Asking for Trouble

by Amy Andrews

  He nodded but didn’t look in her direction. “Me, too.”

  “You actually made me forget I was stood up.”

  Now he looked at her, a V forming between his brows. “The guy’s an idiot,” Tucker growled.

  A little beam of pleasure lanced straight through Della’s middle. Maybe it was her hopeless crush, maybe it was those three daiquiris, but his quick defense of her made her warm all over. “So, did I pass?”

  That V deepened. “Pass?”

  “My assessments?”

  “Ah.” The frown smoothed out, and he laughed, his dimples flashing in the night. His gaze drifted over her face to the swing of her left earring. He watched it for a beat or two before pulling his attention back to her face. “With flying colors.”

  It was ridiculous that such empty praise should go to her head. The whole assessment thing had just been Tucker messing around, but it was nice here in the moonlight with his aftershave and the warm buzz of three daiquiris. It felt very much like it had in the cab of his truck that night. Just the two of them. Close. Cozy. Intimate.

  “I think you…left out the most important assessment,” Della said, a spurt of sudden daring riding her, despite the tremble of her voice betraying just how far out of her comfort zone she was flying.

  “Oh yeah?” His eyebrow kicked up, a smile playing on his mouth. “What’s that? We covered small talk, light flirting, and menu choices. That’s pretty much all the first-date territory.”

  She shook her head, her heart slamming slow and hard against her ribs as she worked up the courage to utter the words. Trust your instincts. “Except for the good-night kiss.”

  Della swore she could hear Tucker’s breath releasing in a slow hiss. His frown deepened so much his brow practically hooded his eyes.

  “I think most people would agree it’s a quintessential part of any first date,” she continued, knowing that the only hope of talking Tucker into kissing her would be to appeal to his sense of process.

  He grunted. “There’s nothing essential about it. It’s optional. And don’t let anyone tell you any different.”

  “But don’t men expect a first-date kiss?”

  He turned so he was facing her, shoving his hands on his hips and squaring his shoulders. Leashed restraint rolled off him in waves. Fine hairs all over Della’s body prickled.

  “Listen to me. Any guy who expects you to kiss him on the first date or who pressures you into it is an asshole.”

  He was looking at her like she was not Arlo’s sister again, and Della could see the twin pulsing of the thick veins bracketing the hard ridge of his trachea.

  “You don’t have to do a goddamn thing you don’t want to. Now…if the date was good and you want to consider ending it with a kiss, then…by all means.”

  “Right. So…” Emboldened by the beat of that pulse, Della took a tiny step forward. “In case of that eventuality, surely it’s something also in need of assessment?”

  “I think we can take it as a given that you’ll pass that one with flying colors, too.”

  “But I’ve only ever kissed one guy.” Well, two, actually, if she counted that chaste press of her mouth to Tucker’s. Which she didn’t. “I might be really bad at it.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Really?” A tiny flutter of pleasure spread tentacles to every part of her body.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Fishing for compliments?”

  Della grinned. “Totally.”

  “Well…you’re fine in the kissing department,” he said, his voice gruff. “Don’t worry about it.”

  It sounded like he was trying to shut her down, and she didn’t want to be shut down. She shouldn’t want what she was asking for, either, but moonlight and daiquiris were a potent mix. “I think you probably need a bigger sample size to be sure.”

  Without perceptibly moving, Tucker’s frame seemed to turn to granite. “I’m not kissing you, Della.”

  With her pulse fluttering wildly in her chest, Della took another daring step. This was it, it was now or never. “Who says anything about you kissing me?” Her husky voice settled in the handspan of space between them. Tentatively, Della touched his belly. The muscle beneath tightened at the contact, and her own belly mirrored the movement. “All you have to do is stand there. I’ll do all the kissing.”

  “Della.”

  The gravel in his voice, the roughness of his breathing, was satisfying on a level Della never knew existed. She could hear his arousal, and, sure, she might be a novice where seduction was concerned, but she knew it wasn’t just her who was turned on by their interchange.

