“Come for me, baby. Come for me,” he chanted, jerking me off with a tight grip while he plowed into me from behind.
The friction was too much. His name tore from my lips as the first pulse of ecstasy rocked me, followed by another until, at last, the coil in my belly snapped and I shot a stream of cum over his hand.
“Johnny,” I screamed again, shuddering through my orgasm.
He let out a string of expletives, his pace turning erratic before he slammed inside of me and held his hips tight against my ass. A groan of pleasure echoed around the room as he came, pulsing inside of me and filling the condom with his seed.
When the rush finally passed, Tucker wrapped me up in a bear hug, gently tugging us both down to the sheets.I guess that makes me the little spoon.His sweat-drenched chest glided over my back as his breathing slowed to match mine.
Fucking. Hell.
Forget Pilates; Johnathan Tucker could make a fortune with his workout regime. My muscles hadn’t been this well used in years.
“That was . . .” I struggled to find the appropriate words. Some journalist I was.
“A good fucking start.”
I glanced over my shoulder, meeting his devilish grin. “Seriously?”
“Did you think we were done?”
I laughed and then groaned when my muscles rippled around his softening cock. Tucker was still buried to the hilt inside my ass, hairy legs tangled with mine.
“I don’t think I can take anymore.”
He arched a brow. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“I’m serious. You broke my asshole.”
“Don’t worry, Hell.” He speared a hand through my hair, gently pulling it away from where it stuck to my neck. “I can kiss it better.”
I don’t know if I can survive that.
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” I asked him, acknowledging the elephant in the room. One of us had to.
Tucker was a twenty-seven-year-old pro-baseball player who spent half the year living out of hotel rooms and the other half partying up and down the West Coast. I was a thirty-four-year-old sports reporter whose distaste for flying was second only to club music. It was a match made in disaster, not to mention a conflict of interest. We faced enough public scrutiny as it was. Was another steamy night or two worth the backlash?
And there would be backlash. The “Tucker Fuckers,” aka Tucker’s die-hard fan club, would have my head if I hurt their fearless leader in any way. And my editor—along with the entire journalistic community—would have mine if they had any idea what had gone down tonight.
“Let’s just call this what it was: a one-night stand.”
“What if one night isn’t enough for me, Heller?”
The air between us thickened, and the words caught in my throat. I didn’t have a response for him because truth be told, I didn’t want this to be a one-time thing, either.
“What if that’s all I can offer you, Tucker?”
I could tell by the look in his eyes and the slight drop of his shoulders that he wasn’t happy with my answer, and even less thrilled by me using his last name. It was safer that way; we had already crossed too many boundaries for one night.
His eyes, full of hope, dimmed a little, but his voice held steady. “I guess it’ll have to be enough.” He smirked. “For now.”
There was no time to protest his ominous promise. Not when he trailed a hand down my side, tracing the lines of my body until he reached my cock.
“Tucker—”
“You saidone night, Heller. Notone time.”
Damn this man and the way he made me fumble my words. Something told me our night was just getting started . . . and it sounded a lot like the crinkle of a foil wrapper.
