“Hate fuck me,” I interrupt.
He’s not. We’re past that. I don’t hate him. I know he doesn’t hate me. That’s not what this is. But that’s what we’re going tocall it so I don’t do something stupid like ask him to spend the night. Or cry. Or fall for him.
He stares at me for a long moment, studying my eyes, clearly reading me. I just stare back.
Then he nods. “Yep. Hate fuck you. So well that you’re going to hate me right back, andonlyme, for a very long time.”
God, he really needs to stop using ‘hate’ in place of other words that we arenotgoing to use with one another,ever.
I am not going to fall in love with Tucker Hastings.
There are a lot of other things this man should be doing with his mouth right now.
I lift on tiptoe, grab the back of his neck, and kiss him.
A deep, rumbly growl sounds in his chest, and he immediately deepens the kiss, tipping my head, his thumb pressing into my chin urging me to open, then stroking his tongue deep and insistent when I do.
I try to arch closer, hooking a leg around his, moaning into his mouth, but he drops a hand to my hip, pinning me against the wall, holding me still, as if he’s going to take his damned time on this kiss and he’s not going to let me rush things.
The kiss is hungry, but it’s not frantic. He tastes me. Fully. Over and over.
Until I’m moaning even louder and pulling at his shirt.
He finally releases my hip and lifts his head. He pushes my jacket off my shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. “Okay, Badass,” he says. “Get naked.”
I quickly reach for the bottom of my shirt, stripping it over my head. I’m not wearing a bra, and I really appreciate Tucker’s sharp inhale.
“Fuck, Finley.”
“Less talking, more stripping,” I tell him, kicking off my boots.
He gives me a smirk and reaches behind his head, grabbing his shirt and yanking it over his head.
Oh, damn, the manual labor this man does is so good to him. I resist a “fuck, Tucker” of my own, but I can’t wait to drag my hands, and tongue, all over the planes and ridges of all those muscles.
No! No dragging, no tongues. There’s no time for that. Hard and fast. Get him out of here before he does something that makes you really stupid.
I reach back and unzip my skirt, pushing it over my hips, leaving me in only a sheer black thong.
He stops with his fly undone, his fingers in the waistband of his jeans.
“Finley…”
Then I strip the thong down my legs too. Slowly. Relishing, for just a moment, that the man standing in front of me slack-jawed, like he’s never seen a naked woman before, is the guy who once called me weird.
“What was it that you called me back in high school?” I ask, running my hands over my stomach and up to my breasts. “Creative? No, that wasn’t it.”
“Finley,” Tucker says, his voice pained.
“Cute?” I frown, cupping one breast. “No, that’s not right.”
“I’m so sorry. You know that.”
“Was it cool?” I ask. I shake my head. “I don’t think that was it.” I play with my nipple and pin him with a gaze.
He groans and shoves a hand through his hair. “I was a dumbass.”
“Creepy.” I lift my hands, running them throughmyhair, causing my back to arch and thrust my breasts forward slightly, my naked body on full display. He can see my piercings, my tattoos, and all my curves. “That’s what it was. You called me creepy. And weird.”
