In Ruins (3 page)

But then he kisses me. Not hot and hard like at the party, but slow and deep.

He pulls away and smiles a new smile. Not his knowing, cocky Tucker-smirk, or his carefree, playful Tucker-grin, but something almost shy, almost vulnerable.

A flash of a memory reminds me of the first time I ever saw Tucker look vulnerable. The Father's Day after his dad died when we were in the seventh grade. I lost my father in an entirely different way a few years earlier, and we were the only ones in our art class with no one to make a card for. We bonded that day. It was the day we went from classmates who teased each other to friends. Real friends.

I reach out to trace the curve of his mouth, and instantly he's back. Tucker smirks with lustful intent, and then he's unlocking his door and pulling me up the stairs.

“I've pictured you on my bed a million times, Princess.”

I laugh. “I've been on your bed before,” I remind him. Never alone. In fact I've never been alone with him in his bedroom at all. But in a group of friends, hanging out, watching a movie, I've been here, and the room is familiar and comforting. His scent fills the air, relaxing me despite the anxiety inherent in what I'm about to do. What
we're
about to do.

Tucker's smirk stretches wider. “Not the way I'm talking about.” He tugs me to him, resuming his kiss.

I reach for his T-shirt and pull it over his head, and he maneuvers to help me. His fingertips brush the tops of my thighs as they grasp the hem of my cover-up, then it's gone and I'm standing in my damp swimsuit, which is really just a few scraps of material that happen to be connected by a thin mesh cloth, making it a one-piece instead of a bikini. Tucker's eyes rove over me from head to toe and back again, lingering on a few choice parts, and I watch, riveted, as his eyes darken and his smirk vanishes.

I step closer and let my fingers explore his intricately sculpted body, starting at his chest before tracing the grid of his stomach. He sucks in a sharp breath as my gaze wanders south to where he strains against his board shorts, and I hope he doesn't notice my thick swallow.

He won't know how new this all is to me. I know he'd never suspect that I'm a virgin, and even less so that the extent of my sexual experience was giving my first boyfriend a hand job when I was fourteen. I've kissed plenty of guys, and most of our friends have done far more than that, so people just assume that I have, too. I don't have a reputation for being a slut or anything, but no one would guess that kissing is pretty much
all
I've done.

So Tucker doesn't know how bold it is for me to slowly let my hand continue down past his waistline, and palm him over his bathing suit.

My desire for him is so heady it makes the room spin, and I stumble before regaining my footing. I blink up at Tucker, my vision blurred by lust and alcohol, and it takes me a moment to realize he's looking at me funny. Almost suspiciously.

“How much have you had to drink?” he asks out of nowhere.

I shake my head. Because the answer is
too much
, and Tucker is too good of a guy. If he realizes how drunk I am, I have no doubt he will stop this.

He takes a step back, pinning my jaw between his fingers and bringing his eyes down to my level. I try to appear focused and in control, but his expression confirms that I'm failing.

The room tilts suddenly and I grab on to his shoulders to anchor me. But it doesn't stop me from taking another staggering step, and he catches me around my waist as I fall into him.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. “I knew this was too damn good to be true…Serves me fucking right.”

“Tuck—”

“It's okay, Princess. I'm sorry. I should have realized.” He ignores my shaking head. “Come on, let's get you some water.” He starts to lead me out of the room, but I dig my bare heels into his plush rug.

“I don't want to go.” But my voice comes out strange—a mix of a slur and a breathy plea.

I start to feel dizzy, and I don't want to stand anymore. I walk backward and Tucker accommodates me, guiding me toward his queen-sized bed, its size not distracting from the reality that it is, in fact, still a bunk bed. The thought makes me giggle.

Tucker smiles. “Something funny?”

“When I said to take me home with you, I wasn't picturing the kind of sleepover that involves bunk beds.” I laugh louder, and Tucker joins me.