  “C’mon, Tucker. You’ve endured my amateur attempts once already. What could one more time hurt?”

  Her hand moved farther north, and he clamped his over hers, trapping her palm just under his sternum. “Not happening, Della.”

  She sensed he was about to step back, to ease away, and panic flushed through her veins. She was so close—she couldn’t turn back now. Snaking her other arm around his neck, Della rose on her tippy-toes, pressing her body to the length of his.

  “Please, Tuck,” she whispered, his mouth achingly close as she twisted her fingers in the hair at his nape.

  Their eyes met, and there was nothing but the sound of their breathing as they stared intently at each other. It might have been dark, but the moonlight seemed to amplify every single thought flitting through Tucker’s brain. And there was a battle royal going on. She could see he was trying to pull himself back, to remember who he was—who she was. But his body was hard and his breathing rough, and the hand at her hip clutched convulsively.

  His eyes heated and darkened. He was losing.

  If she were a good person, Della would surrender now and leave him be. She’d unwrap herself from his body. Refuse to put him in this situation. But screw that. She was sick of him handling her like some born-again virgin who needed to be treated with kid gloves.

  Was it so wrong to want this? To want her brother’s friend?

  “Just a little?” she murmured, pressing her mouth lightly to his like she had that night in the truck, their gazes still meshed.

  He didn’t stop her, but he didn’t exactly surrender, either. Just watched her intensely, his lips tight and unmoving. Della’s heart thrummed through her chest as she pulled away slightly, noticing the flare of his nostrils and the clench of his jaw but drawn back to him anyway, needing more.

  She pressed her mouth a little firmer this time, lingering for a moment before pressing a series of light kisses along the taut seam of his lips. “Tucker,” she whispered against his stubbornly closed mouth, her eyes beseeching, trying not to sound needy and failing miserably as every hot spot in her body flared to life.

  She pressed closer, the heat and hardness of his body a potent aphrodisiac. She closed her eyes and teased tentatively at the corners of his mouth with her tongue, her pulse spiking as his hand clutched her hip hard and a low rumble echoed through his chest.

  Growing bolder, she pressed open-mouthed kisses to his lips now, letting them linger, coaxing his mouth to join in—needing it to—sighing as his eyes fluttered closed and his lips finally gave a little.

  It was all the encouragement she needed.

  Her arousal, growing like a fever in her blood, demanded to be serviced, and she took full advantage as his lips softened further. Closing her eyes, she touched the tip of her tongue to the bow of his lips, tasting him there, sighing as he opened to let her in, whimpering a little as her tongue found his, moaning as his joined in the dance.

  It must have been the moan that did it, because it was like a dam suddenly broke. Tucker groaned, deep and guttural, and then his mouth opened and his hands came up to cradle her face, his fingers pushing into her hair, and he devoured her.

  There was nothing tentative about the way he kissed her now, and she was no lo
nger in control. She ceded it happily to the dominance of his mouth, his lips twisting on hers, ramping the intensity up to places she’d never been. His tongue thrust into her mouth, the taste of beer and the loud suck of his breathing and the mad wash of her pulse filling her head, her body needy and aching for more.

  She was drunk, and it didn’t have anything to do with the daiquiris. She was drunk on the power of Tucker’s kiss, the hand caught between their bodies clutching a fistful of his shirt as her desire escalated. His heart thumped beneath her hand like a gong, and they were moving back until the windows brought them to an abrupt halt.

  Della vaguely registered the coolness of the glass through the thinness of her shirt, but mostly she was grateful for its solid state and the hard press of his body as the room spun.

  She clung to him tight, moaning and panting, losing her breath and her sense and her mind, her legs trembling, threatening to give out. His body was trembling, too, his big muscles shaking her right down to her bones.

  She had never been kissed so thoroughly. So damn…masterfully. Finally, she understood why some people did stupid things for those who made them feel like this.

