John, Actually - John Tucker
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
blurb: after a drunken confession gets misunderstood, tucker spends the next morning thinking he lost his chance before realizing you meant him all along.
warnings: 18+ mdni, fluff, drinking/intoxicated confession, misunderstanding, jealousy, lowkey possessive Tucker, explicit sexual content, oral sex, protected sex, praise, teasing, slight public-risk element because the boys are downstairs, language.
꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs
The problem with being drunk was that you had never been very good at lying when you were sober.
A few drinks only made it worse.
By the time the party had spilled from the living room into the kitchen and halfway down the hall, you were warm all over, curled into one corner of the couch with your legs tucked underneath you, laughing at something Dean had said that probably wasn’t as funny as he thought it was. He knew it, too. That was the problem with Dean. He didn’t need anyone to laugh at his jokes. He already found himself entertaining enough.
Hannah was beside you, shoulder bumping yours, her cheeks pink from the heat in the room. Allie stood near the arm of the couch with a red cup in her hand, watching Dean argue with Garrett over which one of them had worse taste in music.
“You can’t insult my playlist when you listen to old man rock during workouts,” Garrett said.
Dean looked offended. “Old man rock?”
“Your entire Spotify sounds like someone’s divorced uncle buying a motorcycle.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Dean pointed at you like he had just won something.
“See? She gets it.”
“I’m not getting involved,” you said, even as you kept smiling.
“You already did.” Dean dropped onto the coffee table in front of you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His attention shifting onto you was always dangerous. Dean with a target was impossible. “Actually, since you’re feeling honest tonight.”
“No.”
“I didn’t even ask yet.”
“That’s why I’m saying no early.”
Allie grinned. “Smart girl.”
Dean ignored her. “Out of everyone in this house, who would you hook up with?”
Garrett groaned from the kitchen doorway. “Don’t start.”
“I’m curious.”
“You’re nosy,” Hannah corrected.
“I contain multitudes.”
You pressed your cup to your mouth to hide your smile, but that only made Dean’s eyes narrow with interest. He knew weakness when he saw it. Worse, he could smell embarrassment from across a room.
“Oh, you have an answer.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.” He leaned closer. “Look at her face.”
“My face is normal.”
“Your face is guilty.”
“It is not.”
“It’s very guilty,” Allie said, not helping at all.
You gave her a betrayed look. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am. I just also want to know.”
From the kitchen, Tucker moved quietly around the counter, gathering empty bottles and tossing them into a trash bag because, of course, he was cleaning during a party he didn’t even throw alone. That was Tucker. He did things without announcing them, without waiting for praise. He remembered who liked what, who needed water, who had left their jacket upstairs, who needed to be walked home before they got too drunk to text properly.
He was wearing a faded Briar T-shirt and jeans, hair a little mussed, mouth tipped in that quiet half smile he got when everyone else was being ridiculous. He looked over when your laughter rose, and for one second, his eyes caught yours.
Your stomach flipped, and you looked away too fast, fast enough that Dean noticed it, too.
“Oh,” he said.
You pointed at him. “No.”
“Oh, this is good.”
“Dean.”
“You looked at someone.”
“I looked at the room. That’s how eyes work.”
Garrett appeared behind him, instantly interested now that someone else was suffering. “Who did she look at?”
“No one,” you said.
Dean’s grin widened. “She has a crush.”
“I have patience,” you said. “And you’re testing it.”
That only made them laugh. Your face felt hot. The room felt even hotter, or maybe that was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fact that Tucker was still in the kitchen, close enough to hear pieces if he wanted to.
The worst part was that you did have a crush.
A soft, stupid, inconvenient crush on John Tucker that had started slowly and then gotten completely out of hand before you knew what to do with it. It was the way he listened. The way he made space for people without making them feel like a burden. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he was catching details no one else cared enough to notice.
The way he called you sweetheart in that warm voice and ruined your ability to think like a normal person.
