Okay guys, this is my first time writing fanfic—especially on Tumblr. English isn't my first language, but I’m obsessed with *Off-Campus* and need to get these fantasies out of my head. Honestly, this account is mostly for me and my own crazy ideas, but if anyone is interested, I hope you appreciate the effort.
How jealous the *Off-Campus* guys get and what they’d do about it:
Warnings: strong language, (18+), jealousy but they’re all still total green flags, dirty talk, smut, spicy, girl don’t kill me I’m trying, in reality it's almost all sweetness and nice things except John Tucker because I love that man, he's my husband and I decided so
Garrett Graham — Jealousy: 7/10
I think Garrett is a solid 7/10 when it comes to jealousy.
The guy is working on it, and, to be fair, he’s actually gotten pretty damn good at hiding it. Deep down, Garrett knows jealousy is stupid. He trusts you completely, and he knows that you’re allowed to talk to people, laugh with them, have friends, have a life that doesn’t revolve entirely around him.
Knowing all of that, however, doesn’t stop that unpleasant heat from crawling up his throat whenever he sees you with someone who makes you laugh a little too much.
That’s when he has to bite down on his lower lip—sometimes hard enough that he can almost taste blood—to keep himself from saying something he knows he’ll regret.
Because he refuses to make his jealousy your problem.
So, with you, he’ll behave in the calmest, most reasonable way possible. No scenes. No passive-aggressive comments. No dragging you away from someone just because his brain has decided to torture him.
He’ll wait.
And then, when you’re finally alone, you’ll feel him slowly approaching from behind, his hands finding your waist, his chest pressing against your back—and Garrett will tell you exactly how he intends to solve the situation.
For example:
You’re at one of the countless parties Dean and Beau have somehow managed to organize.
The house is packed, music vibrating through the walls, people talking over each other and celebrating that night’s win. Garrett is standing near the beers with a few of the guys, half-listening to a conversation about the game they’d just won.
He laughs at something someone says, takes another sip from his drink, and then turns his head to look for you.
He always does that.
It isn’t even something he consciously thinks about anymore. Every few minutes, his eyes automatically search the room until they find you. Just checking. Making sure you’re okay, that you’re having fun, that you don’t need anything.
And when he finally spots you, Garrett feels that familiar fire burn at the back of his throat.
You’re leaning against the kitchen counter, talking to one of your classmates.
Nothing unusual. Nothing suspicious.
Just a conversation.
But, fuck, you look beautiful tonight.
The warm golden lights from the kitchen seem to make your skin glow, and every time you smile, Garrett finds himself staring for a second longer than he should. You’re always beautiful to him—he genuinely doesn’t think there’s a version of you that isn’t—but there are moments like this when he simply stops and looks at you.
And thinks about how insanely grateful he is that you’re his.
Then your classmate says something that makes you laugh.
He leans closer.
And while laughing with you, his hand lands briefly on your arm.
It’s nothing.
Garrett knows it’s nothing.
The touch lasts barely a second, and there’s nothing about it that necessarily suggests genuine interest.
But Garrett is a man.
And Garrett knows men.
His fingers tighten around the bottle in his hand.
His jaw clenches.
He bites the inside of his lower lip and forces himself to take a slow, deep breath.
Nothing is happening.
You’re just talking.
She’s allowed to talk to another guy, Graham. Jesus Christ.
So he stays exactly where he is.
He doesn’t interrupt you. He doesn’t walk over and throw an arm around you just to make some ridiculous territorial statement. He doesn’t glare at the guy until he gets uncomfortable enough to leave.
Even though a tiny, considerably less mature part of Garrett really, really wants to.
Instead, he waits patiently for your conversation to end.
The exact second your classmate finally walks away, however, Garrett is already excusing himself from his group.
It takes him less than a minute to reach you.
You barely have time to notice him before two familiar hands settle firmly around your waist.
Garrett pulls you back against him, keeping you close, his warm, solid body pressed against yours. You immediately recognize his touch, relaxing into him as his chin nearly brushes your shoulder.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
His voice is perfectly casual.
Almost too casual.
You turn your head slightly, already smiling. “Hey.”
