Page 14 of Claiming the Fake Boyfriend
"Is that a euphemism?" Tucker's eyebrow arches wickedly, his thumb tracing circles on my palm in a way that sends tiny electric currents up my arm.
I swat his arm with my free hand, but can't help laughing. "I was being sincere! I've walked past Storybook Brewery a hundred times but never really paid much attention."
"Well, allow me to give you the private tour." His voice drops to that gravelly register that makes my thighs clench involuntarily. "Very private. Very... thorough."
"I'd like that," I manage, surprised by my own boldness.
Tucker's brewery appears around the bend, its brick facade lit by vintage copper lanterns that cast amber shadows across the cobblestones. The words "Storybook Brewery" arch over the entrance in hand-painted lettering, with smaller text beneath: "Every Beer Tells a Tale."
Tucker pulls me to a stop, his hands framing my face with unexpected tenderness. His eyes are serious in the golden light, searching mine. "Amber," he says, my name sounding like something precious on his lips, "I want to be clear. This isn't just—"
I rise on tiptoes and press my mouth to his, silencing whatever careful disclaimer he was about to offer. I don't need wordsright now. I need the solid warmth of his body against mine, the reality of him after hours of pretending and then not pretending.
He responds instantly, backing me against the brewery door with enough force to knock a small gasp from my lungs. One hand cups my jaw, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, while the other splays across my lower back, fingers pressing into the curve just above my ass. The wood is cool and solid behind me, a stark contrast to the heat of Tucker's body pinning me in place.
His tongue slides against mine, tasting of beer, and I whimper into his mouth. My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly to angle his head just how I want it. He groans in response, the sound vibrating against my lips, and rocks his hips forward. Even through layers of clothing, I can feel him hardening against my stomach.
Tucker fumbles in his pocket for keys, his breath hot against my neck as he curses softly when they slip from his fingers and clatter to the ground. We both laugh, breathless and almost giddy with anticipation. When he straightens after retrieving them, I catch his tie and tug him back against me, unwilling to break contact even for a moment.
"You're making this very difficult," he growls against my ear, teeth grazing the sensitive lobe as he blindly tries to fit the key in the lock.
"Good," I whisper, working my thigh between his legs, feeling the hard bulge of him through his pants. I press open-mouthed kisses along the column of his throat, tasting salt. His skin is warm, his pulse hammering beneath my lips.
The lock finally gives with a click, and we stumble inside, tangled in each other. The brewery is dark except for security lights casting everything in blue shadows.
His hands find the hem of my dress, bunching the fabric as he slides calloused palms up the backs of my thighs. I fumble with his shirt buttons, growling in frustration when they refuse to cooperate.
"Let me," he murmurs, his own fingers making quick work of the top three buttons before abandoning the task to return to my body.
I slide my hands inside his partially open shirt, finally encountering the hot, firm expanse of his chest. His skin is smooth over taut muscle, a dusting of hair tickling my palms. I drag my nails lightly down his pecs.
"Upstairs," he says, voice rough with need. "My place is upstairs."
We move toward the wooden staircase at the back, shedding clothing like breadcrumbs. His jacket falls to the floor with a soft thump. I loosen his tie, letting it slither to the ground. My shoes are kicked off somewhere between the door and the first step.
We make it halfway up the stairs before Tucker spins me around, pressing me against the railing. The wood digs into my back, but I barely notice as his mouth descends to my throat, sucking hard enough that I know there will be marks tomorrow.
His hand slides up my inner thigh with agonizing slowness, his fingertips leaving trails of fire on my skin. When he reaches the edge of my underwear, he pauses.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his breath hot against my ear, voice tight with restraint.
"God, yes," I breathe, widening my stance on the stair, inviting him in.
His fingers push the damp lace aside, and I gasp at the first direct contact. He groans against my neck when he discovers how wet I already am, his middle finger sliding easily through slick folds.
I can only whimper as he finally pushes that finger inside, curling it forward in a way that makes my hips buck. His thumb finds my clit, applying just the right pressure to make my legs tremble.
While his hand works between my thighs, his other tugs down the top of my dress and my bra cup, exposing my breast to the cool air. My nipple hardens instantly, and Tucker makes a sound of appreciation before lowering his head to take it in his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue combined with the movement of his finger has me clutching his shoulders, nails digging through his shirt.
"Tucker," I gasp, feeling pressure building low in my belly, "I need—I need—"
Before I can finish speaking, he's turning me to face him, lifting me easily so I can wrap my legs around his waist. The hard length of him presses insistently against my core through his pants, and I roll my hips, seeking more friction. The movement draws groans from both of us.
We pause every few stairs to kiss and grind against each other. By the time we reach the top, my underwear is somewhere on the staircase and Tucker's shirt hangs completely open. I run my hands over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the thundering of his heart beneath my palm.
His loft is unexpectedly charming , but I barely register these details before Tucker is walking me backward toward a navy couch.
"Wait," I say, a flash of self-consciousness hitting me as he sets me down. My dress is rumpled around my waist, one breast still exposed. "The lights—"