Dean tapped your knee with two fingers. “Come on. We’ll be mature.”
Garrett snorted.
“We will not tell a soul,” Dean added.
“You’re literally asking in a living room full of people.”
“Fine. We’ll only tell a few souls.”
You should have kept your mouth shut. You really should have. But you were tipsy, and warm, and tired of pretending you didn’t glance toward the kitchen every time Tucker moved.
So you sank lower into the couch, smiled into your cup, and said, “John. Obviously.”
The reaction was immediate.
Dean sat up straight. Garrett made a noise like someone had handed him a gift. Allie’s brows shot up. Hannah blinked, then turned toward the kitchen, then back to you like she was putting something together too late.
And from somewhere near the hall, Logan looked over.
“Me?” he asked.
Your smile faltered.
Dean burst out laughing. “Logan?”
Garrett pointed at him. “Did not see that coming.”
Logan looked delighted and confused at the same time. “I mean, I’m flattered.”
You stared at him, trying to make the room slow down enough for your brain to catch up. “What?”
“You said John,” Dean said, like this explained everything.
“There are two Johns,” Hannah said carefully.
Dean waved that off. “Yeah, but nobody calls Tucker John.”
Your eyes shot to the kitchen.
Tucker had gone still with a bottle in his hand. Not dramatically. He didn’t freeze in the middle of the room or make some big scene. His posture barely changed, but you saw it because you were always looking at him more than you should have been. His shoulders set a little tighter. His mouth softened out of its smile.
Then he dropped the bottle into the trash bag and looked away.
Your stomach twisted.
“No,” you said, but it came out too soft under all the noise.
Logan raised both hands, grinning. “Hey, I’m not complaining.”
“You should be,” Garrett said. “This is the first time anyone’s ever chosen you while drunk and meant it.”
“Rude.”
Dean leaned back, laughing. “Well, this changes everything.”
“It changes nothing,” you said.
“Sounds like something a woman with a Logan crush would say.”
“I don’t have a Logan crush.”
Logan placed a hand over his chest. “Now that hurt.”
The room kept moving around you, loud and amused, everyone turning the moment into a joke before you could untangle it. You looked toward Tucker again, but he was already turning toward the fridge, pulling out a water bottle.
A minute later, he crossed the living room and handed it to you.
“Here,” he said.
Your fingers brushed his.
Even tipsy, even embarrassed, you could tell he was pulling himself back from you. Tucker was still being kind. Still careful. But there was distance in his expression now, a quietness that hadn’t been there before.
You held the bottle with both hands. “You’re mad at me.”
His gaze flicked over your face. “No, sweetheart.”
“You are.”
“I’m not mad.” His voice stayed gentle, which somehow made it worse. “Drink some water for me, all right?”
For me.
You wanted to grab onto the words and make them mean what you wanted. Instead, you twisted the cap off and took a sip.
Dean was still laughing with Garrett. Logan was still pretending to be smug. No one else noticed the way Tucker’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
You noticed.
Of course you noticed.
Later, when the party thinned and the floor felt a little less steady beneath your feet, Tucker was the one who found your jacket. He was the one who tugged it around your shoulders when you kept missing the sleeve. He was the one who crouched in front of you by the entryway, holding your shoe steady so you could slip your foot inside without tipping over.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you mumbled.
“I know.”
“You always do that.”
His hands paused at the laces. “Do what?”
“Take care of everybody.”
He tied the knot, then sat back on his heels and looked up at you. His face was softer from that angle, the party lights warm on his skin.
“Somebody’s gotta do it.”
You wanted to tell him that wasn’t why he did it. You wanted to tell him he took care of people because it was built into him, quiet and stubborn and good. You wanted to tell him you said John because you meant the one in front of you.
Instead, you touched his shoulder lightly and said, “I said John.”
Something shifted in his face.
“I know,” he said.
But he didn’t know. Not really.
And before you could make your mouth explain it properly, Hannah came over with your bag, and Tucker stood, and the moment slipped away into the cold night air.
