by Amy Andrews
Tucker was pretty sure if Arlo knew what had already happened between him and Della, he wouldn’t feel so charitable, so he just grunted and said, “Be careful out there,” then hung up.
It only took ten minutes to get from his place to Arlo’s on the other side of town. He pulled up out front under the big tree that had grown through the sidewalk about fifty years ago and glanced at the house. Along with the rest of the street, it was in darkness. Hell, the entire town had been eerily blacked out as he’d driven here.
Was she in there cowering under the covers somewhere? Was she scared? Was she upset? Was she having flashbacks from her life before Arlo had brought her to Credence?
Those thoughts drove Tucker out of his pickup. They took precedence over the other thoughts that made him shift and squirm in embarrassment. His behavior had been unforgivable in Denver, but he was just going to have to locate his balls and man up like he’d done the morning after. He’d already apologized and suggested they move on. So maybe he needed to heed his own advice.
Dashing through the steady rain, he made it to the porch. His Henley and jeans, which were already damp from his run across the parking lot, were wetter now. Ignoring the chill against his skin, he knocked on the door. He had a key, but he didn’t want to scare the bejesus out of Della by just appearing in the house. If she was still awake and already frightened, it wouldn’t help.
No response. He tried again, bashing the door this time with the flat of his palm. When there was still no response, Tucker shoved his key in the lock and entered the warm house. It was dark, but there was enough ambient light for him to navigate a house that wasn’t exactly huge and that he knew like the back of his hand.
There was the living room in which he was now standing. To the left was the kitchen/dining area, to the right were two recliner chairs and a futon clustered around a coffee table with a huge television against the wall. Ahead, an archway led to a short hallway, where two bedrooms and a bathroom could be found.
It was obvious Della wasn’t out here, which meant she must be in her bedroom. Tucker hesitated. Was she okay in there or scared out of her brain? Or hell, was she just…asleep? Should he check on her, knock and ask if everything was okay, or just go fold down the futon and crash until Arlo got home?
“Della?” he called.
It wasn’t really loud—hell, his heart was pounding louder—but this way he figured it gave her options. If she heard him and she was frightened, she’d either come out or call out, and they could go from there. But if she was asleep, it probably wasn’t loud enough to disturb her slumber.
He thought he heard a noise coming from the hallway, and his pulse spiked. Was it her? Had she cried out? Called his name? His legs kicked into action before his brain had fully decided on a plan, striding through the archway and down the hall to her bedroom.
His pulse was thudding loudly through his ears as he pulled up short, noting the strip of light at the bottom of the door. Did she have a flashlight in there, or candles? Was she awake?
There was silence now, and for a moment he wondered whether he’d imagined the noise. Perhaps it had just been the scrape of an overhanging branch against the house? Still, he stood and stared at the door, listening for any signs of distress.
He wanted to knock, to go in and see with his own eyes that she was okay. But he was very aware of the stuff that had gone down between them. Of their recent history. He’d crossed a line—they both had—and now they were in this strange kind of limbo.
Realizing suddenly the inappropriateness of standing in the hallway outside her door like some fucking pervert, Tucker turned and took two steps away.
And then that noise came again.
He froze as it reached right through the door. A moan, followed by another, then another, then a whimper. And not the kind of distressed whimper that came from fear. But the low, chilled whimper that came from a completely different source. Tucker shut his eyes as a full-throated gasp from behind the door wrapped tight around his gut and snaked around his thighs, anchoring him to the spot. He knew these sounds.
Della was pleasuring herself.
Probably lying on her bed, probably naked, probably using whatever the hell she’d bought at Frieda’s today. He swallowed against the images in his head as a series of low pants tickled his ears, and he fought the ridiculous urge to turn back. To knock on her door and stride inside her room and lend a hand. Caress her nipples, kiss her mouth, whisper filthy things in her ear as she climaxed.
Christ.
His dick was hard as stone, and he had to curl his palms into fists to stop himself from obeying the thick, hot pound of his blood. It was a struggle for supremacy between his big head and his little one.
The big head won, and it was not impressed with the situation.
Jesus. Dude. Get the fuck away from her door. Taking another two steps away, he was almost at the archway when the sound of his name stopped him in his tracks.
“Tucker. Oh Tucker, yes, yes.”
He sucked in a breath. Oh Della, no, no. Please no.
He shut his eyes, no hope now of denying himself this experience, especially with the fibrillation of his heart and the handicap of his giant, painful boner making movement prohibitive. He wasn’t sure which one was going to kill him first or if a massive lightning bolt was going to come through the roof, but he knew he was going to die and go to hell for standing in Della’s hallway, listening to her climax.
Her final gurgly moan sounded, and it took Tucker long moments before he was able to coordinate enough brain cells to do what he should have done a minute ago.
Get the fuck out of the hallway.
Striding on unsteady legs, he headed for the kitchen, for the bourbon he knew Arlo kept in the cupboard that jutted out over the counter on the far wall and the special heavy crystal tumblers he also kept there especially for the bourbon.