Garrett presses a soft kiss against your temple before glancing toward the direction your classmate disappeared in.
Then his attention returns completely to you.
His thumbs slowly brush against your waist.
“So…” he murmurs, lowering his head until his lips are close to your ear. “Who was your friend?”
And there it is.
That carefully controlled tone.
You have to suppress a laugh.
Because Garrett Graham might be very good at hiding his jealousy from everyone else.
“A guy from my biology class,” you answer with a small laugh, already knowing exactly what’s going through Garrett’s head.
His arms tighten around you almost immediately.
Not enough to hurt, never that, but enough to pull you more firmly against him, your yback fitting perfectly against his chest. Garrett lowers his head until his mouth brushes the shell of your ear, his breath warm and deep against your skin.
A shiver runs straight down your spine.
Of course, he notices.
Garrett notices everything when it comes to you.
“I was just wondering…” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, rough tone that tells you exactly where his thoughts have gone. “Does your guy from biology class know how good you sound when you’re underneath me?”
His words are accompanied by his hand slowly leaving your waist, sliding down until his fingers settle against your thigh.
Your breath catches.
“Garrett,” you protest quietly.
Except it doesn’t sound much like a protest.
Especially considering you’re practically melting against him, your body automatically leaning into his touch.
And he knows it.
The asshole.
You can practically feel his satisfied smile against the side of your face.
“I’m just saying…” Garrett continues innocently, as if the words coming out of his mouth are anything close to innocent. “The entire time he was making you laugh, I was standing over there watching you.”
His thumb traces a slow line against your thigh.
“And I kept remembering how good you feel against me. How you scream my name when I push inside you. How my mouth devoured you right before coming here. . How I’m the only one lucky enough to see you like that.” His voice softens slightly, even if the jealousy underneath it is still painfully obvious. “How I get to touch you like this.”
His fingers tighten around your thigh.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough to remind you that he’s there.
That particular possessive streak of his slipping through the cracks despite all his attempts to keep it under control.
You turn your head to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “I thought we were working on the jealousy thing.”
“We are.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
You glance pointedly at the hand still gripping your thigh.
Garrett follows your gaze.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then he shrugs.
“This is progress.”
You snort. “How exactly?”
“Because five minutes ago, I wanted to walk over here, throw you over my shoulder, and carry you upstairs.”
You stare at him.
Garrett flashes you that infuriatingly charming grin.
“And I didn’t.”
“Wow. Incredible self-control.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. I’ve been working really hard on myself.”
You roll your eyes, but Garrett is already laughing quietly, pressing a kiss against the spot just below your ear.
Then another.
His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining with yours as his lips brush your temple.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Wanna go for a little walk?”
You immediately narrow your eyes.
“A walk?”
“Mhm.”
“Where?”
Garrett’s expression is far too innocent.
“The guest room’s empty.”
You stare at him for another second.
Then you laugh despite yourself, shaking your head as Garrett gives your hand a gentle tug.
Okay.
Garrett Graham might be getting better at managing his jealousy…
…but he’s still Garrett fucking Graham.
Dean Di Laurentis — Jealousy: 1/10
Dean is probably the least jealous person you’ll ever meet in your entire life. A solid 1/10.
Sorry, Dean girls, but your man is simply way too confident in himself to get genuinely jealous.
And it’s not because he doesn’t care. Quite the opposite.
Dean adores you.
He just also happens to possess the kind of ridiculous, borderline-insufferable self-confidence that makes jealousy almost impossible for him.
You could be standing at the campus bar, minding your own business, when some guy walks up to you and starts blatantly flirting. And Dean?
Dean would watch.
Completely unbothered.
The guy could lean against the counter, flash you his best smile, flex his muscles every chance he gets, compliment your outfit, offer to buy you a drink—and Dean would probably be somewhere nearby trying not to laugh.
Because Dean doesn’t get jealous. Dean gets competitive for fun.
He’d start shamelessly listing all his best qualities, casually one-upping whatever the other guy had just bragged about. And then, because apparently his ego isn’t big enough already, he’d start listing all the things you’ve told him you love about him.