He walked you home because he insisted, keeping his hands to himself except when you stumbled on the curb and he caught your elbow.
At your door, you looked up at him, still fuzzy and frustrated and aching with something you didn’t know how to name.
“Tuck.”
His eyes moved over your face.
“Get some sleep,” he said softly. “We’ll talk when you’re sober.”
Then he waited until you were inside before he left.
By morning, you had a headache, a dry mouth, and a terrible feeling that something had gone very wrong.
The Advil on your nightstand helped with the first two.
The third got worse when you checked your phone and found a text from Hannah.
hannah: before you panic, you didn’t do anything bad hannah: but you may need to clarify something you: oh god hannah: yeah
You stared at the screen for a full minute, slowly remembering flashes of the night before. Dean being nosy. Allie laughing. Logan looking over.
John.
Obviously.
Your eyes closed.
“Oh no.”
By the time you made it back to the hockey house later that afternoon, your stomach was tied in knots. You had planned to talk to Tucker privately. That was the mature thing. The adult thing. The thing you were absolutely going to do as soon as you stopped wanting to walk into traffic.
Unfortunately, Dean opened the door.
His grin started before he even said hello.
“Well, well, well.”
“Don’t.”
He stepped aside to let you in. “Our girl returns.”
“I’m not your girl.”
“Logan’s girl, apparently.”
You stopped in the entryway. “I am going to kill everyone in this house.”
From the living room, Logan called, “Not me, I’m the victim.”
“You are not the victim.”
He appeared over the back of the couch, all lazy grin and bright eyes. “I had a beautiful woman confess her feelings and then immediately take it back. I’m wounded.”
“I didn’t confess my feelings to you.”
Garrett walked in from the kitchen with a bowl of cereal. “That’s not what we heard.”
You looked around, heat crawling up your neck. “Where’s Tucker?”
The room went a little too quiet.
That was when you realized he was standing at the far end of the hall, one hand on the laundry room door, his gaze fixed on you.
He had heard you.
Of course he had.
Dean, sensing blood in the water, leaned against the wall. “Why do you need Tucker? Thought you were here for your man John.”
“I was,” you snapped, then immediately wanted to disappear.
Logan’s grin dropped into open delight. Garrett choked on his cereal.
Tucker did not move.
Dean blinked. “Wait.”
You pressed your hands over your face. “I meant Tucker.”
Silence.
Then Logan said, “I’m sorry, what?”
“I meant Tucker,” you repeated, quieter this time, but clear enough that no one missed it. “Last night. When I said John. I meant John Tucker.”
Garrett started laughing first. Dean followed a second later, so loud and delighted you wanted to throw something at his head. Logan looked between you and Tucker, offended in the most dramatic way possible.
“So I was collateral damage?” Logan asked.
“Yes,” you said.
Dean clapped a hand over his mouth like he was trying and failing to control himself. “The wrong John got the ego boost.”
You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
Tucker still hadn’t said anything.
His expression was unreadable in that quiet Tucker way, but his eyes were locked on you now. Not distant like last night. Not hurt. Careful, maybe. Like he was trying to decide whether he could believe what he had just heard.
The laughter around you faded into a dull buzz.
Then Tucker nodded once toward the hall.
“Come here a second?”
Your heart climbed into your throat.
Dean made a low, obnoxious sound, and Garrett slapped his arm.
“Shut up,” Garrett said, still smiling.
You walked past them without looking back.
Tucker led you down the hall, not touching you, and stopped just outside his room. The door was open behind him. You could see the navy comforter on his bed, a folded hoodie on the desk chair, a pair of sneakers lined neatly near the closet. Everything about it was so Tucker that your chest hurt.
He turned to face you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then you said, “I’m sorry.”
His brows pulled together. “What are you sorry for?”
“For last night. For making it weird.”
“You didn’t make it weird.”
“Tucker.”
