His easy smile reveals charmingly misaligned teeth. "That obvious?"
"I'm Tucker," he says, eventually.
"Sloane," I reply, offering nothing more. The anonymity is freeing—he doesn't know who I am, about the divorce, about my messy, unfinished life.
I notice his eyes drop to the water lapping at my collarbone, then quickly return to my face. The appreciation in his gaze ignites something low in my belly. When was the last time I felt desired? When was the last time I allowed myself to want?
"And what do you do, Tucker-with-the-aviators, when you're not crashing law school parties?"
He grins and lifts his sunglasses, revealing startlingly blue eyes. "I sell socks and condoms," he deadpans.
The unexpected answer makes me laugh, a genuine burst of amusement I haven't felt in too long. "All right then."
My eyes drift to his chest, where black ink peeks above the water line. A tattoo of a leaping stag, the lines clean and bold against his tanned skin. It’s hot. He’s hot. And he plays hockey with my ex.
Stuck in a mire of emotions, I reach out and trace the outline of his ink with my finger. His skin is warm despite the cool water, and his firm muscles tense beneath my touch.
I want him.
I want filthy, unhinged sex with this man specifically, because he seems like a good time, and because I spent too long being cautious. If I bump uglies with this beautiful white guy, it could be the ultimate fuck-you to my ex, and I’m in the mood for some mischief.
I let my finger continue its path along his collarbone, enjoying the subtle shift in his breathing. Our eyes lock, and I see the surprise in his. He's used to being the pursuer, not the pursued, I think. Good. I need this—the power, the control, the simple pleasure of wanting and taking.
I spent five years making choices to support a man who deceived me and robbed me of the future I imagined. Surely that earns me an afternoon of debauchery? Of the pleasure I know Tucker Stag can dish out?
He doesn’t know who I am, or else he’s more aloof than he seems. The hunger in his gaze gives me the final push I need. I back up to the wall and lift myself out of the pool, deliberately taking my time, feeling his eyes on me as water sluices off my body. I grab a towel, dab myself casually, and throw a glance over my shoulder before walking into the house.
My heart pounds as I make my way to the kitchen. Have I lost my mind? Am I really going to hook up with this stranger? Am I so petty that I’d fuck my ex’s colleague?
Yes. Yes, I am.
The kitchen is mercifully empty. Stellan hasn’t set out any snacks, so I open the refrigerator, suddenly aware I haven't eaten since lunch. Bending to examine the contents, I hear the sliding door open and close, followed by footsteps approaching the kitchen.
"Looking for something specific?" Tucker's voice is closer than I expected.
I straighten and turn, finding him leaning against the doorframe, a study in casual confidence. "I realized I'm starving."
"Liquid diet not cutting it?" He pushes off the frame and moves closer, opening a cabinet above my head. The proximity brings the clean scent of chlorine and something distinctly male. "Stellan’s mom is a chef. She’d be horrified that he’s not feeding us.”
Tucker reaches past me, his arm brushing mine, and pulls down a tin of expensive crackers and a jar of something that looks homemade.
"Fig spread," he explains, setting the snacks on the counter. He clearly spends time here, or else he just has good luck sniffing out food. “But watch out for the seeds. They’ll get stuck in your teeth and you’ll need help to fish them out.”
“I take it you don’t volunteer?” I ask as he locates a bowl and a knife.
“I could be convinced.” He winks, dumps some of the crackers into the bowl, and twists open the jar of jam.
“Hm, I’ll have to see what persuades you.” I hop onto the counter, letting my legs dangle.
He spreads jam and some cheese onto a cracker, and I watch his hands move, admiring the tendons in his forearms and the veins on the backs of his hands. He glances up at me and offers a jam-covered cracker, one brow arched. "Try this."
I take a bite, the sweetness of the fig pairs perfectly with the tang of the goat cheese he’s pulled from the fridge. "That's amazing," I say after swallowing. “And my teeth are just fine.”
"Told you." He finishes preparing the morsel and pops it into his mouth. "So, what about you? What legal dynasty do you hail from?"
I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "No dynasty. Just me."
“Your parents don’t own a firm?”
