Ten days later, on a quiet Thursday afternoon, Tucker was whistling as he cut up fruit for cocktails. He had no idea why a man with balls as blue as the Cookie Monster had a right to be so fucking chipper, but he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.

Last night, he’d gone down on Della for the first time. They’d been having a good time taking things slowly, even if it was a delicious kind of torture, having both lost their shirts over a week ago, and while he could play with and suck on her nipples for hours, her underwear and what was inside had been the next frontier.

To say she’d had a good time was the understatement of the century. He’d didn’t like to brag, but he’d made her come twice in five minutes with his tongue, and she’d looked at him like he was some kind of wunderkind.

And they hadn’t even had sex yet.

He didn’t need a crystal ball to know that was going to be an out-of-body experience. For both of them. The fact that he was suffering from a severe case of what Drew called MSP—massive sperm pressure—almost guaranteed it. He’d been assured most of his life that it wasn’t possible to die from being this backed up, but his sperm levels were definitely reaching critical mass.

He should have taken himself in hand that first night after he’d kissed her in Denver and things had escalated wildly out of his control. God knew it would probably have been the quickest tug he’d ever had in his life. But he refused to put Della in some spank bank and pull out her image for some quick, mindless gratification.

He was perfectly okay with her using him for that purpose, but it didn’t feel right the other way around. And yes, he could have still indulged in a spot of manhandling and thought of something else, somebody else, but he hadn’t thought of another woman in such a long time he wasn’t sure he knew how. His brain had been totally stuck on Della, so jerking off had not been on.

And yet still, despite the load he was carrying, he couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. Della was happy, and he was responsible for at least some of that.

“Why are you whistling?”

Tucker glanced over his shoulder at the familiar voice to see Arlo and Drew sitting their asses on stools. Arlo was, as usual, in his uniform, like Tucker needed another reminder that the brother of the woman he was secretly bringing to orgasm every night packed a taser and a gun.