His muscles. His hands. His smile. The way he kisses you. That one specific thing he does that you once admitted drives you crazy.
And yes—he remembers every single compliment you’ve ever given him.
Not because he needs reassurance.
He just thinks this is fucking hilarious.
For example:
You’re sitting at the campus bar when you notice the guy beside you has been trying to get your attention for the last five minutes.
And, unfortunately for him, Dean notices too.
Not that he seems particularly bothered by it.
In fact, from where he’s standing a few feet away with Garrett and Logan, he looks almost entertained.
The guy says something to you, flashing you a smile as he casually flexes his arm against the counter.
Dean’s eyebrows shoot up.
Oh.
So that’s what you’re doing.
“Is he seriously flexing?” Garrett mutters.
Dean takes a sip of his beer, eyes still fixed on the interaction.
“Apparently.”
“You gonna do something?”
Dean slowly lowers his bottle.
A grin spreads across his face.
“Yeah.”
Garrett immediately looks concerned.
“Why did you say it like that?”
But Dean is already walking toward you.
You notice him approaching just as the guy beside you starts telling you something about how often he goes to the gym.
Suddenly, a familiar arm slips around your waist.
“Hey, baby.”
Dean presses an easy kiss against your temple before settling beside you.
“Hey.” You glance up at him suspiciously.
That smile.
You know that smile.
Dean looks toward the guy.
“Sorry, what were we talking about?”
The guy hesitates. “Uh…the gym.”
“Oh, nice.” Dean nods enthusiastically. “Love the gym.”
You close your eyes.
Here we fucking go.
The guy gestures toward his arm. “I’ve been working on putting on more muscle lately.”
“Respect.” Dean looks genuinely impressed.
Then he turns toward you.
“Baby?”
“No.”
Dean blinks innocently. “I didn’t even ask anything.”
“I know where this is going.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He looks back at the guy.
“She loves my arms.”
“Dean.”
“And my shoulders.”
“Dean.”
“Oh!” His expression suddenly brightens. “And my hands.”
You immediately turn toward him.
“Are you seriously doing this right now?”
“What?” He grins. “I’m just contributing to the conversation.”
“You’re bragging.”
“I’m sharing information.”
The guy beside you looks increasingly unsure of whether he should laugh or leave.
Dean, meanwhile, is having the time of his life.
He casually lifts your drink and takes a sip from it.
“She really likes my hands, actually.”
Your cheeks heat.
“I said that once.”
“Three times.”
“You counted?”
“Of course I counted.”
You stare at him.
Dean gives you another infuriating smile.
“And apparently I’m a great kisser.”
“Oh my God.”
“Again—her words, not mine.”
The guy lets out an awkward laugh.
Dean looks at him and shrugs as though to say what can you do?
Eventually, the poor guy mutters something about finding his friends and disappears into the crowd.
Dean watches him leave before turning back toward you.
You cross your arms.
“Were you jealous?”
Dean’s entire face changes.
“Jealous?”
“Yes.”
“Of him?”
There’s a beat of silence.
Dean looks toward where the guy disappeared.
Then down at himself.
Then back at you.
“Baby.”
The sheer disbelief in his voice makes you burst out laughing.
Dean grins and pulls you closer.
“No,” he says, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “I know you’re going home with me.”
You roll your eyes.
His grin only widens.
“And you love my arms.”
“Shut up.”
“My hands too.”
“Dean.”
“And—”
You slap your hand over his mouth.
Dean just laughs against your palm.
Yeah. Dean Di Laurentis definitely isn’t jealous.
Unfortunately, he’s just that confident.
John Logan — Jealousy: 10/10
Girls, John Logan is a full 10/10. Absolutely. No hesitation.
He hates anyone trying to make you laugh, touching you, flirting with you—or, on particularly bad days, simply talking to you for a little too long.
But Logan isn’t controlling. He isn’t violent. He’s not going to tell you who you can or can’t talk to.
No.
Logan calculates every single move down to the fucking millimeter.
You could be at one of his hockey games and some guy happens to sit beside you. He starts talking to you during the game, making comments between plays, occasionally making you laugh—and Logan notices.
