Only the moonlight streams in my window, casting a pale, shimmery light through my old, lacey curtains and onto the white quilt on my bed. Otherwise, the room is dark. The house is quiet except for the occasional creak and hiss of old pipes. Chimes ring purposefully from the living room downstairs up through the floorboards—my grandmother’s clock reminding me it is now midnight and I haven’t yet been asleep.

Bright lights pass outside my window with the sound of grinding gravel and an engine being killed. Who would be driving here at this hour?

My phone buzzes under my pillow.

Tuck: Are you awake?

Me: Did you just pull up to my house?

Tuck: Maybe…

I throw off the covers and run to my window. A little way down our drive is Tuck’s big red truck, and his tall figure walking toward the front door. Son of a bitch. I push on my window. Damn old windows are sticky. I finally slide it open when Tuck is right below.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper yell.

He looks up at me with a grin, the moonlight reflecting on his breath. “You said you couldn’t sleep.” He puts his arms out. “So here I am.”

The air outside is biting and my skin is prickling as I stand here in my sleep tank and tiny cotton shorts.

“Are you going to let me in?”

“My parents, Tuck! You really shouldn’t be here!”

“I’m coming up.” He reaches easily to the lowest branch on our huge maple tree and hoists himself up then hops onto the roof of the front porch.

Oh my god. He’s climbing up here.

He holds onto the downspout and climbs up the side of my house like a freaking monkey. His large hand grasps at the windowsill and I back into my room as he pulls himself up and through and lands with a loud thud.

“You have to be quiet!” I’m glad my dad is a heavy sleeper.

“Sorry,” he whispers. He stands up nimbly and looks like a giant in my room with its low, angled ceilings. Tuck looks at my bare legs and I shiver. “Go get in bed. I’ll join you in a sec.” He shuts the window and I suddenly realize how chilled I am.

He hangs his coat over the wooden rocking chair in the corner, then sits on it to remove his shoes and socks. When he stands and removes his shirt, the light through the curtain glistens over his pecs and thick arms.

He undoes the button of his jeans and as he drops them to the floor, the beat in my chest quickens. He’s walking over to me in just his boxers and the heat from my chest rises through my neck to my face. Holy hell, Court, you’ve shared a bed with him a dozen times. Calm the eff down.

He stands at the side of my bed, tall over me, and pulls the covers back with a crooked smile just big enough to engage his left dimple.

“I missed you,” he says as he slides in next to me and I reach for him. He wraps his arms around me without hesitation.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me, too,” he says in my ear.

His skin against mine warms me quickly as we embrace under the sheets. My pulse pounds in my ears and my lower stomach starts to swirl. My body is reacting positively to his closeness and I realize we’ve hugged before, but never in this state of undress. Or horizontally. In bed.

Sharing a bed is entirely different now that I’ve acknowledged the butterflies.

Shut it down, Court.

“Well, goodnight.” I roll onto my back. His arm still brushing at my side. “Sorry this bed’s a little smaller than yours.”

“I could get used to it.” The mattress dips as he shifts his weight to the side and stretches his arm over his head.

For some reason, I don’t want to go to sleep yet.

“Tuck—”

“Yeah?”

“I never asked you how your date went.”

“Date?”

“The night Haley got hurt.”

“Oh yeah. It was good. She’s a nice girl.”

My throat tightens. “Are you going to go out with her again?” Shit, maybe he already has.

“Nah,” he says nonchalantly. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not ready to date yet.”

Oh.

Tuck’s chest is soon rising and falling steadily, his breath slow, snoring softly into my pillow.

But I’m awake.

I’ve been awake. And the clock downstairs chimes one o’clock.

I try to focus on the cadence of his sleep, but the energy under my skin and the flutter in my stomach is too distracting. The tug below my belly button aches. It’s insistent. How long has it been since I’ve had sex? For-fucking-ever.

Every bulge and dip in Tuck’s sculpted arms are silhouetted against the window and his musky scent is in my sheets. What if he wanted to do more than sleep? What would I do then?

If he rolled over right now and whispered in my ear that he wanted to kiss me, would I let him? Would I let his hands roam down my back, to curve around my hip and graze down my thigh?

Yes. Yes, I think I would let him.

My inner thighs are tingling and I squeeze them together to hold still.

My clit is starting to throb, and I know the only way to subdue it. I can’t. Tuck is right next to me. What if he were to wake up and see me? See me touching myself, knowing I’m thinking about him?

Oh god, I can’t. But I inch my fingertips under the waistband of my shorts and then under the satin of my panties, holding my breath as I slide a finger between my folds. I’m already slick as I rock against my hand. I trace my finger up to my clit and the pleasure of my slow strokes sends little jolts of electricity down to the arches of my feet.

My heart is racing and my cheeks are hot. Tuck’s shoulder twitches and his breath catches. I still my hand. Is he awake? I’m still pulsing under my fingertip, heat radiating, begging for more.

His soft snore resumes. I try to continue rubbing without rustling the sheets, but as the pleasure starts to wrack my body, my hand becomes more frenzied, my breathing heavier, and I’m afraid I’ll wake him. Maybe I want to wake him. Spread my legs for him and let him watch me touch myself. Maybe he would like that. Maybe he would reach out and want to touch me too. The thought of Tuck’s large hand exploring my eager wetness makes my orgasm spill over the edge. My hips jerk with the waves of ecstasy and I am left spent.