Probably precisely because he hadn’t gone there, Della was staggeringly curious. Winona’s books were full of women who went down on their partners. Who loved it.

So she knew it could be great.

And she at least wanted to try. Because, this time, it was her choice. Not an act of violence or assault or submission. Not performed through self-hatred and sick, twisted beliefs about the sanctity of a woman’s body. But an act of passion, of desire.

She supposed tonight could end in disaster. She could be hit with a flashback that could be embarrassing in the middle of it all, but if it was going to happen with anyone, she’d rather it be with Tucker. He might not know the details of her abuse, but he was cognizant of it and wouldn’t push her past her point of comfort or think she was weird if she was suddenly overwhelmed or, worse, freaked out.

But she wanted to go there.

Of course, she knew she couldn’t just drop to her knees as soon as he walked through the door and yank on his fly, which was what she really, really wanted to do, because she wanted to watch those eyes of his heat and darken like they had that night in Denver before he’d pulled himself back into check. He’d been very careful not to lose control like that again, despite all the stuff they’d done since, which only made her yearning for it stronger.

She’d never felt sexually powerful in her life until that moment, knowing that he was out of his mind with lust over her. Todd’s loss of control had always been about his demons. Tucker unleashing like that had been about desire. It had been wonderful, and God help her, she wanted it again.

But Tucker was too focused on her and her needs to worry about his own, particularly when he first arrived. It was like he spent the ten-minute walk from Jack’s each night constructing his game play and then ruthlessly carrying it out to the letter.

She could just ask him. Tell him. But she shied from the thought. She didn’t want to ruin things by such overt direction. She wanted to make it an organic part of tonight.

Betty barking alerted her to Tucker’s presence, and she eagerly opened the door. The dog dashed out, yipping happily, to find Tucker walking slowly backward toward her house from across the street.

Eadie, her neighbor over the road, was holding a pie. Another pie.

“Night, Mrs. Doyle,” Tucker said, his deep voice carrying easily in the still of the cool night air. “I’ll call by in the morning with some tools to fix that broken faucet.”

“Oh, Tucker, you are such a dear.” Eadie beamed.