Oh, he fucking notices.
He notices where the guy is sitting. He notices every time you turn toward him. He notices when you laugh. He notices when the guy leans closer so you can hear him over the crowd.
And somehow, despite skating at full speed and having an entire hockey game to focus on, John Logan manages to keep track of every single interaction.
So when the game ends and you come looking for him, all happy and smiling because his team won, Logan is already waiting for you.
Then he sees the guy from the stands somewhere behind you.
And, well…
He simply can’t help himself.
His hands immediately find your hips, he spins you around like some ridiculous Disney princess, pulls you straight against him and kisses you deeply enough to make one thing painfully obvious:
John Logan saw everything.
For example:
Logan notices him sometime during the second period.
At first, it’s nothing.
He skates past the boards, glances toward the section where you’re sitting—as he always does whenever he gets the chance—and immediately finds you.
You’re wearing his jersey. Obviously. The sight alone is enough to make the corner of his mouth twitch upward. Then his eyes shift slightly to the side.
There’s a guy sitting beside you.
Whatever.
Logan turns his attention back to the ice.
Thirty seconds later, there’s a whistle.
His eyes automatically return to you.
The guy is talking to you now.
Logan stares for half a second.
Then forces himself to look away.
Who the fuck is that?
“Logan!”
Garrett’s voice snaps him back into the game.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m here.”
He absolutely is not.
The game resumes.
For the next few minutes, Logan manages to focus.
Until he looks again.
And you’re laughing.
His jaw tightens.
Not because you’re doing anything wrong.
Logan knows that.
You’re literally just sitting there, watching his game, wearing his jersey, occasionally talking to some random guy who happened to sit next to you.
There is absolutely no reason for him to care.
Unfortunately, John Logan has never required a reason to be jealous.
The guy leans toward you to say something over the noise of the arena.
Logan nearly misses a pass.
“Jesus Christ,” Garrett snaps as he skates past him. “Focus.”
“I am focused.”
“You’re staring at the stands.”
“I can do both.”
Garrett follows his gaze for approximately two seconds.
He sees you.
He sees the guy.
Then he looks at Logan.
“Oh.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
Garrett laughs and skates away.
Logan spends the remainder of the game exercising what he considers to be an impressive amount of self-control.
He doesn’t glare at the guy.
Much.
He doesn’t let it affect his game.
Much.
And he absolutely does not spend the entire third period wondering who the hell the guy is and why he apparently thinks he’s so fucking funny.
Mostly.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, Logan’s team has won and the arena erupts.
And for a few minutes, everything else disappears.
His teammates surround him, helmets are knocked together, Garrett grabs him by the shoulders, someone screams directly into his ear.
They won.
Logan is grinning like an idiot.
And then he remembers.
The guy.
—————————
You find Logan a little while later.
The second you spot him, your entire face lights up.
“Logan!”
His head snaps toward your voice.
And there you are.
Practically bouncing toward him, smiling so brightly that his irritation immediately melts into something warm.
“Did you see that last—”
You don’t even let him finish.
“You were amazing!”
Logan grins.
“Yeah?”
“Yes!”
You hurry toward him.
Then Logan’s eyes flick over your shoulder.
And there he fucking is.
The guy from the stands.
He’s walking through the crowd several feet behind you, and when he notices you, he lifts his hand in a casual wave.
You smile and wave back.
Logan stares.
Oh.
Absolutely not.
You turn back toward your boyfriend completely oblivious.
“So, anyway, I was—Logan!”
His hands suddenly grab your hips.
You squeal as he lifts you and spins you around.
For one ridiculous second, your feet leave the ground and you genuinely feel like some kind of Disney princess.
“What are you doing?” you laugh.
Logan puts you back down.
But he doesn’t let go.
Instead, he immediately pulls you against him.
Your hands instinctively land against his chest.
He’s still warm from the game, hair damp and messy, cheeks slightly flushed from the exertion.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
You blink.
“Hi?”
His eyes drop to your mouth.
And then he kisses you. Deeply. Not rushed.Not aggressive. Just incredibly, unmistakably deliberate.
