Chapter 18
Tucker
It is not a peaceful night’s sleep.
For one thing, I can smell Autumn. Her shampoo, her soap, her toothpaste, her deodorant, her makeup remover. And the scent of her skin.
It’s a little like Pandora’s box, having kissed Autumn.
Now I know how soft her lips are. I know how her skin smells when my nose is against it. I know she whimpers when she’s turned on.
I know that I turn her on.
Fuck me.
Autumn falls asleep first. Her breath slows, then sinks into those buzzy little snores. But I’m still awake, still thinking about the kiss.
I’m not sure where she got the idea that I might not be straight or that I might have a significant other, but whatever. No big deal.
I almost couldn’t stop myself, though, from telling her that if there were anyone in the universe I wanted to kiss, it would be her.
I want more of her softness, more of the way she tilted her body toward mine, more of those whimpers.
I want to find out what other noises she makes. I want to make her cry out.
I’m hard. And I can’t do anything about it because there is literally no way I’m going to jerk off with her lying right there, especially not if the thing I’m going to picture as I make myself come is her.
Eventually, despite the pressure at the base of my spine, despite the uncomfortable swell of blood in my cock, even though all I want to do is bury myself in the idea of her, I do fall asleep.
And then I dream.
Three guesses what I dream about.
Yeah.
It starts innocent enough. We’re lying in bed, talking.
But then she rolls over, close, and snuggles her face into my shoulder.
And—dream logic—I don’t question why she feels comfortable enough to do that.
Instead I reach for her and roll her closer.
On top of me. She murmurs something, her breath warm against my ear.
She settles a little lower, so the vee of her thighs finds the growing thickness of my erection.
She doesn’t move right away. I lie there, content for the moment to feel the heavy pressure of her pubic bone against my arousal. It’s good weight. Perfect weight.
And then she rocks her hips. Just a tiny bit. Just the suggestion of fucking.
She stops, and I’m hot and breathless. I want her to do it again.
Right now. Which is how I discover that my hands are on her ass, giving her a gentle tug.
Just the barest movement. Just enough to make her whimper and to force a rough sound out of my throat.
But I can tell she likes that because now she’s moving, rubbing.
And the whimpers have become a long, continuous, breathy, needy sound that winds up my spine and floods my veins.
Holy shit, she’s going to make me come like this, through two layers of clothes with the smallest nudge of her clit against my cock. She’s going to make both of us come, and it’s going to be the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.
Except then I wake up.
Reality is starkly disappointing. She is not humping my cock, nor is she whimpering. She has, however, surmounted the pillow wall and is cuddled up next to me, leg thrown over me, head on my shoulder. Her leg is brushing my cock, which is probably what prompted the vivid sex dream.
Except right then, she makes a whole bunch of incoherent noises and climbs on top of me.
Just like the dream.
God, it feels good. But she’s asleep.
As carefully as I can, I lift her and slide her off me.
She wakes abruptly and stares at me in the low light of the hotel room. She looks horrified. “Oh, God,” she says. “I did it. I accosted you in your sleep.”
I want to tell her how very willing a participant I was in the parallel universe I just dreamt my way through, but I can’t.
I can’t talk about the red-hot dream, or how much I still want to have her on top of me, or how quickly I would come if she touched me right now.
I can’t say any of those things because I vowed to myself that I would not let anything like what happened with Elizabeth happen again.
And yes, this is sex, not feelings, but—no.
No, no, no. So every word I speak from now on will defuse the heat between us, not stoke it.
Even if I’m saying most of the words for myself, to remind myself, not for her.
“It’s fine,” I say. “But we can’t do anything like that, no matter what. I don’t get involved with clients, ever. And I’m not—”
“I know,” she says. “You’re not attracted to me. I’m not your type. Can I go back to sleep now? Before I die of humiliation?”
I am attracted to you, I want to say. That’s why this absolutely can’t happen.
But instead I say, “Yeah.”
And a few minutes later, the room vibrates, quietly, with her buzzy little snores.