“All right,” he said, mouth twitching faintly. “Maybe a little weird.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. It came out nervous.
“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you,” you said. “I thought it was obvious.”
“That you meant Logan?”
Your eyes widened. “No.”
“Because it sounded pretty obvious to everyone else.”
“That’s because everyone else is stupid.”
His smile showed for half a second, then faded into something softer. “You said John.”
“Your name is John.”
“Nobody calls me John.”
“I know.” You rubbed your palms against your jeans, hating how shy you suddenly felt. “That’s why I thought it would be obvious.”
Tucker stared at you.
Then he huffed a quiet laugh and looked down, shaking his head. “You’ve had a crush on me long enough to start using my government name?”
Your face went hot. “Don’t say it like that.”
“How should I say it?”
“You shouldn’t.”
He stepped a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that you noticed. You noticed everything when it came to him.
“Were you serious?” he asked.
The teasing was gone now.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His gaze searched yours. “You were pretty drunk.”
“I was tipsy.”
“You were drunk enough that Dean almost made sense.”
“That is not fair.”
“It’s a little fair.”
You smiled, but Tucker didn’t. Not really. His eyes stayed steady on your face, gentle and cautious in a way that made your heart squeeze.
“I’m not gonna do anything because of something you said last night,” he said. “Not unless I know you mean it now.”
Your breath caught.
Sweet, decent Tucker, making sure there was solid ground beneath both of you before he took a single step.
You looked at him and felt every bit of your embarrassment settle into something warmer.
“I mean it,” you said.
His jaw flexed.
“You sure?”
“I’m sober. I’m humiliated, but I’m sober.”
That got you another almost-smile.
“And you meant me?” he asked.
You tried to roll your eyes, but your voice came out softer than you wanted. “I said John.”
“There are two of us, sweetheart.”
“Yeah.” You held his gaze. “But there’s only one I wanted.”
The air between you changed.
It wasn’t loud or sudden. There was no dramatic shift, no big movement. Tucker just went very still, and for the first time since you had known him, you saw the restraint in him crack.
He stepped closer.
Not touching yet. Not quite.
“How long?” he asked.
You blinked. “What?”
“How long have you wanted me?”
You looked past him into his room, then back at his face. “A while.”
His eyes dipped to your mouth.
“I’ve been trying to be decent about it,” he said. “Thought I was doing a pretty good job until last night.”
“What happened last night?”
His mouth tilted, but there was still something bruised underneath it. “I had to listen to you say his name and pretend it didn’t bother me.”
You shook your head. “I said yours.”
Tucker’s hand lifted slowly, giving you time to move away. You didn’t. His fingers touched your jaw, warm and careful, his thumb brushing just beneath your cheek.
“Say it again.”
Your breath came in a little unsteady. “I meant you.”
His eyes held yours.
“Good,” he murmured.
Then he kissed you.
The first kiss was soft. Almost too soft. His mouth moved over yours like he was still asking, like he was giving you every chance to decide this wasn’t what you wanted after all.
You answered by fisting your hand in his shirt and pulling him closer.
The second kiss broke whatever careful thing he had been holding onto.
Tucker made a low sound against your mouth, one hand sliding to your waist as he stepped into you. Your back touched the doorframe. His body was warm and solid in front of yours, and the shock of finally having him this close went straight through you.
He kissed like he did everything else, steady until he wasn’t. Patient until he had a reason not to be. His hand held your waist, thumb pressing lightly through the fabric of your shirt, while the other tilted your face up for him.
When his mouth left yours, it only went as far as your cheek, then your jaw, then the sensitive place just below your ear.
“Tuck,” you breathed.
He paused.
The sound of his name seemed to do something to him. His fingers tightened at your waist, and his breath brushed hot against your skin.
“One more time,” he said.
You closed your eyes. “Tucker.”
He kissed your neck, slower now, open-mouthed and warm. Your knees weakened, and he noticed, of course he noticed, because his arm slid more firmly around you.
