Текст книги "Blind Date "

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

Chapter Ten

I run the brush through my hair one last time and put it back in my desk drawer. I’ve been watching the clock all morning like I’m some kind of freaked out teenage girl waiting for her first date.

I want to know why he told my mom. It’s been three days since she and I had that conversation, and I’m still as mad as I was then. Hell, I’m fuming. I want to take my eyelash curlers and close them around the end of his cock kind of fuming.

Fact is, I had a plan.

Get this contract.

Do the design.

Get paid.

Never. See. Him. Again.

Ergo, my mom never would have found out about our night together. Carter made it clear during our consultation that it wouldn’t influence matters. He admitted he didn’t want to see me again. Fuck, I didn’t want to see him again. I don’t. I still don’t.

I want to erase every memory of him from my mind. If only memories were drawn in pencil, life would be so much easier.

I want to forget the sound of his voice. The dirty words that fall from his lips. The easy touches. His powerful influence. The way he treats my body like it’s more than just a tool for his own pleasure… The way he treats his as it’s a tool for mine.

I want to forget the way his tie felt wrapped around my wrists and the way his wicked tongue felt as it flicked across my clit.

I want to forget the way it felt to be perched on my desk with his fingers inside as I all but rode his hand to my own orgasm.

More than anything… I want to forget how badly I wanted those things the second I was presented with them.

I have Carter Hughes on the brain, and it’s deadly.

My phone buzzes with a new message, and I type in my unlock code. It’s from Carter telling me he’s waiting outside, so I take a deep breath and slide my feet back into my beloved heels. My pencil skirt is tight, and I picked it deliberately this morning to hamper the efforts of wayward body parts.

Not that I truly believe a bit of black fabric will stop him if that’s where he ultimately wants to be, but I’ll definitely make it harder than it needs to be.

Harder than it needs to be. It’s taking all my self-restraint not to giggle at myself right now.

God, I need food.

And wine. Definitely wine.

Wine is what I think about as I travel down in the elevator. It settles the butterflies in my tummy and stops my adrenaline kicking in too much.

My heels click across the lobby as I head for the door. I can already see him leaning against another sleek black car, wearing his trademark white shirt and black pants. His sleeves are rolled up, his tie nowhere to be seen, and his top two buttons undone.

I wish he didn’t look so fucking hot like that.

He turns his face and our eyes meet. His seem even greener than I remember, if that’s possible, and a shiver teases its way through my body. The hairs on my body stand on end as he pushes off of the car and walks to the door. He beats me to it by a split second and pulls it open with a smile that would drop the panties of a nun. “Ms. Donnelly,” he greets me in a low voice.

“Mr. Hughes,” I respond in kind, my voice stronger than I feel.

“Shall we?” He releases the door and motions toward the car.

I suppose we must. “Please.” I follow him toward the vehicle where he once again gets the door for me.

I hate the way my heart beats double-time for the few seconds it takes me to get in.

“How was your trip?” I ask politely when the car starts moving.

“It was… hot.” He smiles. “It went well, thank you. It’s due to open next month and everything seems to be on track. Well, if you don’t count the fact we need to find a new chef, but I’ll send Julia out there next week to do that.”

“Sounds like you have everything under control.”

His eyes flash. “I’m always in control.”

“Ah, yes. You’re a control freak.”

“Takes one to know one.” He winks, grinning.

I’m not even going to respond to that.

“How are things here?” he asks, apparently sensing that he can’t bait me that easily today.

“I stopped by an hour ago. The flooring is down, the wallpaper up, and the lights are being fitted. The new bar is being crafted so installation can begin tomorrow, then it’s simply finalizing the delivery date for the tables and chairs.”

“You’re very efficient, Ms. Donnelly. I like that.”

I turn my face toward him, arching one eyebrow. “I pride myself on my efficiency. Besides, the quicker this job is done, the quicker my life returns to its formerly Carter-less way.”