  Finally, she understood the word crave.

  She was so dizzy with this need for him it was wildly thrilling and just a little bit scary. She’d never experienced anything like this—was she even equipped for it? How could she compete at Tucker’s level?

  She dragged her mouth from his as the floor tilted beneath her feet, coming up for air, desperately aroused and hopelessly overwhelmed all at once. “Stop…stop for a second,” she muttered, her breathing a series of loud harsh pants as she ground herself against the windows to stop the spinning, her hand still clutched in Tucker’s shirt. “Everything’s spinning.” She gave a half laugh, her lips tingling deliciously.

  Tucker went very, very still. “Oh God. Della…” His voice was dark and gravelly, and the hairs on her neck prickled in foreboding as he took a hasty step back, her hand falling abruptly away. “God…” He shoved a hand through his hair as he took two more steps back. “I’m so…sorry.” He stared at her, his face tight and strained, his mouth a grim slash.

  What the hell? “Tucker?”

  “That was…unforgivable of me. I…don’t know what came over me… I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. I shouldn’t have…come on so strong.”

  Della blinked. “Tucker.” She took a step forward, but he stayed her with an urgent stopping motion of his hands as he took yet another step back.

  “No.” He shook his head wildly. “I was out of line.”

  Oh, for the love of… “Don’t be ridiculous. I wanted you to kiss me like that.”

  “For God’s sake, Della,” Tucker snapped. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Della blinked. What the what now? “I beg your pardon? What I want doesn’t matter?”

  “No…God, no. I didn’t mean… I meant…” He stopped, clearly frustrated with himself. “I should have known you weren’t ready, damn it. I”—he poked himself hard in the chest—“should have known. Are you okay?” He took a tentative step forward and then stopped abruptly. “I didn’t scare you, did I?”

  “What? Tucker, no.” She shook her head. “I’m fine. It was…amazing. Like…” She blew out a harsh breath, ruffling her bangs. “I didn’t even know a kiss could be like that.” It should belong in a Hall of Fame somewhere. “I just got a little…overwhelmed for a moment, that’s all.”

  But Tucker was obviously too busy dishing out a mental ass-kicking to listen. “Don’t worry.” His expression was impossibly bleak, his mouth tense, his hands shoved determinedly on his hips. “It won’t happen again.”

  And before she could object or proffer her opinion, he’d turned on his heel and was striding off in the direction of his room. Della touched her mouth as she watched him go. It was still tingling.

  It won’t happen again.

  God…she sincerely freaking hoped that wasn’t true.

  Tucker threw himself under the shower, calling himself every lowdown horndog name he could think of. When he ran out, he made a few up.

  What the fuck, dude?

  He slammed his palm against the tiles but barely felt the impact. What was the matter with him? Unleashing himself like that on Della? A sexual assault survivor.

  Where was his restraint?

  Why on earth hadn’t he gone straight to bed tonight? Why had he let three beers and the smell of strawberry daiquiri and the fucking moonlight lure him into a discussion about first-date kisses? He should have walked away when she first mentioned it. He definitely should have walked away when she’d stepped right into his space. He absolutely should have walked away after that first kiss.

  But man…it was like she had him under some kind of spell. He was weak when it came to Della Munroe. He already knew that, but tonight it had been worse than ever. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. Hadn’t wanted their fake date to end.

  And then he’d kissed her like some drunken ogre. She’d had to tell him to stop. Good one, dipshit.

  God…how far would he have gone had she not called a halt? Because she’d been intoxicating, and he’d wanted her bad. Would he have undone her shirt? Slid his hands into her panties? Would he have fucked her against the window for all of goddamn Denver to see?

  Tucker dunked his head under the water and turned off all the hot, desperate to rid himself of those images, of that little whimper he could still hear reverberating through his brain, of the desire still surging through his system despite the heavy dose of self-loathing.