“Me neither, Princess.” He sighs, and I can't help but feel like I've let him down. Like I've let us both down. His next words confirm it. “But we're not going to have any kind of sleepover. Not if you're drunk.”

I shake my head. “I'm fine,” I insist, but we both know it's a lie.

Tuck doesn't bother arguing the point, he just smiles. “I'll bring you some water.” And he's gone.

I lie back on his bed, watching as his ceiling spins like a fan set on low. I never would have drank this much if I knew it would ruin our night. And yet, I wonder if I'd even be here if it didn't also give me the courage to tell him I wanted to go home with him. Still, I can't help but feel a little wild thrill that I am here, in Tucker's bed, even if he won't do anything about it now. I replay our kisses in my mind, and I flush with renewed desire and a bit of giddiness. Because it's more than just attraction. I
like
him. I've
always
liked him.

“Sit up,” he instructs, his strong arm sliding under my back to help me into a sitting position, and he hands me a bottle of water. “Drink.”

Again, strangely, I obey him without hesitation.

“That's my girl,” he praises, and I smile. “Do you want me to give you some dry clothes? I'll drive you home.”

No.
My stomach falls in disappointment and mild panic. I don't want to leave. I don't want to go back to that huge house, far too vast for three people, whose halls echo with the ghosts of a once happy family. “I don't want to leave.”

Tucker sighs. He runs his fingers through my hair and it's affectionate and sweet, and when he cups my jaw, I lean into his touch. I wait for his kiss, but it doesn't come. “Do you think I want you to go?” he asks with open frustration. “I've waited years to get you here, Carl. But I'm not going to take advantage of you while you're fucked up.” He shifts uncomfortably on the bed. “As much as my dick might disagree with me.”

I gasp a surprised laugh and he smiles at my amusement.

“If you want me, Princess, you're gonna have to admit it when you're good and sober.” It's a challenge, and I wonder if it's one I'll have the nerve to accept.

But it's clear tonight's cause is a lost one. I'm drunk, and Tucker is my friend, and a good one, too. It seems my virginity is safe for at least one more night, and I pout my disappointment.

Tucker brushes a soft kiss to my forehead, and it does something to my heart. These tender touches are new for us, and I'm afraid they're turning my crush into something more. Something decidedly dangerous.

“I don't want to go home,” I say meaningfully, and he knows me well enough to understand. He knows my house is almost always empty, especially on the weekends, when my mom likes to stay in Manhattan and my kid brother, at his best friend's.

“You can stay here, okay? But we can't do anything.”

It means the world to me that he'll let me stay over now that he isn't getting anything in return. Idly I wonder why it would even surprise me, but then I suppose that's just what I've come to expect from guys.

Thank you, Daddy, for the low expectations and abandonment issues.

But, of course, Tucker isn't just some guy who was hoping to get lucky tonight either. He's one of my oldest friends, and my closest guy friend, and I feel a little guilty for momentarily forgetting that just because we almost hooked up.

I avert my gaze in remorse, nodding my agreement to his terms.
The kind of sleepover that does involve bunk beds after all.

Tucker gets up and retrieves a Port Woodmere Varsity Lacrosse T-shirt and a pair of boxers from his dresser and tosses them to me. “Get changed, okay? I'm gonna grab a quick shower. I'll be right back.”

But his shower isn't all that quick, and I suspect I may be the only one going to sleep frustrated.

I'm already in his T-shirt and underwear, curled under his duvet, when he emerges from his en suite bathroom, shirtless and in a pair of flannel pajama pants. He pauses at the foot of the bed and looks between me and the top bunk.

Friends can cuddle, right?

I flip open the duvet in invitation. Tucker only hesitates a fraction of a second before climbing in behind me, and I snuggle back against him. I sigh with contentment as his arms fold around me, feeling unfathomably comforted and protected as I let my eyes fall closed.

“'Night, Princess,” he murmurs hoarsely, pressing a chaste kiss to my hair. But I'm already half in another world, the alcohol and my exhaustion, and Tucker's intoxicating proximity, guiding me into the most peaceful sleep I can remember.

