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Plus, the spice is hot, and the author doesn’t skimp on it. I’m twenty-five percent into the book, and after bumping into each other in their apartment in the middle of the night wearing next to nothing, the main characters are hooking up for the second time.
There’s just one problem.
Whenever there’s a spicy scene, I can’t help but picture Tuck in the role of the MMC.
That’s a big problem, because these scenes are long and really well-written. Frankly, they’re turning me on. And I don’t want to be turned on while imaging Tuck doing the things this book is describing the MMC doing.
I can’t help it, though.
When the author writes about the girl spearing her hands into the guy’s thick head of hair as he falls to his knees and kisses between her thighs, I think about the way Tuck’s sandy-blonde tuft of hair bounced luxuriously as he threw his head back to laugh.
I think about how my fingers would feel lacing into that hair. I think about how good it would feel to tighten my grip, turning my hands into fists, how the pang of satisfaction knowing I’d be making his scalp burn would heighten the sensation of his lips dropping hot kisses on my thighs …
My stomach flips and my pulse skitters. I let that fantasy play out way too long.
Suddenly I’m aware of the liquid heat pooling deep in my core, aware that I’m rubbing my thighs together, feebly trying to alleviate the ache that’s throbbing between them.
I keep reading, trying to push out any thoughts of Tuck. Trying to remind myself that the character in the book is written as having short black hair instead of thick sandy-blonde hair, that he’s written as having dark hazel eyes instead of bright blue eyes.
I try.
But as my eyes follow the words on my phone’s screen, I realize my hand has crawled up my shirt and my middle finger is drawing lazy circles around my taut nipple.
I realize the images in my head of the scene I’m reading are giving way to memories of Tuck’s pink tongue darting from behind his lips while he worked on his outline …
I should pull my hand away from my breast, put my phone down, get out of bed, get a cold glass of water, anything to keep myself from continuing to think about Tuck like this …
But it’s like I’m in quicksand. I can’t do anything to pull myself out.
Instead of taking my hand away from my breast, I curl my thumb and pinch my nipple lightly between my thumb and middle finger, the sharp pressure sending a jolt of pleasure straight to the apex of my thighs.
I let out a soft ghost of a moan. I drag my tongue around my lips, and once I imagine Tuck’s mouth crushing against them, I know I’m a goner.
I draw my hand away from my breast, pulling it lower, letting my fingertips drag against the sensitive areas of my stomach as they crawl to the waist of my shorts underneath the covers.
I let myself sink underneath the quicksand of my fantasies. I don’t fight it. I plunge my hand into my shorts and run my finger down my slit, feeling my heat and my wetness.
Pleasure detonates deep inside me when I brush my throbbing clit with the pad of my finger. I put my phone down as my eyelids flutter closed, eyes rolling back behind them.
Images of Tuck’s bicep bulging, so hard and defined and sharp, like it was carved out of granite, blare in my mind as I graze my clit again. A wave of pleasure rolls through me and makes my back arch.
Maybe I’ll regret this after I come down from the orgasm I can already feel building inside me. Maybe I’ll regret letting my mind run wild, coming with images of the one guy I can’t stand, the last guy in the world I should be thinking about this way, in my head.
But I’ll just have to regret it, then; because right now, there’s no way I can stop.
I imagine the razor-sharp definition of Tuck’s ab muscles, of his wide chest, as he pulls his shirt over his head. My chest vibrates with another moan, the pleasure growing hotter as it snakes through me.
When I think about Tuck’s head between my legs, imagining it’s his tongue touching my clit instead of my fingers, I buck my hips forward, arousal humming through my blood. I can feel a ball of pressure expanding low in my core as an intense sensation tingles up my spine, a sure sign that I’m on the precipice of climax already.
My breaths grow shorter as I rub my clit harder, my other hand cupping my sensitive tit.
Images flash through my head of Tuck, looming over me and settling his trim hips between my thighs, his hardness pressing into me; me digging my fingernails into the dense, corded muscle of his back, or into his tight, firm ass cheeks as he thrusts …
I suck in a sharp breath as my orgasm unfurls inside me. Pleasure pulses through my body. My eyes clench so tightly that splotches of light burst behind my eyelids, and all the while I’m bucking my hips, imagining that with each thrust upward, I’m being met by Tuck plunging down into me.
My body tingles all over as the aftershocks of my climax surge through me. My head feels light and blissful, the residual bursts of pleasure cradling me like a warm blanket.
For a while, I’m floating on a puffy cloud of relief—but when the endorphins dissipate, I’m proven right. I do regret it.
