Page 13 of Carter
There was nothing careful about it. His lips crashed into mine like the fight hadn’t ended, like this was just anotherbattle he refused to lose. My back hit the wall, his hands braced on either side of me, caging me in.
I should’ve stopped him. God knows I’d told myself not to cross this line. But when his tongue swept against mine, when his chest pressed against me—hard, solid, alive—I couldn’t think of a single reason why not.
I fisted the front of his shirt, dragging him closer. He groaned, low and guttural, and the sound went straight through me. His hands slid down, gripping my hips, hauling me up until my legs wrapped around his waist without thought.
“Harper,” he rasped against my mouth, “tell me to stop.”
“Don’t you dare.”
That broke the last of his control.
We stumbled into the nearest supply room, door slamming shut behind us. In the dim light, we tore at each other—my fingers pushing his shirt up, his hands tugging my scrub top free, heat sparking everywhere skin met skin.
There was no finesse. No slow burn. Just raw need, teeth and tongues and hands mapping territory we’d both been pretending we didn’t want.
When he pressed me against the shelves, his mouth blazing down my neck, I finally found breath enough to whisper the truth.
“This—God, Carter—this should terrify me.”
He lifted his head, eyes dark, wild, and utterly focused. “It terrifies me too.” His voice broke, his lips brushing mine again. “But I want you anyway.”
And then there was nothing left but want.
The supply room wasn’t enough. Not for this. Not for us.
Carter’s mouth was still hot against mine, his body solid between my thighs, when he broke away just long enough to rasp, “Not here.” His forehead pressed to mine, breath rough. “You deserve better than a damn closet.”
My chest heaved, nerves sparking. “Then take me somewhere else.”
His answer was a low growl, and then we were moving—out the back door, into his truck, his hand gripping mine on the console like he couldn’t stand to let go. The drive blurred, city lights streaking past, my body humming with every glance he shot my way, every muscle in his arm flexing as he shifted gears.
We barely made it inside his place before the control snapped.
The door slammed behind us, and Carter was on me—hands fisting in my scrub top, mouth claiming mine like he’d been starving for this. I gasped into him, tugging at his shirt until it was over his head and on the floor.
God. He was carved from heat and muscle, scars cutting across his chest like history written on skin. My fingers traced one, and he shuddered under my touch.
“Harper.” My name came out broken, like he was begging and warning me all at once.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered.
That was all it took.
He scooped me up, carried me down the short hall, and set me on his bed with a reverence that contrasted the storm in his eyes. His mouth followed—down my neck, over my collarbone—his hands tugging my scrubs loose with frantic precision until I was bare beneath him.
Heat flamed through me, sharp and unstoppable. His tongue teased the swell of my breast before sucking hard enough to make me arch. My hands tunneled into his hair, dragging him closer, desperate for more.
When his mouth slid lower, when his fingers spread my thighs and he looked at me like I was both prey and salvation, I thought I might shatter.
“Tell me what you want, Harper.” His voice was gravel against my skin.
“You,” I gasped, already trembling. “I want you.”
He gave me everything.
His mouth, his hands, his body—claiming me with a hunger that left no part untouched. The first thrust tore a cry from my throat, and he swallowed it with a kiss, his rhythm rough and relentless, his name a broken prayer on my lips.
We moved like we were still in that stairwell—fighting, but this time for release, for connection, for the one thing we hadn’t let ourselves admit we needed.
