Page 121 of Homecoming

“Jazz. Jasmine.”

“I don’t know Jasmine, but you care about her, and I shouldn’t–”

The impulse to touch her struck, and struck hard; he didn’t try to deny it. He’d set his wine glass aside minutes ago, and he reached now with his free hand, the one not in his lap, beneath her hand, and cupped her cheek.

She was smaller in every dimension that Jazz, than maybe anyone he’d been with. Her jaw felt delicate and fragile in his palm; he felt the hummingbird beat of her pulse in his fingertips, in the soft skin just behind her ear. How little she was, how strong inside, but how breakable outside. Unbidden, thoughts of the missing girls filled his mind; he heard Eden’s sharp, bitter tone when she lamented Michelle and Axelle being taken, as if there was something she could have done personally to stop it. A whole clubhouse full of Dogs hadn’t been able to do a damn thing about it.

Fear clenched hard in his belly, and he let out a shaky breath, gaze fixed to his thumb as it swept delicately along the fine skin of her cheek. He didn’t want to be afraid, not now, not in this moment, but wanting to kiss her, wanting to touch her, was all tangled up with wanting to keep her safe, and the pulse of desire it sent spearing through him left him gasping, a little.

Her eyes widened; he was probably worrying her, but he couldn’t do anything to alter that, not now.

“Carter.”

“Iama sex fiend,” he said, wholly serious, and felt the little shiver that moved through her. “You’re right about that. I’ve been trying to drown my unhappiness with sex for a long time now, and that doesn’t work. It won’t make the bad shit go away.” He let his hand shift, palming slowly, gently down the slide of her throat, his thumb tracing her scattered pulse, feeling the flower-stem fragility of her neck. It had never been like this for him, this interlocking of want and fear and attraction and anticipated devastation. It was heady, and wonderful, and terrifying, and he was very, very glad of the years, the days, the hours he’d spent trying to drown himself, because it meant he had something – hopefully – worthwhile to offer to this girl who was giving him a chance to be something besides an afterthought.

He wet his lips, and leaned in closer, just as she swayed toward him, her lashes lowering a fraction. “But,” he said, shocked by the throatiness of his own voice, “I like to think I learned a thing or two along the way. I’m not a clumsy high school kid anymore.”

“No,” she breathed out, faintly, swaying even closer. “Definitely not that.”

He trailed his hand down to the join of neck and shoulder, thumbing briefly at her collarbone, sharp and just-visible in the open V-neck of her shirt. Then back up, pad of his thumb pressed to her chin, to her lower lip. He reveled in the way she responded, mouth parting, breath sighing out of her. Hewasn’ta dumb kid anymore; he could make her feel good, could make it so, so much better than Jason ever had – why shouldn’t he show off a little? Why not enjoy making her pulse race and her skin shiver and her blood pool low in her belly, down near where she would start to ache for him?

“Leah–”

“Wait.” He froze, worried as she moved – but it was only to lean over and set her glass on the coffee table. When she leaned back, she leaned all the way back, got up on her knees on the cushion, put her hands on his shoulders, and she was right here, lips damp and glistening from the pass of her own tongue, dark lashes thick as fans against her blushing cheeks. “Okay,” she breathed.

He tangled both hands in her hair, finally, its cool, silken heaviness, pulled her in, and kissed her.

Gentle at first, careful. But her hands tightened on his shoulders, and her lips opened right away, and it was easy as anything to angle his head, and slip his tongue between her lips. Opening her up for him, sealing their mouths with a hot, wet press.

He got lost to it, for a minute. The slick slide of lips, and tongues; she tasted like wine, and her lips were so soft, and her hair was watered silk through his fingers.

She made a sound, a little whimper, and Carter realized he’d gotten way too aggressive way too fast. He pulled back, and found that he’d bent her back against the arm of the couch, bearing down on her with intent, kissing her with the kind of wild avarice that led to skin on skin. Not kissing because it was nice, but kissing with intent.

Shame washed through him, and he opened his fingers, intending to push back from her. He’d gotten so used to Jazz’s no-frills, forward approach to sex that he was skipping all sorts of steps, violating Leah’s trust; shit, he was all butdominatingher.

“I’m–” he started. Sorry got caught in his throat when he got a look at her face, her lips kiss-swollen, her eyes low-lidded, cheeks flushed.

Her lashes fluttered as she glanced up at him, lips parting on a soft breath. “Why’d you stop?”

He leaned back in – but caught himself. Paused. “Is it too much?”

She smiled. “No, you dummy.” Caught his shirt collar, and reeled him in the rest of the way.

~*~

Carter was the sort of guy that people her grandparents’ age always described as a “nice young man.” Unfailingly polite, and modest; quiet, careful, mannerly. He opened doors and always thanked people properly; saidma’amandsir. When he was nice, he wasso nice, and it would have been easy to imagine him as a sweaty-palmed, fumbling, overeager lover, done in a minute and not worth the effort, in hindsight.

But there was another side to him, lurking underneath. The side that had made him so light on his feet on the football field, such an accurate passer, so rarely sacked. It was visible, in rare moments, in the sharp corner of a smile, in the way the light would catch his blue eyes just so, a sparkle, a sly little sideways glance. At times, he looked like he had a secret; it was visible, in those moments, the way he tucked that cockier persona away behind his polite mask.

Leah had been glimpsing more and more of it lately, especially tonight. She thought tonight she’d gotten her first good, long look at the real Carter; the person he was when he wasn’t trying to obey orders or toe the line. His father’s ready backhand had molded him into someone eager to please – but tonight she thought she understood that he wanted to be pleased, too.

She realized now that she’d still managed to underestimate him.

His kiss was straight-up sex.

She couldn’t get over his hands in her hair, and the hot, relentless stroke of his tongue, forward, and intimate, and unforgiving. She’d thought he might be a good kisser, but she hadn’t anticipated him taking control like this.

It was spine-meltingly good.

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