He rests his arm across the back of the seat and leans forward. “Sounds like you can’t wait to get rid of me, Bee.”

I make sure to hold his gaze steadily as I respond. “I can’t.” I finish with a smile.

“Cute,” he murmurs. He reaches forward and takes a lock of my hair. He twirls it around his finger gently, his eyes cutting to where the dark strands are sliding across his skin. He takes more hair, then more, and more, until half of it is gripped in his palm and he’s leaning right into me.

My heart skips a beat as he moves my face closer to his. Our breath mingles in the small space between us, and I have shivers everywhere. The goosebumps that coat my skin contradict my earlier words.

His lips curl into a knowing half-smile. “What makes you think you can get rid of me that easily?”

“A stiletto through your balls?”

His chuckle is low and dark. “Oh, Bee.” He slides across the seat and our thighs brush. I take a deep breath in. “I’ve missed your smart mouth these past three days.”

“Really? All you had to do was call. I have a special amount of snark reserved for you.”

“I’m sure you do.” He releases his grip on my hair and eases back. He touches his thumb to the corner of my mouth and runs it across my lower lip, tugging on it softly. “Actually, I think I just missed your mouth in general. It’s my favorite part of you.”

“You’re crossing the line again, Carter.”

“What line would that be? The one you insisted be drawn? The very same one you can’t keep to?”

“I’d keep to it if you’d stop touching me.”

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re standing on the edge of the line just waiting for me to join you there. You’re hardly pushing me away, are you?”

No, and I don’t want to. God help me, I don’t.

“Exactly,” he whispers, his voice husky. “Face it, Bee. There’s never been a line. Not between us. You know that if I wanted to tug your skirt up and drag you on top of me, you wouldn’t do a thing to stop it, would you?” He trails his hand across my side and cups my breast. “If I took off your shirt and removed your bra, would you stop me taking your nipple in my mouth?”

My breathing picks up.

“No? What about if I unbuttoned my pants and tugged your face down to my cock? Would you refuse?”

I lick my lips.

“Stop fooling yourself.” He pushes the hair back from my eyes. His strong gaze flickers across my face, studying every one of my features, before he finally catches mine. “You fight this because you can’t control it. You fight it because that’s the only way you can control it. But make no mistake, Bee, if I wanted you on your knees in front of me, you know that’s exactly where you’d be, because you know you’d want it as badly as me.”

My chest is heaving with each desperate breath I take, and I know his game. His cards are on the table, face up, and he isn’t even trying to hide them.

That’s fine.

I want to play too.

I trail my fingers up his chest and let them rest against the side of his neck. “And what if I stopped fighting it and did control it? Would you stop me?” I tuck my legs beneath me and push him back on the chair. I dip my face so my hair falls around us in a dark curtain. He slides his hand down my back and across my ass cheek.

He wastes no time pulling it back then smacking it with a serious amount of force. “You wouldn’t be in control, baby. Don’t think you would be.”

“Really? Because I beg to differ.” I drop my face so our lips touch, but there’s no kissing in the movement. Just a gentle hover. “What if,” I whisper, “What if I pushed you on your back right now, hiked up my skirt, and crawled up your body so my pussy was right over your face? Are you telling me you wouldn’t slide my panties to the side and lick it, Carter? Are you honestly telling me that’d be you in control? Or if I reached down right now and pulled your cock out and climbed on top of you to fuck you. Who’d be in control then?”

His fingers dig into my ass, and his other hand scoops my hair up and tugs.

Hard.

He yanks my head back and grazes his teeth down my neck. “Who’s in control now, Bee? Now who has who where they want them? Because the way I see it, you can’t move.”

I drop my hand and cup his cock. I can feel its hard length pushing against the material of his pants, and I run a nail along it, right next to the zipper. “Fifty-fifty, baby.”

“Touché,” he responds, swirling his tongue across the exposed curve of my neck. “There is a difference though, isn’t there?”