Behind you, the living room erupted in laughter over something completely unrelated, muffled by the hallway and the blood rushing in your ears.
Tucker lifted his head. His eyes had darkened, but his voice stayed low. “You want to stop?”
“No.”
“You want to go in?”
You nodded, then remembered he needed words. “Yes.”
His gaze softened for one brief second.
Then he reached past you, pushed his bedroom door open wider, and walked you backward inside.
The door clicked shut behind him.
The sound was small, but it made your stomach tighten.
Tucker turned the lock, then faced you again. For a second, he just looked at you, like he was memorizing the sight of you standing in his room with kiss-swollen lips and nervous hands.
Then his eyes dropped to your mouth.
For a moment, he did not say anything. He just stood there with his hand still near the lock, jaw tight, chest rising a little too slow, like he was trying to decide how much restraint he had left.
Then he crossed the room.
You barely had time to breathe before his hands were on your waist and his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was not soft this time. It was deep, certain, his fingers pressing into your sides as he walked you backward toward the bed. You went with him, hands catching at his shoulders, your stomach flipping at the difference in him.
Tucker was always careful. Always steady.
Now he was steady in a way that felt dangerous.
Your legs hit the edge of the mattress, and he pulled back just enough to look at you.
“You meant me,” he said.
It was not really a question.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His eyes moved over your face, then down to your mouth again.
“Good.”
Then he kissed you again.
His hands slid beneath your shirt, warm palms dragging up your bare skin. You shivered, and he noticed, but he did not stop to ask if you were cold. His mouth stayed on yours while his fingers curled into the hem.
“Arms up,” he murmured.
You obeyed before you could think better of it.
He pulled your shirt over your head in one smooth motion and tossed it aside. His eyes dropped to your chest, still covered by your bra, and the way he looked at you made your face warm.
Not because he looked shocked.
Because he looked focused.
Like every second of holding back had led him here.
“Tucker,” you whispered.
His gaze came back to yours. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” His thumb brushed over your ribs, just beneath the band of your bra. “But you don’t have to be.”
He reached behind you and unclasped it. The straps slipped down your arms, and he pulled it away slowly, adding it to the growing pile of clothes on the floor.
You were bare from the waist up now, standing in front of him in only your jeans, and Tucker went quiet again.
“You’re staring,” you said, but your voice came out weaker than you wanted.
“I know.”
Your breath caught.
His mouth came back to your neck, then lower, open and warm over your collarbone. His hands held your waist as he kissed down your chest, taking his time with you in a way that made your knees feel unreliable.
You gripped his shoulders.
He smiled against your skin. “You wanted me quiet and sweet?”
“No.”
His mouth brushed over your breast, and your answer broke into a gasp.
“No?” he repeated.
You shook your head, fingers tightening in his shirt. “No.”
“Good.” He lifted his head. “Because I’m not feeling very sweet right now.”
The words sent heat straight through you.
You reached for his shirt, impatient now, tugging at the fabric. Tucker let you pull it up, then took over when your hands got clumsy. His shirt came off and landed somewhere near yours.
For one second, you forgot how to move.
He was all warm skin and hard muscle beneath your hands, his stomach tightening when your fingers dragged down the center of his chest. You had seen him shirtless before. Everyone had. But not like this. Not with his mouth still swollen from kissing you and his eyes fixed on yours like he wanted to watch you realize exactly what you had asked for.
Your hands went to his belt.
He caught your wrist before you could open it.
“Not yet.”
Your pulse jumped.
He sat you down on the edge of the bed, then dropped to his knees in front of you. His hands moved to the button of your jeans.
He opened them, dragged the zipper down, and pulled the denim over your hips. You lifted yourself enough to help, and he slid them down your legs. He pulled off one shoe, then the other, then removed your jeans completely and dropped them beside the bed.
You were left in your underwear.
Tucker’s hands settled on your knees.
He spread them apart slowly.