Eleventh Grade

I wake with a start, my erotic dream so real that for a second I still think I'm in Tucker's bedroom. And then my eyes focus, and I realize that I
am
in Tucker's bedroom, and I'm not alone. I blink into bright green eyes, already awake and watching me shamelessly. We're facing each other on our sides, and belatedly I register how close we are, the hard planes of his body pressed right up against my soft curves, my leg curled around his thigh. The hunger I felt in my dream re-materializes with a vengeance, all too real.

“Hi,” I breathe, and Tucker smiles. It isn't his smirk, but that new, sweet smile I had barely a glimpse of last night.

Last night.

The memory comes rushing back and my breath hitches.

I almost slept with Tucker Green!

And then I chew on my lip, realizing that, more than anything, I'm disappointed that we
didn't
.

I feel the evidence of his arousal between us, and I wonder if it's for me, or if he always wakes up this way. I wonder vaguely if I should untangle myself from him, but the simple fact of it is—I don't want to.

“I keep trying to think of something smart to say,” Tucker murmurs. “Some joke or something. But all I can think is how beautiful you look right now.”

And just like that, warmth floods my chest, recalling the comfort I felt in his arms, how well I slept in them.

“We almost—”

“We didn't.” He cuts me off, reassuring me, as if he thinks I might be worried that in my drunkenness I made some horrible mistake.

I blink at him.

“You were drunk,” he reminds me.

“I'm not drunk now.” I gaze up at him meaningfully, flushing with a combination of embarrassment, nerves, and deep desire.

Tucker stares at me for a moment like he's not sure if he's hearing me right. I don't give him a chance to misunderstand. I slide my leg forward over his thigh, one inch, and then another, until my leg is effectively wrapped around him. I brush my fingers over his bare chest, so warm from sleep, and trace the tapestry of muscle and sinew, the soft spattering of light hair.

When I look up at him it's from under my lashes, and I find his eyes hooded and heated. I love that I can feel his need growing between us.

Tucker sucks in a deep breath, and then, he kisses me.

God
, does he kiss me.

It is in no way tentative or unsure—no, it is purposeful and inexorably deep. But it isn't hasty or fast. It's like he's taking his time, maybe to give me a chance to change my mind, or to let me know he's in no rush.

But I
am
. I want to do this. With him. Right now. More than I've ever wanted anything.

My palm slides down, down, following the very masculine lines of his body, the trail of hair, until I'm grasping his telltale erection through thin flannel.

The air hisses through his teeth with his sharp inhale. “Fuuuuck,” he groans, and then something in him breaks. I'm rolled onto my back and suddenly I am being utterly
consumed
. His lips lead the assault, laying claim to the skin of my jaw, my throat. He licks and sucks his way across my collarbone and my exposed shoulder. I'm lost in the sensations, my stomach trembling as his impatient fingers begin an exploration of their own under my shirt—
his shirt
—and then my knees raise of their own accord, my thighs cradling his hips, and I give in to my instinct to lock my legs around him.

Tucker groans again, and then makes quick work of my shirt, tugging it over my head. My breasts are free and he's kissing me and kissing me, and I feel my bare chest pressed against a man's for the very first time. Tucker's chest is a masterpiece, firm where I am soft, curved but not round, and our hands explore each other as he tongues the shell of my ear.

“You're so fucking beautiful, Princess. Tell me you want me,” he rasps. His hand slips between our bodies, tentatively lifting my breasts, feeling their weight. He brushes his thumbs over the sensitive peaks, and pleasure shoots between my legs and I gasp.

“Tell me, Carl,” he demands.

“I want you.” It's a confession. One that's rung through my head a thousand times, but that I've always hidden behind playful quips and combative challenges.

Tucker's eyes fall closed, like he's savoring my words, and I press light, tentative kisses to his jaw, reveling in the rough sensation of his stubble against my swollen lips.