  His dick, still painfully erect, was apparently immune to things such as contempt and freezing water. It’d no doubt survive a nuclear blast impressively intact.

  Like a cockroach.

  I didn’t even know a kiss could be like that.

  He reached for those words as they floated by, desperate for any distraction but rattled by them probably more than anything else tonight. That Della could have been with someone for years and not been thoroughly kissed in every way possible was perhaps the saddest fact of all.

  He wanted that for her. To know what it was like to be thoroughly kissed, to be with someone who took the time to introduce her to the delights. It just couldn’t be him. Because, as he already proved, he couldn’t kiss Della without wanting to go all Incredible Hulk on her ass, and she was obviously still only at the mild-mannered Bruce Banner level.

  …

  A few days later, Della was sitting at a table in Annie’s diner, staring out the window as she absently stirred her coffee, her slice of banana cream pie untouched. She was reliving Friday night again for, like, the hundredth time. The way Tucker had pinned her against the glass and unleashed. Muscles deep inside her pelvic floor looped the loop just thinking about that unvarnished passion. Her breath hitched. Hell, her toes were literally curling in her boots.

  If only she hadn’t ruined it all by putting on the brakes.

  There had been plenty of times in Della’s life she’d wished she had a time machine, but right now she’d trade them all in to go back to that moment. To lean into the dizziness and the crazy tilt of the floor and just ride that frantic, speeding train all the way into the station.

  She hadn’t wanted to stop, damn it. Just to…pause. To catch her breath.

  Hell, if that wasn’t one of the worst decisions she’d ever made—and God knew there’d been plenty of them. Instead of experiencing what she had no doubt would have been the best sexual experience of her life, she was sitting in Annie’s still re-virginating and so damn sexually frustrated she wanted to scream.

  The truly tragic part was that Tucker’s defenses had been fortified, and she didn’t see how she was going to get that close to him again. She’d had one shot, and she’d blown it.

  The morning after had been awkward with a capital A. He’d apologized again, informed her ther
e would never be a repeat of the incident, and formally withdrawn himself from wingman duties. When she’d tried to discuss it, he’d shut her down.

  I think it’s best we just put this behind us and move on, okay?

  No. It was not okay by her. Not then, not now. She shouldn’t have pushed him, she knew they were a no-go, and she’d like to talk to him about it, but she knew Tucker well enough to know he needed time to process things. Once he’d had a little distance, he’d be more rational. Once he saw she was absolutely fine, that she hadn’t scuttled back into her shell, he’d be more approachable.

  She’d give him some space. And torture herself with reruns of Denver in the interim.

  “You’re not planning on hurting my feelings there, are you, doll?”

  Della glanced up as the crackly, pack-a-day voice broke into her thoughts. “Hey Annie,” she said, forcing a smile on her face.

  “That pie ain’t going to eat itself.”

  Della laughed. “Sorry…I was miles away.” In Denver. A bank of windows at her back. A hot, aroused man at her front.

  “Uh-huh.” Annie didn’t move as she fixed Della with an expectant gaze.

  Without thinking twice, Della picked up her spoon, loaded it, and shoveled the banana creamy goodness into her mouth. Annie’s pies were cooked on the premises and were the best in the county. The entire state, according to multiple blue ribbons.

  Eating one of them was no hardship.

  Annie nodded approvingly at the appreciative moan that slid from Della’s lips. “Mmm.” Della savored the mouthful, her taste buds in ecstasy. “This is divine.”

  It wasn’t exchanging kisses with Tucker Daniels, but it was probably the next best thing. Or maybe that was eating banana cream pie off Tucker Daniels’s lumberjack abs?

  Annie took the compliment as her due. Her pies being divine was not news to anyone, least of all Annie. “More coffee?” A gnarly hand, the knuckles misshapen from arthritis, held up a filter pot about as old as the diner. Annie didn’t wait for a confirmation; she topped up Della’s cup anyway. “You’re looking good, Della,” she said as she withdrew the pot.