With his forehead pressed into the cupboard overhead and his erection pressed into the cupboard beneath, Tucker splashed the alcohol into the bottom of the glass. A bit spilled onto the countertop, but he didn’t care—he just threw it back, willing his pulse to settle, the hitch in his breath to smooth out, his erection to just fucking die already.
Everything about this was inappropriate.
He was in Arlo’s house lusting after Arlo’s sister. Listening to her masturbate. He was going to go to hell for this. Ninth-circle-of-hell hell.
Peeping Tom hell.
Pouring another glass, he swallowed that down, too, and poured a third glass, drinking half of it before setting the tumbler down and taking a breath. Sliding his palms wide apart on the counter, he dropped his head down between his shoulders and wished he was anywhere but here. It had been hard enough to stop thinking about Della these past weeks without knowing it was his name on her lips as she came.
“Oh Jesus!”
Tucker’s pulse spiked at the shocked gasp behind him, and he raised his head so quickly he smacked it on the cupboard above. “Fuck,” he hissed, a hand grabbing the crown of his head as pain lanced through his skull.
He spun around to find Della standing just inside the kitchen doorway. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was in some kind of silky kimono-style gown that fell all the way to the floor with long, voluminous sleeves. Unfortunately, that was the only place it was voluminous, tying firmly around her waist, the fabric sitting in a tight crisscross across her cleavage.
The hit to his head may have made him see stars, but it wasn’t affecting his night vision. Tucker could definitely see the unfettered swells of her breasts and the puckering of two nipples. Which meant no bra. Hell, he’d bet good money there were also no panties under that thing, but he refused to drop his gaze any lower.
He only hoped his erection wasn’t as obvious, because it was showing no signs of flagging. Hell, if he’d been a dog, someone would have turned the hose
on him already.
“Sorry… I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t hear you arrive.”
“I only just got here,” he said with a shrug and then wished he hadn’t when she looked like she was trying to figure out if he’d heard any of her sexy alone time.
She frowned. “Why are you here?”
Tucker rubbed his head absently. “Your brother was worried when you didn’t answer his text. He’s not going to be back for a while. He asked if I’d hang here till he got back.”
“Oh. I’ve been…asleep. I didn’t hear his text.”
She averted her gaze, and Tucker didn’t call her on her lie. She may not be telling the truth, but he was damned if he was going to tell her how he knew she was lying.
“It’s fine, you know.” She found his gaze again. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.” Tucker nodded. “But I don’t mind, and he said you…don’t like storms, and I’m here now. Besides, I’ve just chugged two and a half generous shots of bourbon. I doubt I’d be legally under the limit.”
She quirked an eyebrow, a small smile playing on her face, and Tucker noticed how chilled-out she was looking now that the initial shock of his presence had dissipated. “Storms drive you to drink?”
No…women he had the hots for calling his name as they masturbated drove him to drink. Off-limits women who were looking for some entry-level fun and flirting drove him to drink.
Ignoring her question, he prodded his skull gingerly, wincing at a particularly sore spot. “I think I gave myself a head injury,” he grumbled.
She laughed, then smothered it with her hand. “I’m sorry. That’s not funny.” But clearly she found him smacking his head highly amusing. He probably would have, too, if it didn’t hurt so fucking much.
“Hang on.”
She moved across the kitchen, all loose and limber. Stopping at the fridge, which was about five feet to his left, she grabbed a bottle of water and then opened the freezer section, reaching for something before heading in his direction. “Use this,” she said, holding out a small bag of frozen peas.
Tucker took them, halting her trajectory. “Thanks,” he murmured, placing the bag on the lump already forming.
Settling her hip against the counter about three feet away, she placed the bottle of water down. She was so close he could reach out and touch her, pull that cord secured at her waist, grab the crisscross of her gown, and yank. If he suddenly lost his fucking mind.
“You want me to look at it?”
He shook his head. God no. The last thing he needed was her touching him right now. He had an erection that he was beginning to think might actually require medical intervention, and she was naked under that gown. Oh…and he’d just heard her orgasm. “It’s fine. I’ll live.”
Her very relaxed gaze wandered over his chest. “You’re soaked.”
“Well, yeah…it’s a real frog drowner out there, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“You should get out of those wet clothes.” She dragged her attention back to his face. “You don’t want to catch your death.”
And then she was looking at his chest again, her lazy gaze roaming all over like she was already stripping him in her head. Jesus, she was killing him. Between the dark and the rain and this hazy-eyed, ironed-out Della, he’d never wanted to kiss her more.
He put the frozen peas on the countertop. “You should go back to bed.”
“I’m fine. As long as you don’t want me to operate heavy machinery.” Then she laughed, and everything under her gown shifted very, very nicely.
Oh man… “Good night, Della.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, just took two steps closer, picked up the peas, and took another step until there was only a handbreadth separating them. Every cell in Tucker’s body went on high alert as the aroma of cupcakes and something much richer, much earthier, invaded his senses.
Going up on her tippy-toes, she placed the packet on his head. “You need to keep it on for longer,” she whispered.
Their gazes locked for long beats, and Tucker could practically see the steam rising from the warm blue pools of her eyes. It might be dark, but her desire for him was plain as day. He was pretty sure his desire for her was also obvious.
“Ice is good for swelling.”