One hand stays securely around your waist while the other slides up your back, keeping you close as you melt into him.
When Logan finally pulls away, you need a second to remember what you were talking about.
His hand slides down to your ass and gives it a good squeeze—publicly, right in front of everyone—then moves down to nibble at your neck, just enough to make you melt against him. "My sweet girl," he whispers in your ear. He looks extremely pleased with himself.
You stare at him.
Then your eyes narrow.
“Wait.”
“What?”
You glance behind you.
Then back at him.
And suddenly everything makes sense.
“Oh my God.”
Logan’s expression remains perfectly innocent.
“You were jealous.”
“What? No.”
“You were!”
“I literally wasn’t.”
“John.”
He grimaces.
You only call him John when you’re about to call him out on his bullshit.
“You saw that guy talking to me.”
“What guy?”
You stare at him.
Logan stares back.
“…The guy who sat beside me for the entire game.”
“Oh.” He shrugs. “That guy.”
“You almost broke your neck looking at us during the second period.”
“I was looking at you.”
“He was sitting next to me!”
“Not my fault he chose a bad seat.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
Logan’s arms tighten around your waist.
“He was nice,” you say, purely because you know exactly what reaction you’re going to get.
Logan’s face falls.
“Don’t.”
“And funny.”
“Baby.”
“Really funny, actually.”
“I won the fucking game and this is how you treat me?”
You burst out laughing.
There.
That expression.
That tiny offended pout Logan gets whenever his jealousy wins over his common sense.
You reach up and cup his face.
“You know you’re ridiculous, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And I love you.”
His expression immediately softens.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Logan leans down and steals another kiss.
Much shorter this time.
Then he looks over your shoulder once more.
You catch him.
“Logan.”
“What?”
“Stop looking at him.”
“I’m not.”
“You literally are.”
His eyes return to yours.
A tiny, shameless smile appears.
“Fine.”
You shake your head, laughing as he pulls you closer.
Because John Logan might trust you completely.
He might respect you enough to never tell you who you can and can’t talk to.
But when it comes to jealousy?
10/10.
John Tucker — Jealousy: 0/10… but acts like a 10/10
Tucker is almost impossible to figure out.
Because the truth is, Tucker genuinely believes jealousy is an emotion reserved for men with small dicks. (Sorry, Logan. We know that’s not true.)
He trusts you with his life. He knows exactly how you feel about him, and the idea of another guy somehow stealing you away has never seriously crossed his mind.
There’s only one tiny problem.
Tucker also knows you love it when he gets jealous.
You love that subtle change in his voice. The hand that suddenly stays on your waist a little longer. That sweet Southern smile that somehow becomes slightly more dangerous when another guy has been paying you too much attention.
So technically?
John Tucker is a 0/10.
But when he feels like giving you what you want?
He can behave like a fucking 10/10.
You could be at the Hockey House with Garrett, Logan, Dean, Tucker, and what feels like half of Briar crammed inside. You’re in the kitchen helping Tucker cook when some guy starts blatantly flirting with you—as if Tucker isn’t standing literally three feet away.
And you’re getting annoyed.
Really annoyed.
Tucker knows.
Of course he knows.
But he just keeps cooking, smiling that same sweet, polite smile he always wears.
Because Tucker doesn’t make jealous scenes.
He doesn’t need to.
He trusts you completely.
Besides…
He can make sure you feel exactly how “jealous” he was later, when the two of you are finally alone.
For example:
The Hockey House is absolutely packed.
Again.
You have no idea where all these people even come from anymore.
Music blasts from the living room, someone is yelling about beer pong, Dean is arguing with somebody over the playlist, and you’re fairly certain you heard Garrett threaten to throw someone out five minutes ago.
Meanwhile, Tucker is in the kitchen.
Obviously.
“You know this is supposed to be a party, right?” you tease, standing beside him at the counter.
Tucker glances at you while continuing to chop something.
“And y’all still gotta eat.”
“You’re eighty years old.”
“And yet you love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
His lips twitch.
“C’mere.”
You immediately lean toward him.
Tucker presses a quick kiss to your temple.
“There. Now keep chopping.”