“There is?” I ask breathlessly.

He pushes my head forward quickly and my eyes flutter shut. His lips brush over mine. “Yeah. My control is very, very fucking close to snapping. So behave yourself, Bee. Because the place I know that does great food also delivers, and it’s already waiting for us.”

My eyes open quickly. “Where?”

His lips curve up with the knowledge he has me cornered. “In my fucking kitchen.”

Oh, boy.

 

***

I honestly wish I’d insisted on meeting him in a restaurant. I don’t care if this house is huge and immaculately decorated, or if the rustic charm of the kitchen had me sighing with happiness as I stepped through the door.

My pussy is wet, my nipples are aching, and my clit is considering a petition for release.

Still, I’m sitting at the island counter in the middle of Carter’s majestic kitchen, my chin propped up in my hand, waiting for him to unpack our lunch.

Many things are wrong with this situation. The first being is that he decided to remove his shirt and throw it over one of the chairs opposite me. So I’m sitting here trying to refrain from giggling like a sixteen year old as the muscles in his back flex with his every morning.

Seriously. Backs. Sexy as fuck. Why? Who knows? Who cares?

I’m trying to think of something—of anything, that will take my mind off this whole situation I’m in. It isn’t working. It’s so screwed up. I should have told him hell no the second he told me we were here. He couldn’t have forced me in, could he?

No… He’s an asshole, but he doesn’t have the whole kidnapping credentials. Although I’m sure if he really wanted to, he could finish me off and hide my body without another thought.

Oh God.

Mayday. Mayday.

“Wine?”

I squeak as I focus on him.

His lips curve on one side. “Am I interrupting a sordid fantasy?”

“Does you killing me and hiding my body count as one?”

“No.”

“Then, no.”

He stares at me for a moment then holds up a bottle of pink wine. “Wine?” he repeats.

No. “Please.”

Dammit, brain.

He pours a glass and sits it in front of me, then turns and produces a plate full of Caesar salad. My eyes narrow, but I quickly return my expression to normal as I thank him and gets his own. He takes the seat opposite me, all rippling muscle, and grabs his wine glass. “To a successful project.”

“To a successful project,” I echo, much softer than he spoke. He sips his wine and sets the glass down. I, meanwhile, take a mouthful and left the fruity taste linger on my tongue for a few seconds before swallowing.

Carter doesn’t say a word as he picks up his cutlery and eats. I drop my eyes, get my fork, and stab it into a piece of chicken. It smells really good, but honestly, I’m not sure if I’m even hungry anymore. I’m still reeling from our exchange in our car, and if I’m honest with myself, I’m more embarrassed than anything. I rarely speak to anyone like that, and if I do, I sure as hell never see them again.

Now here I am, sitting in his kitchen, eating lunch with him. In a suspiciously quiet working lunch meeting.

It feels horribly comfortable.

You know that sensation when you go somewhere you feel like you’ve been before or that you should be? That kind of comfort. It’s as if I’ve been here a thousand times or are destined to be here that many.

It’s unnerving. It doesn’t have a place in my world, yet I have an inexplicable need to set down my fork and explore every possible nook and cranny of this gorgeous house. I want to browse every bookshelf and open every cupboard and run my hand over every wall.

And I wish I could say it’s from the perspective of an interior designer—it isn’t.

It’s from the perspective of something I don’t want to think about.

Carter takes another sip from his glass and nods to my plate. “Something wrong with it?”

“Oh, no.” I glance up at him then back at my plate. “I just don’t feel particularly hungry.”

With the glass still in his hand, he fixes his gaze on me. I know because I can feel it—it’s as obvious as an icy blast of air at the height of summer. “You keep looking at the door.”

“The hallway,” I admit. “I kind of want to explore. Your house looks gorgeous.”

He reaches for a paper napkin from the stack and wipes the corner of his mouth. “You want a tour?”

