a half not to be late, even with cutting through the student union, and I barely make it through the door before the professor closes it behind me.

  I’m expecting another vast lecture hall, and I’m surprised by the small classroom, the desks arranged in a circle like we’re here for some kind of support group. The professor himself doesn’t look much older than me, and I guess that he’s probably a grad student. I also note that he looks less than pleased with my abrupt entrance.

  “Nice of you to join us, Mr.…?”

  “Green,” I murmur, already deciding I’m not a fan of the guy. It’s the first fucking class, and I wasn’t even actually late.

  Asshole.

  A small gasp from across the room grabs my attention and pulls my gaze like a damn magnet, and even before it reaches its target, I know. It wasn’t even her voice. It was a gasp—a fucking breath—but I know her gasps as well as my own name, used to pride myself on eliciting them, and my chest explodes with violent agony the moment my eyes meet shocked emerald green.

  Carl forces her mouth shut, quickly averting her gaze as if something on her tablet suddenly fascinates her. But I don’t need to see her eyes to feel her anxiety, and I curse myself for still being so fucking attuned to her every goddamn emotion.

  Worse than my awareness of her is the impulse to reassure her, to tell her everything will be okay. Because it won’t fucking be okay.

  I chalk the instinct up to all those years of caring about her feelings above even my own—which worked out fucking great for me.

  But instincts can be suppressed, and I defer to logic instead, reminding myself that Carl Stanger is nothing to me anymore. That the Carl Stanger I loved was never real at all. The girl I’m painstakingly not looking at is just another stranger.

  I don’t let my attention linger, not wanting her to think my interest is anything other than fleeting surprise. Before I even got to campus, I promised myself I would leave that shit in the past. I would leave Carl in the past. The constant awareness, the jealous outbursts, the uncontrollable desire—all of it. And I was more than ready to move on. I am more than ready to move on. I even convinced the guys to go to the slightly less popular bar last night because I assumed Carl would be at the more popular one.

  I saw her exchange with Vance, and watched her talk with Ben for way longer than her bullshit explanation would account for. But she’s a skilled liar, so bullshit is pretty much where she shines. I remind myself that I only ever thought I knew Carl. That nothing she does should surprise me. Because I used to think I saw through her in a way no one else did, but it turned out that, too, was just more bullshit.

  I saunter through the circle of students in a skilled impersonation of the carefree Tucker Green I’ve always shown the world. Even if the one person I’m acting for most of all is the one most experienced at seeing right the fuck through me.

  A glance in my peripheral vision confirms Carl is still intently focused elsewhere, which is a relief. But my practiced nonchalance isn’t just for her. I don’t want to call attention to myself at all—which I admit is new for me. But I don’t want anyone to pick up on my animosity, or to realize there’s anything between Carl and me at all. I don’t want people to make a connection between us. There is none.

  It’s the same reason I insisted on avoiding the bar I thought she’d be at, but I guess she did the same, because that backfired royally. As I take a seat at one of the two empty desks—which mercifully isn’t too close to Carl’s—I realize that’s probably how we ended up in this fucking class together, too.

  When we were still together, we’d planned to take an Intro to Business class together. But in the wake of the disaster of our breakup, it slipped my mind, and it wasn’t until I got my schedule that I even remembered. By then this digital marketing class was the only one available in the same slot. But clearly switching a class to escape an ex was also on Carl’s agenda, because here we fucking are.

  I take out my iPad and open my notebook app, silently snickering at the irony. Ever since the bar, I’d been worried I’d run into her socially, but I never even considered the prospect of us sharing a class. Of having to see her twice a week, every week, for the entire fucking semester.

  Fucking great.

  The frat-guy-grad-student professor introduces himself, insisting we call him Zayne. The girl sitting next to me stares so hard I think her eyes may pop right out of her skul
l, and I glance around the circle, realizing she’s not the only one. I take another look at the guy, and realize he’s not bad looking—if you’re into that sort of preppy, wannabe rich-guy look.

  He starts discussing the syllabus, and I try not to look over to see if Carl is as fascinated as the rest of the girls, but I can’t help myself. I also can’t help my satisfaction when she continues to take notes without even looking up.

  “So, as interested as you all are in the subject matter, I’m sure you’d like to hear about my grading process?” Zayne says almost teasingly.

  There’s a resounding murmur of affirmative responses.

  He chuckles, though I don’t know what’s funny. Why wouldn’t we want to know how to earn a good grade? Some of us are here on athletic scholarships that have minimum GPA requirements. Arrogant prick.

  “Okay. It’s really very simple. If you do a good job, participate, and actually learn something, you have nothing to worry about.”

  Real fucking specific, asshole.

  It’s wide eyes all around, and Zayne waits another couple of beats before he lets out another chuckle. “Okay, okay,” he concedes, “I guess I can give you a few more details.”

  The rest of the class—especially the girls—laugh right along with him. Except for one.

  Carl’s eyes remain fixed on her tablet, her dark blond brows pulled into a barely perceptible frown, her fingers at the ready to type down notes as she impatiently waits on useful information. It hits me belatedly that I even snuck a glance in her direction, as does my satisfaction that she doesn’t seem to be under the spell of our douchebag professor, and I inwardly wince. I shouldn’t fucking care either way. I don’t care either way.

  Fuck.

  Zayne finally gets to the point. “I’m sure you’ve all heard the popular misconception that attendance doesn’t matter in college. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that it is, in fact, a myth.”