“You’re exploiting me.”
“Absolutely.”
You’re halfway through complaining when someone appears on the other side of the kitchen island.
A guy you vaguely recognize from campus.
“Hey.”
You look up.
“Hi.”
His eyes move over you before he smiles.
Tucker notices.
He doesn’t react.
The guy starts talking to you.
At first, you’re polite.
You answer his questions while continuing to help Tucker, occasionally looking toward your boyfriend.
Tucker seems completely focused on cooking.
Except you know him.
You notice the tiny smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
The guy apparently does not.
“So, are you here with anyone?”
You blink.
Your knife stops against the cutting board.
Tucker’s shoulders move slightly.
Is he—
Oh my God.
He’s trying not to laugh.
You stare at him.
Tucker.
He refuses to look at you.
“Yes,” you answer slowly.
The guy nods, apparently not discouraged.
“Boyfriend?”
“Yep.”
Finally, Tucker glances over.
That sweet smile appears.
The guy follows your gaze.
His eyes land on Tucker.
There’s a pause.
“Oh.”
Tucker gives him a friendly nod.
“How you doin’, man?”
“Good.”
And then—
Nothing.
Tucker simply goes back to cooking.
You stare at him in disbelief.
The guy, somehow interpreting Tucker’s complete lack of concern as permission to continue, turns back toward you.
“You’re really pretty, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“You got Instagram?”
You close your eyes.
Tucker calmly reaches for another ingredient.
“Tuck.”
“Hmm?”
You glare at him.
He finally looks at you.
Those green eyes are sparkling with amusement.
The bastard is enjoying this.
The guy still hasn’t taken the hint.
“Maybe I could get you a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, one drink—”
Tucker finally puts down what he’s holding.
Not hard.
No dramatic slam against the counter.
He simply sets it down.
Then he walks toward you.
You almost smile.
Finally.
His hand settles naturally against your lower back.
“Baby,” he murmurs.
You look up at him.
“Yes?”
Tucker leans down and presses a soft kiss against your temple.
“You good?”
There’s nothing aggressive about the question.
Nothing territorial.
He’s asking you.
And you know that if you said no, the sweet Southern gentleman standing beside you would have this guy out of the kitchen in approximately three seconds.
But you nod.
“I’m good.”
“Okay.”
His thumb brushes once against your back.
Then Tucker looks at the guy.
Still smiling.
“She said no, man.”
Three words.
Calm.
Friendly, even.
But apparently something in Tucker’s expression finally gets through to him.
“Yeah. Right. Sorry.”
The guy disappears.
You watch him leave.
Then slowly turn toward your boyfriend.
Tucker has already gone back to the stove.
You stare.
“That’s it?”
He looks over his shoulder.
“What’s it?”
“You weren’t jealous?”
A laugh escapes him.
“Baby.”
There it is.
That irritatingly calm Tucker expression.
“You know how I feel about jealousy.”
You fold your arms.
“Yes. Apparently it’s for men with small dicks.”
“Exactly.”
“Logan would hate you.”
“Logan hates everybody who looks at his girl for longer than four seconds.”
You laugh.
Tucker turns back toward the stove.
But then you feel his eyes on you again.
You glance over.
He’s watching you.
Really watching you this time.
His expression has changed just enough for you to notice.
You raise an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tucker.”
He smiles.
Sweet.
Innocent.
Completely full of shit.
Then he steps closer.
His hand finds your waist again, drawing you gently against his side before he lowers his mouth toward your ear.
“You like it when I’m jealous, don’t you?”
Your stomach flips.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mhm.”
His lips brush your temple.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
You turn your face toward him. “So you were jealous.”
“Nope.”
“Not even a little?”
“Not even a little.”
You narrow your eyes.
Tucker’s smile widens.
Then his voice drops.
“But if you want me to pretend…”
His thumb slowly brushes your waist.
“…I can do that for you.”
Your face immediately heats.
Tucker chuckles.
“Thought so.”
“Tucker.”
“Later, darlin’.”
And just like that, he steps away and goes straight back to cooking.
As if nothing happened.
You stand there staring at his back.