“Oh—you don’t have to. I’m being rude.” I smile slightly and push a slice of chicken around my plate.

“Grab your glass.” He grins and gets up, his in hand. “Come on.”

I hesitate for a second too long, and he rounds the island. He grabs my hand and pulls me up, then releases me just to deposit my wine glass in my palm. “I guess I’ll come, then,” I say quietly, fighting my smile.

“Are you ready for the grand tour of Casa de Hughes?” he asks, walking backward out of the kitchen. His eyes fall to my feet and he holds out a hand to stop me. “Woah, woah. Those weapons have gotta come out of your feet. We have fifteen rooms to explore and there’s no way you can do that in those animals.”

“Those animals—”

“Cost more than a pedigree puppy, yeah, yeah. I know. Still. Off.” He stands in front of me until I sigh with resignation and bend down to pull them off my feet.

Safely off, I kick them to the side and meet his eyes. “There. Better?”

He grins and lifts his hand to the top of my head. “Wow. Those things are deceiving.”

“You realize I’m at the right height to do this, don’t you?” I lift one knee up.

He steps back. “Point made.” Our gaze hovers for a moment, both of us smiling, then he turns. “First stop on the Grand Tour of the Hughes House is the dining room that has been used approximately one point five times in the last two years.”

“One point five? How is that possible?”

“Once for Thanksgiving right after I moved in, then the following year when my mom designated me as the cook and I gave up after the turkey didn’t show up.”

“How does a turkey not show up?”

“I forgot to order it.” He grimaces. “That was the first year she told me I need a woman. I reminded her I have her and my sister, and that’s enough woman for anyone.”

I laugh quietly, looking around the room. “It’s dark in here.”

“Yeah. I keep meaning to do something with it, but like I said, it doesn’t get used.” He shrugs and closes the door.

My eye twitches. Oh boy, I want to take my camera and sketch pad in there.

“And the living room.” He opens the next door to a reasonably sized room about as well kitted out as can be expected for a man’s living room. Dark-colored sofas, a giant television, games consoles, you name it, it’s there. What I am surprised to see is an array of photos lining the exposed brick fireplace and even the windowsill. I really want to go forward and look, but I manage to stop myself. “And what my sister jokes is my bedroom, living room and dining room all in one, my office.” He opens a door across the hall and takes me into the biggest room I’ve been in.

It is literally massive. There’s a sectional sofa at one end complete with coffee table. A sprawling desk with comfortable leather chair. Shelves of reference books, including many cookery books, and stacks upon stacks of folders.

“You have recipe books,” I say slowly, reaching for one and pulling it from the shelf.

“I own restaurants.”

“But you forget to order Thanksgiving turkey?”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “I hate cooking, all right? I can make cereal and that’s it.”

“You don’t make cereal. You put it in a bowl and pour milk on top of it.”

“You’re starting to ruin my elusive manner here, Bee.”

“You? Elusive? Not on your life, Carter Hughes. You’re as elusive as wasp around a group of teenage girls.”

His eyebrows arches in the way I’m rapidly becoming familiar with. “Mysterious?”

“Not so mysterious either,” I lie. “You’re like an orange just waiting to be peeled open.”

“That’s the oddest thing I’ve ever been called,” he muses. “Come on. There’s upstairs yet. Unless you want to see the spare rooms.”

Upstairs? Wait. I didn’t consider upstairs did I? “What’s in the spare rooms?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he admits.

“Then I’m good.”

He grins, and there’s something suggestive about it. “Upstairs?”

“I think I’m good.” I lift my wine glass to my lips.

“Bee… I can fuck you anywhere. The desk. The sofa. The wall. Taking you upstairs really isn’t going to make a difference.”

I cough, swallowing my wine wrong. “No, no, I got that,” I croak out, patting my chest. “I was just… Well. I don’t need to see upstairs.”