My hips rock upward all on their own, and Tucker answers the motion with his own. He pulls back to meet my gaze, and then his fingers slip under my shorts—
his
boxers
—and he slowly peels them down my legs, never breaking our eye contact as I swallow down my nerves.

His gaze reveals so very much. He's reading me, making sure I'm still with him, and
God
am I with him. But his eyes also blaze with a passionate need, a fire I'm starting to believe has burned a long time, maybe even as long as my crush. And I could be fooling myself, but they may even hold emotion beyond his friendly affection. Or perhaps it's simply the reflection of my own.

No, heart, this isn't about you
.

I need to keep my feelings in check. This is about sex. Nothing else. And there's nothing I could do right now worse than fooling myself into hoping for more.

Tucker's gaze finally leaves mine to rake my naked body for the first time. No guy has ever seen me naked before, ever. I'm not an insecure girl, but there's something inherently nerve-racking in this, and I am, after all, human. Tucker must have seen plenty of girls naked before, and for the first time I find myself wondering if my breasts are too small, if my hips are too wide, and I hate myself for it.

He doesn't say anything for a few moments, and his silence doesn't help my anxiety any. But then I notice the change in his breathing as it quickens and deepens.

His eyes fall closed. “Why do you have to be even hotter than I've imagined?”

I flush all over. I have no other response.

Tucker's hand slips slowly down, down, across my hip bone and between my thighs and we both gasp. No one's ever touched me there—except, well,
me
—and I'm so turned on right now, and the feel of his big, rough hand against my sensitive skin is just unreal.

His gaze shoots to mine. “Princess…you're so wet for me,” he marvels, and my cheeks flush with heat.

My instinct is to challenge him back. “Take off your pants,” I demand. I want to see him, too.

Tucker smirks, but he doesn't hesitate. This is one challenge he's eager to accept.

Then he's naked, but the shadow from the blanket hides him from me, so I kick it off of us. Tucker chuckles as my eyes find their target. I would never admit to him that I'm seeing my first naked guy at seventeen, and I hope my rapt fascination doesn't give me away.

He's long, thick, hard, and darker than I've imagined, and I try not to feel intimidated.

And then his lips are back on my neck, his fingers between my legs, and my attention is refocused. His hand designs a rhythm like a conductor leading an orchestra, and my hips mindlessly play for him like a virtuoso until I think I'm going to explode in a crescendo of harmonious bliss. But he slows his ministrations and the music is hushed but not silenced.

“I want you to come around my dick, not my hand,” he whispers gruffly into my ear.

Yes
. “Yes.”

He grabs a condom from his bedside table and tears it open with his teeth. I watch intently as he rolls it on and positions himself between my legs.

His eyes meet mine and I stare, hypnotized, into my new favorite color—a beautiful deep green that reminds me of spring.

Are you sure?
they ask me.

Hell yes
, mine reply.

And then he's pushing forward. At first he doesn't get very far, and I widen my hips.

“Fuck, Princess, you're so tight.”

I chew my bottom lip, trying not to panic. The last thing I want is for him to suspect I'm a virgin. He won't want that responsibility. He will stop this. I tighten my legs around him and push his ass with my heels, urging him forward, and he pushes harder.

And then he's partly inside me and there's a sharp, almost blinding pain.

“Yes,” I gasp to hide it.

Thankfully he stops for a moment, and I take the time to get used to him. Somehow he knows to go slow, and he rears carefully back, and pushes slowly back in, gaining more ground this time as he groans a sexy, guttural sound that reverberates right in the part of me that seems to both resist and welcome his invasion at once.

“Why do you have to
feel
even better than I've imagined?”

Why do his words turn me on as much as his touch?

“Tucker,” I breathe his name, relishing the way he responds to hearing it.

His pace picks up, his strokes deepen, and I lose myself. I lose myself in Tucker Green.

I find myself moaning, almost whimpering, and it's utterly shameless. I'm glad he doesn't know it's my first time, that he's not treating me like glass.

