by Leigh, Tara
I hide my laugh with my hand, goose bumps from his breath skating over the back of my neck. “Does that mean you want to leave?”
“Ready when you are,” he says with a nod, pulling his phone out of his pocket and ushering me into the elevator. “Wren’s been texting me. I’ll tell her we’re on our way.”
Wren. My stomach immediately sours. I don’t miss my old roommate, though I’d expected to see her tonight. Anticipating it with a slow creeping dread. “Sure.”
As the doors open onto the lobby, Tucker glances up at me and scrutinizes my expression. “That sure sounded an awful lot like I’d rather shotgun a dozen oysters.”
I exhale an awkward sigh. “I’m sorry. I know she’s one of your closest friends. We should go.”
Tucker’s expression is inscrutable as he thumbs off a quick text. After he puts his phone back in his pocket, he reaches for my hand. “Come on.”
The midtown loft he brings me to isn’t far, and when we get inside, Tucker points to the windows on the far wall. “Times Square is just a few blocks away.”
I look over in that direction, though I’m just searching the crowd for Wren’s face. But the party is dark, lit mainly by strobe lights and the city skyline rising up around us. I tug on Tucker’s arm. “It feels like we’re in a club,” I shout. The music is so loud we could hear it from the hallway.
“The DJ was flown in from London, just for tonight.”
“I guess Wren went all out.”
“This isn’t Wren’s place.”
“But I thought—”
“New beginnings, remember?”
Surprise twists through me. Surprise and a pleasant feeling of relief. “New beginnings,” I repeat.
For the next couple of hours, Tucker holds my hand as he introduces me to people he knows. Which is almost everyone. When I’m not smiling and pretending like I can hear over the music, we’re dancing to a blend of hip-hop and pop, most of the songs remixed with a techno beat. Every once in a while, Tucker’s hands graze my body, but he never pulls me too close or grinds up against me.
And even though there is a liquor bar staffed by a bartender in a corner, Tucker bypasses it in favor of the ice bucket beside it, grabbing bottles of water instead.
Finally, the music cuts out. “It’s almost midnight, everyone!” someone yells. Tucker grabs my hand and brings me out onto the terrace, positioning himself behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist.
“Ten, nine, eight…” everyone is shouting, counting down the last seconds to midnight. Everyone but me. I can’t, I’m frozen in place, the breath still inside my chest.
“Seven, six, five…”
Talons of fear claw at my neck. What will I do if Tucker kisses me?
“Four, three, two, one…”
How did I not consider this scenario earlier? Of course, he’ll expect a New Year’s kiss.
“Happy New Year!” The crowd of partygoers erupts, here on the terrace and below in Times Square.
I imagine Tucker’s hands sliding to my hips, turning me around to face him, his mouth crashing down on mine.
“I have you all to myself, don’t I?”
“Need to lie down.” My words are barely a mumble. I’m holding onto consciousness by my fingernails.
Tucker follows, his lips on mine, his body heavy on top of me. I whimper, trying to draw a deep breath. But I can’t.
“Happy New Year,” Tucker whispers softly. His breath is an unsettling caress over my temple, but he makes no move to spin me around and the kiss I dreaded is just a gentle press against my cheek. “Thank you for coming tonight, Poppy. It really means the world to me.”
I manage a nod, and we stay like that. The madness of Times Square below, an indigo sky ablaze with fireworks overhead. Champagne corks popping, ebullient couples kissing.
Tonight has been… nice. Really nice. Tucker has been attentive and charming. And his smile has been doing wicked things to me—like making me all too aware just how good-looking Tucker really is and how much fun I’m having with him. And, when I let myself relax, it feels damn good to be held in his arms.
Which makes me think— If this really is a fresh start, why can’t I follow these new feelings wherever they lead? I don’t have to stay trapped in the past.
I don’t want to stay trapped in the past.
Tucker and I are an island in a sea of chaos, standing still even as my turbulent heart thumps wildly against my ribcage. Eventually, I give myself permission to enjoy the feel of his hands around my waist, the gentle press of his chin on the crown of my head.
