Page 66 of Carrick
She didn’t pull back. Her nose brushed mine. Her breath met my lips. But still, she didn’t close the distance.
And that restraint—her choice to linger there, to breathe with me, to hold the moment instead of devouring it—somehow felt more intimate than any kiss.
My hand cupped the back of her neck. The other stayed curled low around her hip, grounding us both. I could feel the line of her thigh against mine, the subtle tremor in her muscles like her body was trying to decide if it wanted more or simply wanted to be.
Her lips parted slightly, and I felt her exhale against my mouth—one of those trembling little breaths that betrays a heart trying too hard to stay steady. My own pulse kicked up in answer. Not with urgency, but with need. Not a hunger for sex, not in that moment. Something deeper. A craving for closeness. For her.
“I’ve never done this,” she said.
I pulled back just far enough to meet her gaze again. “Done what?”
“Trusted someone like this. Not just physically. Not even emotionally. I mean—just… let go. Let myself be seen. All the pieces. All the broken shit.”
I didn’t blink. “Then we’ll break the rules.”
She frowned faintly, and I caught her hand where it rested against my chest, lifting it between us and threading my fingers through hers.
“No one said it has to look a certain way,” I said. “No one said you have to give it a name. We go at your pace. We build it however you need it. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
That was when she leaned in.
No hesitation. No warning. Just her mouth against mine, soft and slow. Not claiming. Not teasing. Just… connection. Feeling. Mapping the shape of something new. Her lips were warm and a little unsure at first, like she didn’t trust herself not to fall. But I didn’t push. I didn’t deepen it. I let her come to me—let her find the rhythm.
And when she did—when she sighed into the kiss and tilted her head just enough to fit—it was like stepping into something inevitable.
Her hand moved to my jaw, fingertips grazing the stubble there as if to steady herself. My own hand slid back to her hip, anchoring her. The kiss didn’t burn. It didn’t rush. It smoldered. Lingering and slow, like something sacred was being carved into the air between our bodies.
When we finally broke apart, our breath mingled in the space left behind.
“I don’t want to ruin this,” she said, voice trembling now—not with nerves, but with truth.
“You won’t,” I said. “We’re not fragile.”
She stared at me, eyes wide and stormy, and for the first time since I met her, I saw hope. Not confidence. Not flirtation. Hope.
And I would do whatever it took to protect that hope. Even from herself.
Her lips parted again—not for a kiss, not for a gasp, but for breath. For air heavy with tension and warmth, the quiet pull of something neither of us had named but both of us felt. Her eyes found mine, wide and unguarded now, a flicker of something raw and uncertain moving behind them.
“I don’t think I know what I’m doing. I’ve never tried this before.” She said, not with resistance, but with honesty. A threadbare truth laid between us like a question she didn’t know how to ask.
I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t rush her, or try to reframe it into something safer. I just let my hand move again, tracing the arc of her spine beneath the fabric of the blanket still loosely wrapped around her, finding the heat of her skin where the damp fabric clung and lifting it slightly as my palm slid beneath. The press of her body against mine shifted with themotion, her breath catching as I settled my hands at the small of her back and held her there.
“You don’t have to do anything but feel what’s real,” I said, voice low enough that it shaped the space between our mouths more than filled it. “You don’t have to know the rhythm yet. We find it together.”
Her eyes softened. She shifted in my lap—not pulling away, not leaning in, justsettling. The edge of the blanket slipped lower with each breath, her thighs tensing slightly around mine. No performance. No rush. Just heat braided with hesitation, trust laced with curiosity. Her hands stayed on my shoulders, fingers curling near my collarbone. When our foreheads touched, it was featherlight. A hush followed—not silence, but breath and pulse and something sacred blooming between us.
Her hips tilted, the smallest motion, and it rippled through me like a tremor beneath still water. Her hands slid to my chest, fingers spreading over my heartbeat. She wasn’t trembling, but there was tension—careful, deliberate. Like she didn’t want to break what we were becoming.
Neither did I.
The scent of her—soap, skin, steam—wrapped around me like a memory I hadn’t lived yet. Her breath warmed my chest. My hands didn’t move. Not yet. But every inch of me wanted to learn her all over again. Not to take. Just to trace. To witness. To remind her she didn’t have to carry anything alone anymore.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she said softly, the words nearly swallowed by the space between us. “I feel like… like my skin’s thinner when I’m with you. Like everything’s louder.”
My hand slid higher along her back, allowing the blanket to fully fall away now, palm flattening against the base of her spine where heat radiated like a second heartbeat. I didn’t answer her with words, not yet. I let my touch speak first, slow and open,every movement deliberate. I let her feel the way I held her. The way I wasn’t letting go.
“I used to be good at shutting it off,” she continued, her voice rougher now, scraped clean of pretense. “The need. The wanting. The fear. I’d just… flip a switch. Numb it out.”
