Stopping her hand from going where she clearly wanted her hand to go was an act of self-denial that should earn him a fucking sainthood. Here lies St. Tuck. He died from exploding testicles.

Her hand tensed in his hold, trying to go south again, and Tucker clamped around her wrist a little more firmly. “I’m fine,” he said, leaning in to kiss her neck. “This isn’t about me.”

She pushed him back, her brows beetling even further. “Damn it, Tucker, this is about both of us. Not just me.”

Somehow, she managed to flex her pelvis just enough to ride him a little. Her breath hitched, and Tucker stifled a groan as sensation flooded his loins. Fuck. So damn good. For her, too, obviously, as she shuddered against him. All this heavy kissing, their groins plastered together, had obviously pushed her really, really close to the edge.

Her other hand moved in a determinedly southerly direction, and he had to make a grab for it with the hand he had anchored at the small of her back.

“Tucker.” Her voice was strained and urgent, but she quickly realized she was now free to move her hips, and she did so with no hesitation.

Damn it. He didn’t want to deny her—or him—this outlet of pleasure. His plan for the next couple of weeks had only involved kissing. He’d planned to kiss her so much and so often their lips would be almost permanently numb.

It was rule number two, damn it.

But…he didn’t want her going to bed tonight and using a vibrator to get off when he was perfectly capable of giving her what she wanted. What she needed. He wanted to be the one to put a smile on her face—not some toyfriend from Frieda’s.

“You want to move to the next level?”

Her hips ground to a halt, her eyes, the pupils huge, seeking his. “Yes.”

“Really, Della?” He’d told her he’d check in and he meant it.

“Really.” She panted and rocked her hips again.

His pulse beating like a train, Tucker dragged her hands up to his shoulders, anchoring them there before grabbing her hips and holding her fast again to halt all her crazy-good rocking.

“You want to touch me?” he asked, his voice full of gravel. One hand slipped from her hip, tracing along the front of her jeans until it reached the seam between her legs. “Like this?”

His forefinger followed the stitching upward. She gasped and bucked against him, her grip on his shoulders like a vice. “Easy,” he whispered, leaning into her a little, his lips hovering over hers. “Allow me.”