And after a long while, or maybe only a few minutes, it is me who turns within his embrace. Heat gathers in my belly when our eyes meet, then spreads outward when his gaze drops to my lips. My tongue darts out of one corner, sweeping along the crease. Tucker’s eyes follow, chocolate brown melting into amber. “I think I should bring you back.”
Chapter 23
New York City
Holiday Break, Sophomore Year
“Can I take you up?” Tucker asks, when we’re standing in the lobby of the Plaza.
I nod, and our hands remain clasped together until we’re inside my room. “Poppy…” Tucker turns me gently to face him as he leans back against the closed door.
Butterflies dance inside my stomach as I step into Tucker’s embrace, sliding my hands up his arms until I’m gripping his biceps. “Will you— Will you kiss me?”
His surprised stare burns into me, his voice a husky rasp that strips away the last of my reservations. “I think that can be arranged.”
Our mouths are a breath apart when those reservations slide right back into place. “Just a kiss, that’s all.” I might be pushing the envelope, but I’m not ready to tear it up entirely.
“Whatever you want, Poppy. Nothing more.”
Tilting my head back, I close my eyes and welcome the tender press of Tucker’s lips on mine. I don’t expect to get swept up in his kiss, to truly relax into his embrace. But I do.
I do more than that. I lock my fingers behind Tucker’s neck and moan into his mouth. I meet each stroke of his tongue with one of my own. I arch my spine and press my body against his.
I’ve forgotten how good it feels to be held like this, kissed like this. It’s been so long. Too long.
It’s only when Tucker lifts me into his arms and sets me down on the mattress, the springs compressing as his weight is added to mine, that I freeze, panic a vice around my ribs. Tucker immediately pulls away, his face confused. I shake my head, pushing at his shoulders. “I— I can’t.”
Tucker releases me instantly, his breath loud in the quiet room as he strides to the window and runs a hand through his dark hair. The Manhattan skyline highlights Tucker’s strong jaw, clenched fiercely as he stares at something I can’t see.
For several minutes, there is only the roar of my pulse in my ears and Tucker’s harsh breaths.
Finally, he turns back and crosses the room, falling to his knees beside the bed. “I was drunk, too, Poppy. That night. Not as bad as you, of course. But I never meant… I never meant to hurt you.”
There is a grace in Tucker’s movements, an urgency to his words. And I am startled at the sight of Tucker Stockton, his head bowed, kneeling before me. This is not the Tucker his lacrosse teammates know. Maybe not even Wren.
I place a hand on his shoulder, my thumb stroking the muscled column of his neck. I look down at him for a long time, weighing my thoughts. Weighing memories of that night against this man here with me now. “I believe you.”
I feel his shoulders drop slightly, as if my admission sloughed off a burden he’s been carrying for a very long time.
“Do you…” He clears his throat and lifts his face until his gaze is holding mine. “Do you want me to take you home?”
Do I? I think for a moment. I don’t know exactly what I want, but going back home to my mom and my sister definitely isn’t it. “Give me a minute,” I say, ducking into the bathroom to change o
ut of my dress and into the yoga pants and oversized hoodie sweatshirt I brought with me.
When I return, Tucker is standing by the window again. “I’d like to stay,” I whisper.
“Then you’ll stay,” he says, nodding. “I’ll pick you up in a few hours to drive you home.”
“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “Don’t go yet.”
He blinks at me, studying my expression as if trying to figure out what’s going on in my confused mind. One corner of his mouth twitches upward as he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over an ornately carved chair. He sits down, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. “Okay. You hungry?”
I shake my head.
“Thirsty?”
Another shake.
“Tired?”
This time my lips purse in a half-smile. “Not really.”
Tucker’s rich, sable brows pull together and a vertical crease forms just above his nose. “Then what?”
I sit down at the edge of the mattress. “I want to know about this Tucker.”
“This Tucker?”
