Page 3 of Lonesome Man
Oh fuck, I knew him.
Tucker.
Holy shit, it was Tucker Smith.
We’d been introduced through a program for homeschooled kids, and because of how isolated we were, with no cell or internet service, we’d talked over two-way radio every Friday for years, until I’d gone to college, then we’d mainly emailed, but there’d been the odd phone call as well. He’d been my best friend, my only friend, then as we’d gotten older…
My stomach churned and guilt slammed through me.
He’d never seen my face, not really. The one photo he had seen of me, I’d been looking down, my hair obscuring most of my face, but I’d seen him. I knew what he looked like, every chiseled inch of that handsome face.
My junior year of college, there’d been an article published online about his woodwork, how he was selling to some exclusive stores in the city and making waves from his remote homestead in the mountains. I’d teased him about it—and had fallen even more in love with him than I’d already been.
We hadn’t talked in four years though. I’d pulled back—I’d ghosted him because I was a goddamn coward.
Now Tucker, my Tucker, was striding toward me, in the flesh, tall and built and utterly freaking gorgeous.
And yes, he was wearing a black T-shirt under his jacket.
My heart slammed into the back of my ribs and my knees went weak. His gaze did a sweep of me from head to feet and his lips curled up in a gorgeous smile. Would he be able to recognize me from that one shitty photo I’d sent him? Would he recognize my voice? We hadn’t talked over the phone much after I went to college because the cell and internet services were patchy out here, but it was still possible.
My feet were moving before I knew what I was doing. I ran at him and jumped. He caught me, his low chuckle lifting goose bumps across my skin as he held me close.
For so many years I’d wondered what it would feel like to be in this man’s arms. I wrapped my arms and legs around him. “Tuck,” I said breathlessly. He was huge and muscled and smelled like pine and sexy mountain man. I needed to tell him who I was. I needed to tell him the truth?—
“Libby, baby,” he said roughly, one hand on my ass, the other sliding into my hair. “You’re finally here, darlin’.”
The sound of a record scratching filled my head. Libby? Did he just call me Libby? Yes. Yes, he freaking did. He knew who I was. Oh god, he knew it was me.
He fisted my hair lightly, while my mind spun wildly. I lifted my head. His green eyes met mine, glittering, filled with pleasure, with heat. “Missed my little wife,” he said.
My breath caught and my stomach sank. He looked right at me without a scrap of recognition, and it was as if I’d been punched in the chest.
He had no idea who I was. He was playing a part, my husband—and he’d chosen Libby, my name, as the name of his fictional wife.
Holy fuck.
He wasn’t forcing me closer, but he wanted it. He wasn’t going to force anything if I wasn’t into it, even though I was bought and paid for.
He was waiting, so I did what any wife would do, what I’d desperately wanted to do since I was thirteen years old—what any woman would, faced with a husband this beautiful and missing him badly—I kissed him. I wrapped my arms around him tighter and kissed the hell out of him.
I kissed Tucker Smith.
My Tucker.
He spun, pressing me against the side of the truck, his mouth opening over mine. His beard tickled as his tongue swept inside my mouth, and he tasted like peppermint and hunger, and I was instantly turned on. I’d imagined this moment for years, but this felt, god, so dirty and sexy and freeing.
Did this feel dishonest? Yes, but he never had to know it was me. He could never know it was me. Tucker had used my name, he’d called me his wife. He was pretending I was his wife.
I could never go back to living this kind of life, so secluded, which was why I’d pulled away when he asked me to come and stay with him several years ago, why I’d convinced myself I wasn’t in love with him when he asked me to give this thing between us a go. But he didn’t want anyone permanent, either. Right? That was why he did this. That’s why he stuck to escorts now.
If he knew it was me, everything would get complicated, messy. Not only would it embarrass him, but I wasn’t sure he’d even want to see the real me, not after the way I ended things between us. He’d brought someone out here to be with him because he wanted a fantasy, not the real Libby.
This was all we could ever have had, and by some miracle the universe had found a way to give it to me, to us.
The kiss deepened, and I focused on why I was here. I was here for him, so he could take pleasure from me. No one would ever know what we did together. I’d be gone in two weeks, then I’d never see him again. I didn’t need to agonize over leaving him, or feel guilty about messing with his emotions. I could let all the walls drop. I could be with him, love him like a wife would, and feel no guilt and no shame.
His grip on my ass tightened, and he pressed against me, grinding his hard cock between my spread thighs. It was insane, but I wanted him, right then, so fucking badly. “I need you,” I said against his lips. “I need to feel you inside me.”