Your stomach tightened at the look on his face.
“There,” he said, voice low. “That’s better.”
Your fingers twisted in the comforter. “You’re being very smug.”
His hand slid up your thigh, his thumb pressing into the soft skin there.
“I spent too long pretending I didn’t want this,” he said. “I’m not pretending anymore.”
You reached for him, but he pushed your hand gently back to the mattress.
“Tuck.”
His eyes lifted.
“Say it again.”
You knew what he meant.
“Tucker.”
The tension in his face shifted into something darker.
He leaned in and kissed the inside of your thigh.
“Again.”
“Tucker.”
His mouth moved higher.
You sucked in a breath when his fingers hooked into your underwear.
He pulled them down slowly, eyes on yours until they passed your knees. Then he took them off completely and tossed them onto the floor with the rest of your clothes.
Now you were naked on the edge of his bed, and he was still kneeling in front of you in only his jeans.
The imbalance of it made your whole body burn.
Tucker noticed.
Of course he did.
His hands slid up your thighs, firm and warm, spreading you open again when your legs tried to close.
“Don’t hide.”
The words were quiet, but there was no uncertainty in them.
You let your knees fall apart.
His eyes dropped.
A rough breath left him.
Then he leaned in and put his mouth on you.
Your back arched instantly, one hand flying to his hair, the other gripping the sheets. Tucker’s hands locked around your thighs, holding you open as he licked into you with none of the hesitation he’d shown at the door. He was still controlled, still Tucker, but this was a different kind of control. The kind that let him take his time because he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Tucker,” you gasped.
He hummed against you, and the vibration made your hips jerk.
His fingers dug into your thighs, keeping you where he wanted you.
“That’s it,” he murmured, mouth brushing against you. “That’s what I want to hear.”
You barely had time to process the words before his mouth returned.
He figured you out fast. What made your legs tremble, what stole your breath, what had you clutching his hair and murmuring his name like nothing else mattered.
When you tried to muffle yourself with your hand, he stopped just long enough to reach up and pull it away.
“No.”
You blinked down at him, dizzy. “They’ll hear.”
His thumb stroked over your wrist once before he pinned your hand gently to the mattress.
“Then they’ll know.”
Your body reacted before you could stop it, clenching around nothing, and Tucker saw it. His eyes darkened, mouth curving slightly before he lowered his head again.
This time, he added his fingers.
You cried out before you could catch it.
“There,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction.
He worked you with his mouth and hand until the room blurred at the edges, until the noise downstairs faded into nothing but a distant hum. He did not need to keep bringing up the mistake. The possessiveness was in the way he held you open, in the way he dragged your sounds out of you, in the way his eyes lifted every time you said his name.
You were close too quickly.
Tucker knew that too.
He curled his fingers, and your whole body tightened.
“Tuck,” you gasped.
He looked up at you.
“Come for me.”
You did.
It hit hard, rushing through you in a wave that made your thighs tremble around his shoulders. Tucker did not stop until you were shaking, until your hand had gone loose in his hair and your breathing had turned uneven.
Only then did he ease back.
He kissed your thigh once, slower now, almost gentle.
Then he stood.
You watched him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and the sight made heat bloom in you all over again.
His eyes stayed on yours as he undid his belt.
The buckle opened. Then the button. Then the zipper.
He pushed his jeans down his hips, taking his boxers with them, and kicked both aside. Now there was nothing between you except the few inches of space he crossed when he leaned over you again.
You reached for him, wrapping a hand around him, and Tucker’s breath caught hard.
His head dipped, mouth brushing your shoulder.
“Easy,” he said, voice strained.
You moved your hand again, slower this time, learning the weight and heat of him.
His hips pressed forward into your touch before he caught himself.
“Sweetheart.”
You liked how wrecked he sounded.
You did it again.
This time, his hand covered yours, stilling you.
“Condom,” he said, rough and breathless.