“Yeah. The guy who begs for a fresh start and opens doors and treats me like I’m made of glass. The guy who doesn’t take anything I’m not ready to give.”
Sparks flicker within Tucker’s rich brown eyes, glimmers of warmth shaded by the thick sweep of his eyelashes. “I am that guy, Poppy. I know it didn’t always seem that way… but I am.”
His heat penetrates my skin, burrowing inside the dark, secretive places where I’ve stored every hurt, every ache. “I’m glad.”
For a moment we just stare at each other in silence. “You know what? Let’s go for a walk.”
“Now?” I laugh.
“Now.”
“Okay.” I throw on my boots and coat and we practically skip down the Plaza’s red carpeted stairs, turning south on Fifth Avenue. Holding hands, we linger in front of elaborately staged holiday window scenes and run across crosswalks, laughing as angry cab drivers honk and swear. Just as we turn around to come back, it starts to snow. Big, thick flakes, so perfectly formed I can see the individual crystals. I tilt my head back and stick out my tongue, pinpricks of cold melting in my mouth.
New Year’s Eve in New York City.
With Tucker Stockton.
A little nerve-wracking. A little awkward.
And completely, unexpectedly, magical.
By the time we get back to my room, our cheeks are cold, our noses pink. Just like an hour ago, Tucker leans back against the closed door, looking at me with hungry eyes. But this time, before I tell myself all the reasons to keep him at arm’s length, I take his hand and pull him toward the bed. “It’s practically morning,” I say, “you can sleep here.”
He gives me one of his knowing smirks, and in this moment it looks adorable rather than arrogant.
Tucker lies on one side, and I lie on the other, leaving a no-man’s-land in between that could accommodate another person.
I’m on edge, but not as much as I would have thought I’d be. After a few minutes, I ask, “Do you have any siblings?”
He doesn’t answer, and I realize Tucker’s breaths have evened out, becoming deep and regular. Rising up on my elbow, I study his aristocratic face. In sleep, his features have softened, and he looks like an oversized boy, innocent and vulnerable. Loveable, even.
There are too many sides to Tucker Stockton, I decide. Curved slopes that beckon me, hard edges that scare me. The overall package undeniably intriguing.
Eventually I doze off, my cheek on my arm, turned toward the enigma sharing my bed.
I wake up facing the other direction, the room softened by early morning light. Tucker is curled behind me, the heat of his breath fanning the back of my neck, the weight of his arm draped across my hip. My shirt has ridden up, and our thighs are pressed together.
I wait for panic to claw at my throat, a rush of adrenaline to flood my senses.
But neither comes. What does is the low hum of desire, unfurling in my belly like a flower awakening to catch the morning dew.
I run my palm over Tucker’s forearm, sliding my fingertips between his much larger ones. He comes awake with a sharp breath. He says my name, his voice husky with sleep and surprise. “Jesus, I—”
When he tries to release me, I press his arm to my ribs. “No. This is… nice.”
He exhales a kind of pleased groan. “Very nice.”
I smile and shift my leg up, waiting to see if his will follow.
Almost immediately, it does, followed a second later by Tucker’s hand along my thigh, his fingers trailing sparks beneath my skin. “Still nice?”
I tilt my head back, into the warm nook between Tucker’s neck and shoulder. “Mm-hmm.”
His palm cups my hipbone, the tips of his fingers slipping just inside the top band of my panties before stopping there. “Let me make you feel good, Poppy. I owe you at least that.”
My heart and my mind are on opposite sides of a chasm so deep I don’t even want to peer over the edge. But my body is speaking a language all its own, pressing back against him, my leg inching open. Traitor.
“Good girl,” he says, his voice like churned gravel.
I don’t feel good. Well, I do. But I don’t.
Tucker’s hand moves lower as he kisses my neck, his touch gentle and slow. “If you want me to stop, I will.”
In response, my hips roll forward, seeking the heat of his hand, the warmth of his touch. “Don’t stop,” I somehow manage to whisper, before biting my lip as his fingers slide between my slick folds, using my own wetness to make me tremble and twitch.
