Page 67 of Carrick
She swallowed and tilted her face slightly, nose brushing mine. Her lashes were damp—maybe from the shower, maybe not—and her lips were parted just enough that I could feel the edge of each exhale.
“But you don’t let me,” she finished.
I closed my eyes for a breath, pressing my forehead more firmly to hers. “You don’t need to flip the switch anymore,” I said. “Not with me.”
She exhaled again, this time shakier. And then—slowly—she shifted forward in my lap, hips sliding just enough to press more fully against mine. Her thighs adjusted, spreading a little wider around me. The movement wasn’t overt. It wasn’t designed to tempt. It was instinctive. Natural. Like her body had decided to trust what her mouth hadn’t yet admitted.
I caught her waist with one hand, my grip firm but not tight. My other slid up her spine, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades. Her skin was hot. Supple. I felt the tension humming beneath it like a held breath.
“I don’t want to be numb,” she whispered.
“Then don’t be.”
She looked at me—really looked—and something clicked behind her eyes. A decision made without a word.
Her mouth found mine again.
The kiss was deeper this time—not rushed or desperate, but steady. Intentional. Like a question finally being answered. Her lips moved with a slow hunger, not for climax, but for connection. For permission. For something unguarded.
I kissed her back just as deliberately, my hand skimming the curve of her waist, tracing heat along her side, memorizing the rise of her ribs. When I brushed just beneath her breast—barely a graze—her breath caught. She broke the kiss only to rest her cheek against mine; her face burrowed into the crook of my neck.
She didn’t pull away. Didn’t ask for more.
She just… stayed.
So I held her. Both arms around her, drawing her fully against me until she melted into my chest like she’d always belonged there. Her hands never left my body, fingertips coasting over my skin like she was trying to remember what safety felt like—what it meant to be held without expectation, without fear.
“I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as much as I want to not fuck this up,” she murmured, voice muffled against my throat.
“You won’t,” I said. “You couldn’t.”
“You don’t know me like that.”
“I know you better than you think.”
She went quiet again, arms tightening around my waist. Her legs shifted just enough to spark friction—heat coiling through my blood—but I didn’t chase it. I stayed. With her. Around her.
We breathed like that for a long moment. Her heartbeat gradually slowed. Mine didn’t. Because something was happening in the stillness—something quiet, steady. Not loud enough to name, but impossible to ignore.
Her fingers curled tighter at my waist. Her body softened against mine, melting inch by inch like she wasn’t ready to let go. Like maybe we were just beginning.
Minutes passed—no words, no rush.
I traced one hand up her spine, slow and grounding, like I could press calm into her bones. Her skin was warm. Her heartbeat stronger now, louder.
Like she was coming back to herself.
Or finally learning how to let go.
“You don’t have to hold so much,” I said finally, voice low. “Not when you’re with me.”
She gave a small sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. Just breath. Ragged at the edges.
“I don’t know how not to,” she whispered. “It’s all I’ve ever done.”
I eased her back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were dark and bright at once, shining like something breakable. Her cheeks were flushed, lips parted, jaw set like she was waiting for something to go wrong.
“You don’t have to know how,” I said. “You just have to let me try.”