Even now, worked up and possessive and looking at you like he wanted to forget the rest of the house existed, Tucker remembered.
He reached over to the nightstand, yanked the drawer open, and pulled one out. The wrapper tore between his fingers, and you watched him roll it on, your mouth dry, your whole body aching.
When he looked back at you, something in his expression softened for half a second.
Then he moved over you.
He guided you farther up the mattress, settling between your thighs as you lay back beneath him. His body covered yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head while the other hooked under your knee and pulled your leg higher around his waist.
The first press of him against you made you gasp.
Tucker’s eyes stayed on yours.
“You still want me?” he asked, quiet but direct.
“Yes.”
“Say my name.”
“Tucker.”
He pushed into you slowly.
Your mouth fell open, and no sound came out at first. The stretch was full and deep, enough that your fingers dug into his shoulders. Tucker moved inch by inch, jaw clenched, his breathing rough against your cheek.
When he was finally inside you completely, he stopped.
The pause made everything sharper. The weight of him. The feel of him. The way his hand held your thigh up against his side.
You wrapped your other leg around his waist.
“Move.”
His eyes flashed.
The first thrust was slow, deep, dragging the breath from your lungs. The second was firmer. By the third, your nails were in his back and his mouth was against your neck, breathing hard as he found a rhythm that made your thoughts scatter.
This was not soft, not exactly.
It was intimate because it was Tucker. Because he watched you. Because his hand slid under your back to hold you closer. Because every time your breathing changed, he noticed.
But it was rougher than you expected from him. More possessive. His hips drove into yours with a steady, controlled force, his hand firm on your thigh, keeping you open for him. His mouth moved against your jaw, your throat, your lips, like he could not decide where he wanted to claim you most.
“You feel that?” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “That’s what you do to me.”
You moaned, and his pace deepened.
His hand came to your jaw when you turned your face into his shoulder, guiding you back to him.
“No hiding from me.”
“They’ll hear.”
His eyes held yours.
“Let them.”
Your body clenched around him.
A rough sound left his throat, his forehead dropping near yours.
“You liked that,” he breathed.
You could not deny it. Not with him still inside you. Not with his hand on your face and his hips pressed tight to yours.
So you whispered, “Maybe.”
His mouth curved.
Then he moved again, slower this time, deeper, making your back arch.
“Good,” he said. “Then let me hear you.”
His name slipped out louder this time, and Tucker rewarded it with a thrust that made your legs tighten around him. He kept that rhythm, deep and deliberate, his hand sliding between your bodies to touch you where you were still sensitive from his mouth.
The pleasure sparked fast.
“Tuck.”
“I’ve got you.”
His fingers moved in time with his hips, and suddenly you were right there again, clinging to him, breathing his name against his mouth.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come on, sweetheart.”
You came hard, your whole body tightening around him, a broken sound leaving you as he held you through it. Tucker cursed softly, his rhythm faltering, his face burying against your neck.
A few thrusts later, he followed, pressing deep as his body went tense over yours.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You could feel his heartbeat against your chest. His breathing was uneven, his hand still curled around your thigh, but the roughness in him had gone quiet.
He kissed your shoulder, then your cheek.
“You okay?” he asked, softer now.
You opened your eyes and found him watching you, warm and serious beneath the mess of his hair.
“Very okay.”
“Good.”
He kissed you once, slow and careful, then eased out of you. He disappeared only long enough to take care of the condom, then came back with tissues, a bottle of water, and one of his shirts.
You sat up, still unsteady, and he helped clean you up without making a big deal of it. Then he slipped the shirt over your head, pulling it down around your thighs.
From downstairs, Logan’s voice carried faintly through the floor.
“Tell her I forgive her!”
You covered your face. “Oh my god.”
Tucker laughed quietly and pulled you into his side.
“Don’t worry,” he said, kissing your hair. “I’ll handle him.”
You looked up at him. “And me?”
His eyes softened, smug and warm all at once.
“You’re staying right here.”