“Tucker,” I cry out, taken aback by the intensity of the orgasm that rocks through me. He continues rubbing me gently to draw out firecrackers of pleasure, like the aftershocks of an earthquake.
When I can’t take it anymore, I twist inside his embrace. Throwing my arms around Tucker’s neck, I open my mouth to him, letting my kiss convey the fragments of thoughts I haven’t yet make sense of.
Thank you and Christ, you’re good at that, and Why couldn’t this have been our first time together.
Evidence of Tucker’s desire is prodding my belly, and I want him to fill the ache inside me, this need for more. I push at the band of his boxers, and they run off in the same direction as my panties. Against my lips, Tucker growls, “Tell me you want this, Poppy.”
“I do.” I really, really do. And I want to welcome Tucker’s weight on me, to engage in intimacy on my own terms.
I hear the crinkle of plastic, and then Tucker pulls away, hiking my legs around his waist and pushing into me. My body tenses as the barbed edge of a memory snags on the periphery of my consciousness. Wait, wait.
But I don’t say the words. This is our fresh start, a way to rewrite the past and shift our narrative. I won’t ruin it by giving into my fears.
Tucker’s mouth claims mine as he fills me. Emotions swirl—fear and lust and shame, the tangled knot laced with glittering shards of pleasure. Pressure builds and recedes, crashing into me with increasing force. Until my inner turmoil is pounded into submission by one enormous tidal wave.
Tucker jerks inside me, then collapses.
We are cheek to cheek, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. His voice is hoarse, a rasp. “This is how it will be, Poppy. How it always should have been.”
And I believe him.
Chapter 24
Worthington University
Spring Semester, Sophomore Year
It’s not long after I return to campus for the second semester of my sophomore year that I find out it might be my last.
I’m holding the official-looking letter in my hands, trying to read it in its entirety, but I’m standing in the middle of the mailroom. And no matter where I stand, I’m in someone’s way. “Sorry,” I say. “Excuse me, sorry. Sorry.” My hands are shaking, the words blurring. Some phrases jump out at me. We regret to inform you and your GPA has dropped below what is required to maintain and this decision is final
and may not be appealed.
Last year was rough. After that night, I had a hard time concentrating on my classes. I barely slept and hardly studied. And once I got involved with TeenCharter, those first few months of working with Tucker, every interaction had left me weak-kneed and nauseous. My grades took a huge hit.
But I pulled myself together last semester. I did well. Better than well. But not, apparently, well enough to compensate for my freshman year.
Catching sight of a familiar blond head out of the corner of my eye, I crumple the letter inside my fist and begin walking toward the exit. But my vision is bleary and I stumble, bumping into the very person I was trying to avoid.
“Hey—” Wren gripes, the vehemence of her glare only intensifying when she realizes it’s me.
“Sorry,” I say, for the tenth time in the past few minutes.
“Poppy.” She looks me over and takes a step back. I can imagine what she sees—glassy eyes, blotchy skin, pink-tipped nose. But maybe she doesn’t notice because all she asks is, “I’ve been meaning to catch up with you. How did you manage it?”
Either my head is more clouded than I thought, or she’s not making any sense. “Manage what?”
“Convincing Tucker to stand me up on New Year’s.”
Winter break was a couple of weeks ago and I’m caught completely off guard by her question. Had I? No. Tucker could tell I wasn’t excited at the prospect of meeting up with Wren, but the decision had been his. “What makes you think it was up to me?”
Her eyes narrow. “Because I’ve known girls like you before. Girls who only want what they don’t deserve. Who think they can take what isn’t theirs.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but it was Tucker’s call.” I sniff, wishing I had a pack of tissues on me.
Wren frowns. “Are you sick or something?”
My problem can’t be solved with a trip to the infirmary and a bottle of penicillin. But it’s easier to agree. “Yeah. You should stay away from me, I’m probably contagious.” Hopefully, Wren will spend the next month worrying I gave her the flu every time she sneezes.