Carter tilts his head to one side and studies me. His bright green gaze is unnerving, and I shudder under his gentler-than-usual scrutiny. “All right,” he says slowly. “No bedrooms. Another room. If I’ve got you figured out, Bee Donnelly, I sense you’ll appreciate it.”

“What is it? Like a spa or something?”

He laughs, holding out his hand. My eyes narrow, and I glance at his hand. He makes a ‘come here’ motion with his fingers, not moving any closer to me.

“How do I know you’re not going to drag me into your bedroom and have your way with me?”

“If I planned on that, your skirt would already be around your hips and my cock would be buried inside you,” he answers matter-of-factly. “And yes, I understand we have yet to get to your important business, but I’m curious.”

I swallow. “Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Hughes.”

“Then I must be the cat, and you the curiosity, Ms. Donnelly,” he responds in a low voice, stepping toward me. My heart thuds. “Because I’m damn sure you’re gonna kill me.”

“All right,” I whisper. “Show me how well you think you know me.”

And then I place my hand in his.

Chapter Eleven

Carter’s fingers close around mine. He tugs me out of the room and toward the winding staircase. As we go up it, I realize it’s a gentle spiral, and both the little girl in my soul and the designer in my heart sing their way up to it. If I weren’t holding my wine glass, my fingers would be brushing the gorgeous wooden banister that follows the curve of the stairs. As it is, I settle for my eyes running along it.

At the top, we come to a spacious hallway, much barer than the rest of the house. Unlike downstairs, the doors are all open up here, and I can spy four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a room I can’t quite make out.

“The master bedroom with its private bath and walk-in closet are at the end of the hall,” Carter tells me, motioning toward it with his glass. “The others are all spares—I keep them for my family. Mom lives in California and comes to visit every couple of months,” he explains. “But that’s not what I want to show you.”

“I’m starting to think you really do have a sex chamber with whips and chains on the walls,” I say hesitantly, looking at the slightly ajar oak door behind him.

He laughs. Loudly. Still holding his wine glass, he touches one finger to my lips. “I think the lady reads too much.”

“There’s no such thing as reading too much. That’s like saying someone breathes too much.”

“I have to agree.”

His words surprise me, but not as much as what’s behind the door does.

Oh, my heart.

I can’t help the gasp that leaves my mouth. Oak bookshelves line two of the walls, built around the windows on the outside wall. Those small, square areas let an abundance of natural light into the room, and that light falls on the two huge couches that surround the fireplace right in the middle of it all. The open-brick chimneystack is stunning, offsetting the rich oak perfectly. The deep red rug that sits in the center of the dark brown sofas, peppered with red and cream cushions, is a stunning burst of color.

My hand falls from Carter’s as I step past him and into the room.

Books.

Shelves.

Everywhere.

“This is nothing like the rest of the house,” I breathe. “It’s amazing.”

“It isn’t much,” he says, following me in. “Izzy loves to read, and the first time she came here, she told me in very colorful language that it was sacrilege that I had a house this size without a library.” He shakes his head. “She’s a walking fairytale, my sister. Still, I had this put in. I believe she slept in here for two days the first time she saw it.”

“I don’t blame her.” I run my fingertips along a shelf, and he steps up behind me. Without a word, he takes the wine glass from my hand, and I can’t even thank him I’m so amazed.

He has the classics—all of them. American and British. The stories that are the very core of mystery and romance and adventure. Pure escapism within the pages that are bound by thick, leather covers.

That’s all books are. Escapism borne of wonderfully crafted words that describe far off lands. Sentences that ask and answer within seconds. Paragraphs that slay dragons and ride horses into the midnight sky. Chapters that describe the sensation of pounding hearts and consuming desire, each feeling chronicling the incredible sensation of falling in love.

I run my fingers along the spines of each book, old and new, classic and modern, as I walk the length of the room. The shelves are ceiling high, each one filled and overflowing.

“It’s a Belle library,” I sigh, ducking down to the shelf below.

