Chapter Eight
Tilly
I’m not sure what I expected from Tucker’s cabin, but it’s much nicer than I thought it would be. Natural pine cabinetry surrounds stainless steel appliances, and stone countertops blend perfectly with the natural vibe the place has going for it.
The counters are clear except for a loaf of bread he keeps by the toaster and a dish with butter next to the coffee maker, a plain black mug sitting next to it. Neither seem to have been used recently.
The living room sits beyond the kitchen, wide cedar trusses angled upward as large picture windows flood light into the small space and showcase the open valley and the mountains rising in the distance.
I wonder if he built this place himself.
He seems to have a very intricate attention to detail. The kind of detail you’d need to build a home, though I’ve met plenty of men that can build houses yet don’t fold the blankets on the back of their couch and alphabetize their soup cans.
The whole place is like this. The closets all perfectly organized by item and category. The cupboards stocked with food, everything label out.
Something isn’t right.
I sit in the small office tucked into the back of the cabin and exhale loudly, my heart slamming against my chest as I try to figure out what I’m doing. It’s wrong that I’m snooping, I’m well aware of that, but seduction was only turning me on, and that’s the last thing I need.
I want answers. Real answers. Answers that man is never going to give me on his own. He knows something about what happened to Wren, and I’m going to figure it out.
I pull open the top drawer of his desk and then another, but they’re practically empty except for a few sticky pads and some pens, all of which are also organized by size and color.
Dear Lord, this man is worse than I thought. This is serial killer level organization. I swear I’ve seen at least two documentaries about this type of behavior. A killer’s house is always very clean.
Outside of the desk and a bookshelf on the back wall with stacks of cowboy movies on DVD, the office is empty.
Why would it be empty? He runs a business. You’d think this would be the busiest room in the house.
Frustrated with the empty office, I head to the back of the cabin toward his bedroom.
Maybe I’m approaching this all wrong. I need to think like one of the detectives in the cozy mysteries I like so much.
The clues are never where you think they’ll be.
They’re always hidden in plain sight. The answer is usually staring the detective right in the face.
I scan the bedroom for anything out of the ordinary, but it’s so bare. There’s nothing here but a bed, a simple nightstand, and a closet. A closet which he keeps empty except for a few T-shirts and a couple pairs of jeans.
The only thing that’s different about the bedroom than the other rooms in the house is that this room smells just like Tucker.
Pine and cedar enmeshed with some other kind of musk I can’t describe.
All I know is that it’s spicy, warm, and masculine.
That, and it takes me right back to the moment earlier where he had me bent over his desk.
Why?
Why am I going back there?
I got the keys to his cabin. I’m here, so I need to focus on the job at hand.
I should be committed to finding answers that will lead me to my friend.
Rationally, I know this, but the more I tell myself I need to stop thinking about his big rough hands all over me, the harder my clit throbs.
The harder my clit throbs, the more soaked my panties become.
The more soaked my panties are, the more my thighs squeeze together.
It’s a cycle and I’m not sure how to rectify any of it…
outside of laying in his bed, breathing him in, and letting myself come.
No!
No? Are you sure?
I didn’t fake terrible exhaustion to get his keys just to flake on my objective now. An objective I’m not going to accomplish because all I want to do is climb into his bed and come on his sheets while I imagine his hands all over me.
That’s insane, girl!
Sucking in a deep breath, I crawl down on the floor and reach under the bed, looking for a hidden box or a secret spot in the floorboards the way the detectives in my books do.
Trouble is… the detectives in the books I read aren’t dealing with the same urges I’m dealing with.
Probably because they’re normal human beings with attention spans that last longer than five minutes.
Take this moment for instance. I’m crawling around on the floor with my ass in the air, and instead of focusing on looking for a secret hiding spot, my brain is filling in the quiet with thoughts of Tucker sneaking in behind me, smacking my ass, tearing my jeans down, and fucking me hard like an animal.
