Tucker (The Family Simon 1)

He made a sound that came from deep inside his soul.

“Abby.”

And then his mouth was on hers and she wrapped her hands in that long hair of his and gave him what he needed. Love.

She kissed him, pouring every ounce of feeling that she had into that kiss. When his tongue plunged inside her mouth, she answered in kind. It quickly became an aggressive, almost frantic joining.

Their lips. Their bodies. Their minds and their souls.

Tucker whipped the covers off of them and the cool air hit her hot, sweaty skin, but it didn’t matter. It was brighter outside, and she feasted on the sight of him. How his muscles strained as his arms cradled her, how the tendons in his neck corded when he raised himself over her.

When he slid inside Abby, when she felt that hot, throbbing length of him buried inside her body, she pulled him close. If she could have crawled inside him she would have. She would have done anything for him. She bucked her hips and met his thrusts, their mouths once more entwined.

There were no words. No soft moments, no slow sensual caresses. There was only need and want and a connection that she didn’t want to ever break.

As Tucker’s thrusts became harder, faster. As her insides began to pull and her orgasm pressed hard. As their sweat soaked bodies slid against each other—their rhythm perfect, the friction erotic—Abby strained against his mouth, her heart full and near to bursting.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Over and over she heard those words inside her head.

Only afterward as she laid in his arms, both of them trying to catch their breath did she think that maybe one of them had said those words out loud.

Chapter Twenty-three

Thanksgiving came and went, but it was one of the best Thanksgivings Tucker could remember. The snow had come early to Northern Ontario, so the annual Simon family football game was a no go. However, they’d cleared the ice between the boathouse and the shoreline, and a pretty animated game of shinny had entertained everyone for most of the afternoon. Heck, even his mother had thrown on a

pair of skates.

Tucker grinned. Who knew that his girl was such an ace on the ice? But then, every day something about Abby surprised him.

She talked in her sleep.

She won the football pool every goddamn week.

She never matched her socks. Like ever. She’d wear black and white zebra print on one foot and brown and gold cheetah print on the other.

She was addicted to The Walking Dead and he didn’t get that at all. Christ, every character on that show looked as if they needed to spend a goddamn week soaking in a bathtub. How the hell she thought the redneck with the crossbow was hot, he’d never know.

And her sketches were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. In fact, he’d shown a few to a friend of his in the business and Abby was now working with a writer on a proposal for a series of children’s books.

Things were moving along. Progressing. And Tucker couldn’t remember ever feeling so excited about the unknown. About a future with someone.

Abby had moved into his apartment the second week in December. Sure her brother Mick had been a grouch about it—said they were moving a little too fast for him. But her other brothers, especially the youngest Josh, were great and her parents were really good people.

Her roommate Lisa spent more than her fair share of evenings with them for that first month, but after a while, it had slowed down and now she only showed up Friday nights for wine and a movie.

Abby said it was because she had a new guy, though Lisa wasn’t talking and he knew that it was driving his girl crazy, because she wanted to know who it was.

Tucker was fine with Abby having her girls’ nights. He usually made himself scarce—God forbid he got roped into watching The Fucking Notebook—or met some of the guys from the agency for beer and darts at The Black Dog.

They’d fallen into a routine and things were good. They were better than good.

Yep. Tucker was one lucky son-of-a-bitch to have found Abby, and there was no way in hell he was letting her go.

He glanced down at his cell. Fingered the number in the call display—the last one to call his phone—and tried to quiet the anxiety he was trying real hard not to feel.

He’d approached Marley’s parents a few weeks before about starting the process to have her declared legally dead. It had been the hardest decision he’d ever made, but after nearly four years, it was time. At least for him.