The asshole even starts humming.
—————————————————————————————————————
When everyone finally leaves, the Hockey House falls into a kind of silence that almost feels unnatural.
Dean is completely passed out on the couch, one arm hanging toward the floor and absolutely no chance of waking up anytime soon. Logan disappeared with his girlfriend a while ago, and Garrett—somehow the responsible one tonight—went to bed much earlier.
That leaves you and Tucker.
And you’re still sulking.
Just a little.
Mostly because of the way Tucker teased you earlier.
The two of you finish cleaning the kitchen together, Tucker looking entirely too pleased with himself every time he catches you glaring at him. He doesn’t say anything about it, though.
Which only makes you more annoyed.
By the time you head upstairs toward his bedroom, you’ve convinced yourself that you’re going to ignore him.
At least for a little while.
You make it approximately three seconds.
The moment you step through his bedroom door, Tucker follows you inside and closes it behind him.
Then his entire demeanor changes.
One second, you’re walking toward the bed.
The next, Tucker catches you around the waist and gently but firmly presses you back against the closed door.
“Tuck—”
His mouth finds yours.
The kiss is deep and immediate, stealing the rest of your sentence before you can even attempt to finish it.
Your hands instinctively find him, one slipping into his hair as Tucker pulls you closer. His hand travels down to your ass, settling firmly against you while his body keeps yours against the door.
When he finally breaks the kiss, you’re both breathing harder.
And Tucker?
The bastard looks smug.
“Oh, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, that satisfied Southern drawl suddenly much more noticeable. “Is this what you wanted me to do?”
You swallow.
Tucker kisses you again, briefly this time.
His nose brushes yours.
“Hmm?”
You don’t answer.
His smile widens.
“Wanted me to show everybody—including that guy—just how much you’re mine?”
“Tucker…”
“What?” he murmurs innocently.
His lips move from the corner of your mouth to your jaw.
“You seemed awful disappointed downstairs.”
He kisses just beneath your ear.
“Thought maybe this was what you wanted.”
Another kiss.
“Me kissing you in front of him, maybe bending you over the kitchen counter”
His mouth travels lower, finding your neck.
“…making it real obvious he didn’t stand a chance.”
You inhale sharply when his teeth graze your skin.
Tucker knows exactly what he’s doing.
He doesn’t usually leave marks.
Not because he doesn’t like them.
Because he knows you do.
And Tucker has always been annoyingly good at knowing exactly when you want something without having to ask for it.
Tonight is apparently one of those nights.
His lips find another spot on your neck, kissing it before his teeth gently catch your skin.
You tighten your fingers in his hair.
Tucker hums approvingly.
“That what you wanted, my sweet girl?”
You nod.
Tucker immediately pulls back just enough to look at you.
His expression is affectionate despite the teasing glint still dancing in his eyes.
“Words, baby,” he reminds you softly.
His hand gives you a playful pat.
Your cheeks burn.
“Yes, Tuck,” you breathe.
“There she is.”
He smiles.
“Good girl.”
You glare at him weakly, which only makes him laugh.
“You’ve been teasing me all night.”
“I know.”
“You knew I was annoyed.”
“Sure did.”
“You’re horrible.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“And you weren’t even jealous.”
“Nope.”
You stare at him.
Tucker’s smile becomes unbearably smug.
Then he leans closer until his mouth is beside your ear.
“But you wanted me to be.”
You hate how quickly that shuts you up.
His quiet laugh vibrates against you.
“Thought so.”
“Tuck…”
He turns his head and presses a surprisingly tender kiss against your cheek.
Then another against your jaw.
“Now,” he murmurs, gently catching your earlobe between his teeth before pulling back to look at you, “since I love you so damn much…”
His thumb brushes affectionately against you.
“…and you’ve been such a good girl tonight…”
Your stomach flips at the look he gives you.
Tucker kisses you once more, slowly this time, deliberately drawing it out before barely pulling away.
“I think I’ll give you exactly what you wanted.”
Okay, that’s all for now. I think it’s obvious that Tucker is my favorite. I hope you enjoyed it—if you have any ideas, feel free to let me know.