Like a wild, heaving, starving animal.
I stand from the floor and tug down my jeans before pulling back the covers and slipping under his sheets, the scent of his body sweeping upward as I snuggle into the plush blankets that he wraps around him every night.
God, this is so wrong. I’m all over the map. One second, I’m letting the man spank my ass, the next I’m accusing him of murder. Now, I’m lying in his bed half naked about to get myself off to the scent of his body.
Maybe it’s me who’s the weirdo here.
Lost to the moment, I tuck my hand into my panties and sink a finger against my clit with a sigh so loud that it turns me on.
I could scream out in pleasure in Tucker’s house, and he could walk in any moment and hear me.
He could listen to me touching myself. He could see me sliding my finger in circles around my swollen clit.
He could watch me touch my tits and pinch my nipples as I moan loudly.
He could see the whole damn thing… and then what?
I scrub my clit faster, clutching the pillow he lays his head on every night. Would he demand to watch me? Would he be so frustrated that he flipped me over and fucked me hard? Would he spank my ass and punish me for pleasuring myself in his bed, for taking advantage of his kindness?
God, yes! I want him to punish me! I want him to tell me what to do! I want him to take the burden of decisions away from me and take control!
I scrub my clit faster, my eyes squeezing shut as tingling pleasure works its way up my spine and down again, blooming in my groin.
His blanket brushes against my thigh, and for a second, I imagine it’s his big, rough hand sweeping against me. I imagine his gruff tone in my ear, his big hand swatting my little pussy until it’s dark red, juicy, and dripping. I imagine him tugging my hips up onto his shoulders to lick me clean.
Oh God!
I scrub faster and harder, my eyes squeezing shut, my thighs tightening around my hand, my heart pounding, until suddenly, my fantasy comes true and I hear Tucker’s deep voice echo through the room.
“Oh damn,” he groans. “This is a sight.”
I stop breathing. In fact, I don’t even know where the air has gone to, I only know it’s lost. I can’t find it. My lungs burn, my clit swells, and my stomach does flips.
“Don’t stop.” He pulls back the blankets and stares at my bare pussy. “You’re in my house and laying in my bed. This show is for me.”
This is what I wanted, but I’m frozen. I wanted him here, but I can’t move.
Oh my God, this can’t be real!
“Come on, princess. It’s just you and me. No one else has to know what a filthy, little slut you are. Make yourself come for me.” He rubs his cock through the denim in his jeans as he speaks.
It’s long and thick. Of course, he’s long and thick.
Clearly, there’s no mercy in the universe for me.
My brain screams for me to stop, screams for me to run, screams for me to do the right thing. However, my body does the opposite of all of that. My body lets go of all apprehension.
I spread my legs and present to him like a butterfly, as I scrub my pussy hard and fast, moaning and sighing as I arch my back away from the bed and thrust my hips upward.
“That’s right,” he growls low. “Come all over that little pussy. I need to taste you right now.”
Oh God.
I grind upward into my own touch as he stands at the end of the bed, still brushing the hard lump in his jeans. “I’m so close,” I moan.
“Scream for me. Nice and loud so the whole fucking campground knows you’re up here being naughty.”
A second later, I do. I scream so loudly that my body’s convulsing as I come right here on his bed and soak his sheets.
I should be ashamed of myself. I should be humiliated.
“Hand,” he groans, his face like stone as he reaches for my wrist then lands the two fingers that’ve been soaked in my pussy onto his tongue.
Eyes on me, he sucks hard and slow with a growl. “Jesus Christ, you taste good.”
I’m numb. Numb but more alive than I’ve ever felt in my life. Numb and completely on fire. Numb and lost to the world, no longer able to think straight.
“On your knees, princess. You need to be punished.” He growls low as he stares at me, and though I know I should walk away, every cell in my body comes to life when he orders me down, and all I want is the simple, barbaric pleasure of this man’s thick cock in my throat.