And then, just when he thought she was going to kiss him and his mouth went dry as flint, she dropped her hand and pulled back, giving him that sweet, chilled-out smile as she grabbed her water and turned away. Within seconds, she was gone, and Tucker was staring at thin air.
Grabbing the bag of peas off his head, he stuffed them down the front of his jeans as he slowly exhaled. What in hell was he going to do about this? About wanting Della? About her wanting him?
It wasn’t just going to go away, no matter how much he wished it would.
Chapter Twelve
Della woke with a start a few hours later. It was pitch black, and a familiar heaviness snapped tight around her chest. Her pulse raced, and she couldn’t breathe. The memory of a sweaty hand clamped around her throat was almost tangible, the panic as visceral as ever. Frantic and gasping for air, she sat up, flailing her arms, knocking some things to the ground as she reached for the bedside lamp.
Her heart hammering, she desperately flicked the switch on the base back and forth, but nothing happened. A lump in her throat thickened, threatening to choke her, memories that lurked just beneath the surface snaked out of the darkness, twisting around her ankles and calves, clinging like thorny vines, sinking barbs into her flesh.
Dragging open her bedside drawer, groping inside for the flashlight, Della yanked it out, her hands trembling so hard she could barely coordinate her fingers to push the button on the bottom. But she did it, she managed, a beam of weak light forming a pool on the ceiling.
Della stared at it as if it was the sun, trying to control her rapid breathing just like Selena had taught her as relief washed over her in a wave. The thorns fell from her flesh, and the vines untangled. They retreated, slithering back into the dark shadows of the room.
She was okay. She was safe and well in Credence. At Arlo’s. She was okay.
The sound of the rain started to filter through as the loud wash of her pulse began to settle, and she remembered the storm. Remembered The Suck-u-buzz and the orgasm.
Orgasms—plural.
She glanced at the bedside table, at the device that had given her so much pleasure just sitting there. On the floor, she could see the other two BOBs and a candle. Yes, that’s right. Candles. They’d still been lit when she’d drifted off to sleep, but they’d obviously burned out, and the storm must have caused a power outage, which was why she couldn’t turn on her lamp.
But it was okay because she had her flashlight.
Arlo’s idea—of course. One he’d come up with after the first time the power had gone out in the middle of the night and she’d woken in the dark with that hand around her neck choking again and she’d screamed. He’d strode straight out of her room and come back moments later with a flashlight and pressed it into her hands.
“Keep this in the drawer for when you need it.”
Just like that, so matter-of-fact, taking her bogeyman and neutralizing it, just like he’d done with Todd. She hadn’t needed the flashlight a lot, but it had been her lifeline that night, just as it was tonight.
With her pulse slowly returning to normal and her head out of fight-or-flight mode, Della remembered other things. Like Tucker. In her house. She hadn’t heard him arrive. Unsurprisingly, considering. Hell, a herd of stampeding bison could have crashed through the house and Della wouldn’t have heard.
Was he still here, or had Arlo come home and he’d left? She wasn’t usually a heavy sleeper, but she’d slept so deeply after she’d slid back into bed post-kitchen chat, those bison could have trashed the house again and she’d have been
none the wiser.
The beam on the ceiling grew weaker, and Della swallowed. She didn’t know how much longer the power would be out, but she didn’t think the flashlight had that long left in it, and she didn’t want to be sitting here in the dark. Maybe, instead of obsessively checking the batteries in the BOBs earlier, she should have spared a moment to check the batteries in the flashlight…
Although, if push came to shove, she could always use her cell phone light.
Or she could just get her ass out of bed and go and get new batteries. There were more outside in the TV cabinet. Arlo kept them there because their collection of remote controls was the most battery-hungry, so it made sense.
Della swung her legs out of bed, pressing the home button on her phone to check the time. Two thirty. There were a couple of texts from Arlo, which she read—the initial one that Tucker had mentioned and one about half an hour ago telling her he’d probably be another hour. She texted back a big blue thumbs-up, then picked up the BOBs and the candle from the floor before getting dressed in her pajamas.
Aware that Tucker could still be outside, she eyed herself critically in the full-length oval mirror that stood to the left of her closet and thanked God there was only enough ambient light for a quick assessment, because plaid flannelette bottoms and a baggy T-shirt that left everything to the imagination were hardly inspiring.
She hadn’t really given her sleepwear much thought before, but she was suddenly rethinking it. Flannel and plaid may have been fine for the old Della but not the new one. The one who was taking back her life. She doubted someone like Tucker would look at her sideways in this sloppy little number. She’d bet Tucker’s women wore fancy negligees and tiny thongs to bed.
Della rolled her eyes at her reflection. It didn’t matter. She was going to get batteries, not perform a seduction. Hell, even if she’d wanted to seduce Tucker, she wouldn’t know where to start. Not now that she’d been rejected twice.
Padding out of her bedroom, she made her way down the dim, shadowy hallway. She wasn’t scared of the dark. Not when she was wide awake. She could sit in a dark room, walk around a dark house, walk down a dark street. She was only scared of the dark in those moments when she was transitioning through the layers of sleep to full consciousness. In that split second she opened her eyes.