“Yesss,” he hissed, nipping her earlobe as it slipped from his lips.

The jolt zapped her nipples, which were taut and aching for his touch, and went all the way to her clitoris, where Tucker’s cock was a hard, steady presence, and she whimpered at the potent stimulus. She tried to move, rock her hips, but his hand clamped tighter.

“Please…” She moaned. “Tucker.”

“What, baby?” he asked, all low and rough. “What do you want?”

Something. Anything. Her arousal was obliterating everything in its path, stoked by the constant press of him through their clothes. She wanted to come. She wanted to be naked. She wanted him naked. She wanted to touch him, to explore his body, to feel the hardness between his legs in her hand, to map the contours of that enticing bulge. She wanted to know him.

She wanted him to come.

…

Tucker was too far gone to register Della’s hand sliding between their bodies until it was almost too late. But finally the urgent messages punctured the thick hide of lust fogging his senses, and he grabbed for her wrist just before her hand reached its target. If she’d managed to hit pay dirt, Tucker wasn’t so sure he could be as chivalrous as his conscience demanded.

She moaned crankily in protest, her mouth breaking away. Her lips were wet and crushed-looking, the blue of her eyes all hazy, and fuck if that didn’t make him want to kiss her again.

Her brows beetled together as her chest rose and fell in an agitated rhythm. His breathing was in a similar state of agitation. “Please, Tuck. I need to touch you.”

Tucker’s cock almost burst through his fly at the streak of desperation giving her softly spoken request the impact of a sledgehammer. It was completely in favor of Della’s wishes. Unfortunately for it—this was not a democracy. It didn’t get a vote.

He’d stopped being ruled by that disruptive little fucker a long time ago.

He understood the desperation she felt, because he needed to touch her, too. To learn every inch of her skin. To get to know every freckle and mole, explore every dip and rise. To catalogue every pant and moan and whimper.

And God…he needed to know her inside as well.

But there was time for all that. They’d agreed yesterday to take it slow, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to blow it. Slow and steady it was, even if they both wanted to jump ahead.

And it was waaaay fucking harder than he thought it would be.

Last night, against the door, it had taken all his willpower not to let his hands wander beneath her skirt. And, right now, God help him, the urge to buck and grind against the heat of her core, which was practically burning a hole in his fly, was overwhelming.