“A Belle library?” Carter questions, putting both wine glasses on the coffee table.

“In Beauty and the Beast? The ladder?”

“Ohh. That.” He tilts his head to the side. “I guess so.”

“It’s amazing.” I smile. “Good job.”

His eyes are on me for the split second it takes him to cross the room. “I knew it,” he says to me.

“Knew what?” I look up at him, my lips pulling into a small smile.

“You’re an orange waiting to be peeled,” he throws my own words back at me. “And I think I just did it.”

Slowly, I stand, keeping my eyes on him. “I don’t get it.”

“You.” He pushes some hair from my eyes, his fingers lingering on the side of my face. “The night we met, you made it so clear you don’t want commitment. Why?”

“Why don’t you?”

“That’s not the conversation we’re having.”

“We’re not having any conversation.”

“You’re a romantic at heart, aren’t you, Bee? You’re not so different to everyone else.”

“I have no idea where you’re going with this conversation,” I breathe, stepping back. “What does who I am inside have to do with you, Carter? Your aversion to commitment is stronger than mine.”

“I have an aversion to relationships because women tend to look at me and see a meal ticket. They see diamonds and expensive things and flash cars and vacations. I’m not averse to commitment, Bee. I’m simply averse to it with the wrong woman. That doesn’t make a commitment-phobe. That makes me smart.”

“Maybe I’m averse to commitment with the wrong guy. I hardly need someone to depend on and look after me, but I don’t want someone that needs to depend on me.”

“I know what’s inside these pages. I may never have read them, but look.” He pulls one from the shelf. “Pride and Prejudice. Everyone knows how that ends. Eventually the pride and prejudice doesn’t matter and love prevails.” He puts it back on the shelf and pulls out Jane Eyre. “Eventually Jane and Mr. Rochester fall in love.” He replaces that and walks past me to a shelf with more modern books. “Fifty Shades of Grey. Ana and Christian. They fall in love. Cinderella. Rapunzel. All the classic fairytales, Bee. They all end in love and happily ever after.”

“Make your point, Carter, because I don’t see it.”

He pushes the gray book back into its place and walks to me. He stops, right in front of me, towering over me by several inches. “Maybe,” he says, gently touching his hand to the side of my face. “Maybe you’re less about the aversion and more about the dream.”

I push his hand away. “And maybe you have no idea.”

His green eyes are piercing. And they do. Pierce. Right down to my bones, to my very soul; the same soul that’s yelling at me for arguing what I know to be so very true.

I believe in love. True love. Whirlwind, consuming love. I believe it exists for everyone, and I’ll be damned if I’ll settle for anything less.

He’s right.

My aversion to commitment is more about a dream of what could be, more than anything else.

“Ever thought that one day you could be so averse to what’s in front of you that you could skip right over what you want?” Carter asks, closing the distance between us once more. “That could be so wrapped up in perfection that you’ll never appreciate flaws?”

“Okay, you’ve met my mother, and you’ve seen my office. There are flaws all up in that shit,” I respond, snorting. “This… is getting out of hand. Can we just go eat now?”

He shakes his head. “I’m still the cat. I wanna know.”

“Really? You wanna know why I’m holding out for the person that’s right for me?”

“That seems like a pretty apt description of what I wanted to know, actually.”

“Because there are too many people like you in the world, Carter.” I flatten my hands against my stomach and take a deep breath. “Too many people that can manipulate your thoughts and your feelings until you believe everything to be true.”

His smile drops. “That’s what you think I’m doing? You think I’m fucking manipulating you?”

“Do I think that, when I’m done with your restaurant, we’ll honestly never see each other again? Yes. I do. Totally. I know nothing about you, yet you make me feel a way I haven’t in a long time. You make me feel a hundred different ways that I shouldn’t.”

“Elaborate,” he demands, his eyes sparking. “If you think I’m manipulating you, tell me exactly how I make you feel and see how I respond.”