The harder and deeper he moves, the more I want to match him.

And then his hand is between us, stroking me where we fit so perfectly together, and I burst.

I pulse around him, moaning his name, holding him to me, holding him
in
me.

He sucks in a shaky gasp, burying his face in my neck as he thrusts himself deep inside me and pants, “Fuck, Princess,
fuck,
” and then he stills.

He collapses on top of me, gasping for breath, our chests heaving together with blissful exertion. I'm in no rush to get him off of me. I love the feel of his weight, even if it is a bit crushing, but he rolls to my side, and presses a hard kiss to my lips.

“
God
, Carl,” is all he says, looking at me like he doesn't quite know what to make of me now. Like I am some unfamiliar creature he's only just discovered, and he would like very much to study me further.

“Yeah,” I breathe, but I can't help wondering if it's always that good for him—if every girl he's been with has experienced the same thing.

He slings an arm around my waist and we just lie there as I cuddle into him, in no hurry to leave his bed. Considering my lack of experience, my comfort level right now is pretty astonishing. I could spend a lazy morning with him, just like this—no clothing necessary.

I just wish I knew what he was thinking right now—if he would even want me to stick around. Because I have nowhere to be. I doubt my mother has noticed I didn't come home last night, and my kid brother Billy is camping with his friend Kyle and his family. Tina is the only one who might worry, so I reach over the side of the bed where my purse has been unceremoniously dumped, and grab my phone to text her that I'm fine. Tucker takes the opportunity to check his own phone, and when I'm done, he's still busy, eyes fixated on his screen.

So I wait. And wait. I try not to watch him, to give him his privacy, but when several minutes pass and he's still texting God only knows who, I'm flooded with self-doubt.

Does he want me to leave now?

And he texts and texts, and doesn't so much as glance my way, and I have no choice but to take the hint. Tucker sits up at the same time I do, but he's out of the bed before I can even get my legs over the side.

It startles me. It's been barely ten minutes and three words since he was inside of me.

He tugs on a pair of jeans, and for a moment I just watch him, a little stunned. And still, his thumbs race over the touchscreen as he fucking texts and texts.

And in this moment I absolutely hate myself. Not for giving my virginity to someone who only wanted me for sex, and not for shamelessly taking what I wanted from him in return. But for wanting
more
. For being this girl right now.

And to make matters worse, I am at a severe disadvantage. I have no clothing except for a bathing suit and a cover-up, and I am without my car.
Wonderful
.

“Can I—uh, borrow these?” I hold up the boxers and T-shirt Tucker let me sleep in last night, and finally he looks up from his phone.

His expression surprises me. I expect dismissive, even callous, but he looks ambivalent. Worried and remorseful. His eyes have darkened to their usual army green, as if they're waging some kind of internal war as he glances between me and his phone. I am competing with a piece of technology.

Or whoever's on the other end of it.

I am fucking pathetic.

“God, I'm so sorry, Carl, but I really have to go.”

I blink at him. Is this some kind of act he puts on for all of his casual fucks? A genius way of getting rid of us while making
us
feel bad for
him
?

Wow, he's even better at this game than I realized.

I hold up the clothes again and raise my eyebrows, all the while trying to be as nonchalant about this as he is, telling myself I don't care.
I don't care, I don't care, I don't care
.

Tucker sighs and pushes his hand through his hair, looking exhausted all of a sudden. “Yeah, Princess, of course,” he says of the clothes.

“Thanks.”

He drives me home in silence, and I continue to tell myself I don't care—that this is what I signed up for.
Lies
.

I don't look at him when he parks in my driveway, but he grabs my elbow before I can jump out of the car.

“Carl—”

“Thanks for letting me crash,” I say brightly, plastering on my masterful smile.

Tucker's brow furrows. “Yeah. Of course.”

And then I flee from his car and into my house before the player can spit any more of his game. And I can fall for it.