Page 58 of The First Best Man

Tucker pumps his finger to draw out my release, his tongue working me over through the aftershocks until I’m all wrung out. Pulling his finger free, he sits back on his heels and pushes it between his lips, sucking it clean with a groan, his eyes still holding mine captive.

“Every time you come in here to work, you’llremember this moment and think of me,” he says in a deep, husky voice.

All I can do is nod, because he’s right. I’ll never look at this desk the same way again.

Rocking back up onto his knees, he leans in and presses a kiss to my inner thigh before pushing himself to his feet. Bending to pick up my underwear, he guides my feet through the holes and pushes them up to my knees before doing the same with my shorts. Then he helps me off the desk and brushes my hands away when I try to finish dressing myself. With slow, deliberate movements, he pulls my clothes up the rest of the way, buttons and zips my shorts, then smooths the hem of my shirt around my hips.

Dipping his head, he presses a kiss to the side of my neck as he takes my hand. I follow as he leads me out of the office, through the kitchen, and back out to our table. Billy materializes beside us as soon as we take our seats, and Tucker orders a plate of chili-cheese fries for us to share without even glancing at the menu I’d procured for him.

I can’t curb my smile, and Tucker returns it before quietly excusing himself and heading to the bathroom. I watch him go, images of the last few minutes swirling through my mind.

My gaze falls to the beads of sweat dripping down my beer, and I track a single drop as it descends all the way to the bottom of the glass, my mood plummeting. The wedding is Sunday. The day after tomorrow. And on Monday, Tucker will be gone.

I shake my head to dislodge the negative thought and force my lips back into a smile. I’ve known allalong his stay here was temporary, and the things we’ve done today haven’t changed that.

Tucker made that crystal clear before we took things to the next step, and I assured him I understood and that it changed nothing.

I can do this. I can enjoy him while I have him, then let him go with a smile on my face. I have to.

Fake it ‘til you make it, right?

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Tucker

My eyes blink open,and it only takes me a moment to remember where I am. In Kate’s bed.

Turning my head, I look over at her. She’s still asleep, her lips parted as quiet snores vibrate in her throat. Her hair is a tangled mess, there’s a little dried drool on her chin, and she’s so God damn beautiful, I can barely breathe.

Moving slowly, I climb out of bed while jostling her as little as possible. It’s almost eight, so I pull on my boxers and head into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Once the machine is all set up, I call my assistant to check in.

“Hey, Derek. It’s me,” I say when he answers the phone as if he didn’t already know who was calling.

“Tucker. How is everything? Ready for the wedding tomorrow?”

“It’s great. I’m having a wonderful time,” I say, mygaze darting in the general direction of Kate’s bedroom before I clear my throat. “How are things there? Anything I should know about?”

“No fires to put out and nothing that can’t wait until you get back. Everything is running smoothly. Business as usual.”

“That’s great,” I say, my unfocused eyes watching the hot, steaming coffee fill the pot.

It’s nice to know I can leave for a week, and my team can handle everything in my absence. But at the same time, it’s like, damn, does Rizzle even need me?

Right on cue with that thought, my phone beeps, alerting me to an incoming call. Pulling my phone away from my ear, I look at the screen to see it’s my dad.

“Hey, Derek, I have to go. The old man’s calling. I’ll check in with you on Monday when I’m on my way back.”

“Sounds good, boss. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye,” I say, then tap the screen to answer my father’s call. “Hey, Dad.”

“Tucker, my boy,” he says, his tone damn-near jovial. “How are you? How’s Trash Panda Island treating you?”

A laugh bursts through my lips as I say, “It’s Bush Monkey Isle, Dad, and you know it.”

The man may be in his mid-fifties, but he’s sharp as a tack. His own chuckle proves I’m right, and I shake my head.

“Bush Monkey Isle. Where does someone even come up with a name like that?”

---