“Wanted,” I say quietly. “You make me feel wanted—and you make me believe that I am, too.”

“That’s because you are,” he growls. “I want you, Bee. Fuck—I want you more than anything. How can you think that isn’t true? It’s taking everything I have not to grab you and show you that’s true.”

“Then do it,” I challenge him, raising my chin. “Right now. Prove it. If you think you’re a fucking romance hero and you really want me, show me.”

“You have no idea what you’re asking me to do,” he warns me in a low voice. “I don’t take this shit lightly, baby. I’m an asshole, but I’m not a user. If I have to show you how much I want you, I’ll be fucking damned if I can take that back.”

“I don’t care,” I return bravely. “I’m not a fucking pushover. I’m not a toy or a doll that can be stashed in a drawer or a cupboard until you’re ready for another play. You just stood in front of me and you told me that you want a woman who doesn’t look at you and see dollar signs. Newsflash, Carter, I don’t see that. I see an asshole, but I see one who makes believe I’m wanted.”

His jaw tightens, his eyes darkening.

“Prove it to me right now, or I’m walking out of that door, and believe me when I say you’ll never see me again.”

His movements are like a flash of lightning.

His hands in my hair. The bookshelves digging into my back. His bare chest against me. My lips crushed beneath him.

I can taste the lust on his lips.

It’s intoxicating.

The kiss is everything. It’s the verbal affirmation of the very thing I just demanded he prove, and I’m drowning beneath his determination. I’m drowning in his desperate exploration of my mouth.

“Believe it yet?” he rasps against me. “Believe that I’m not fucking lying to you when I tell you I want you?”

I stare into his eyes defiantly. “Kissing wasn’t what I meant.”

“Not all fairytales end as expected. Not everyone has a prince inside them.”

“Belle never fell in love with the prince. She fell in love with the Beast.”

He holds my gaze for one long, torturous minute, and then tugs me away from the shelves. His hand tightens around mine and he tugs me after him down the hall toward the master bedroom.

He kicks the door shut behind him, and I can barely register the blue and gray color scheme before he’s spinning me and grasping my waist. He clasps the zipper at the back and undoes it, then pushes on the waistband. It falls to my feet, and he grabs the hem of my blouse.

My heart is on double-time. My lungs are demanding oxygen quicker than I can breathe it in. I’m tingling everywhere as anticipation dances across my skin. I can barely control myself as Carter’s deft fingers work the buttons of my blouse until its undone and falling off my shoulders. Or maybe he’s pushing it off. I don’t know anymore. It’s feeling after feeling and each one is stronger than the last.

He stands in front of me, and I force my eyes from his chest, up along the stubbled line of his jaw and the chiseled ridge of his cheekbone to where his eyes are focused intently on me. His look is chilling yet heated at the very same time, and I suck my lower lip into my mouth.

His gaze drops as I release it, dragging my teeth across it as I do so.

As if that movement were a switch, Carter snaps.

His hands dive back into my hair, and in the same movement, he kisses me. His lips are hungry as they move across mine, and I grasp his sides to keep standing as he walks with me. The backs of my calves hit the bed and we fall in a tangle of limbs and dueling tongues.

Need rushes through me, and I grasp at his back as he covers my body with his.

This is nothing like the first time.

That was fun. Easy. Playful.

This is carnal. Raw. Desperate.

And dammit, as he pulls back and I gasp for air as his mouth travels down my neck, my heart pounds a little harder—for him.

Not for the lust. Not for the sex. Not for the undeniable feeling of being wanted. But for the man—whom I hardly know—that’s making me feel all these things.

And there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

Carter tugs away my bra and immediately closes his mouth around one of my nipples. His tongue traces shapes over the hardened point as his thumb does the same to my other. Fuck me. It’s like they have a direct line to my clit. I’m hyper sensitive of every movement he makes as he switches his mouth to the other side and slides his hand down my body.