Her blatantly direct statement slugged him right in the middle of his chest, and his dick voted with an instantaneous booyah. But the easily led did not get a say.

And Tucker had read enough about triggering these past weeks to be wary about going there.

“Are you…sure you can handle that?”

It didn’t matter how serious she was, it would give him zero pleasure to be the cause of a flashback or any kind of psychological distress. Turning the light out that night had been harrowing enough to witness.

“Yes. I want to give you the kind of pleasure with my mouth that you’ve been giving me with yours.”

Jesus. His balls throbbed at the steely determination in her voice, and he dragged in a breath as heavy as lead. He really, really wanted her to suck his dick, too.

“Just let me try.” She took a step forward and, dropping to her knees as she’d done before, reached for his fly.

It took all of Tucker’s willpower to shield himself once more. Never had he been so conflicted over a blow job. Christ. Tucker shoved his other hand through his hair. “What if you have a flashback?”

“Then I’ll stop.” Her fingers curled over the top of his and pulled gently at his hand. Tucker resisted. “And you can hold me.” Another tug at his hand. “And we can talk about it.”

When she pulled at his hand this time, Tucker’s resistance, which had been pretty much at breaking point, snapped so loudly he was surprised they hadn’t heard the crack in Kansas.

Damn it. Why was he fighting this so hard? He’d asked her to be sure about wanting to progress things, and the woman was kneeling in front of him being as sure and as clear as was possible.

Dragging in an unsteady breath, he removed his hand from his crotch, sliding it straight onto her face, cupping her cheek as his fingers slid into her hair. His thumb stroked over her cheekbone, his heart beating loud and fast, his chest tight. “If you need to stop…”

She rubbed her cheek into his palm. “I’ll stop.”

Tucker swallowed as her fingers slid to his fly, and she slowly drew the little tab all the way down, the release of each zipper tooth loud as a gunshot in the dead-of-night silence typical of Credence. Mrs. Doyle’s bat ears were probably already twitching.

His heart thumped in his chest, and the air in his lungs was thick as soup as he waited, belt and fly hanging open, his erection straining against the confines of cotton boxer briefs and thick denim. It bucked almost violently when her index finger finally touched down. The touch was featherlight, but he felt it deep inside his buttocks. He tightened his hand in her hair as a low groan was pulled from his throat.