I groan in frustration, tightening my grip on his shirt and trying to move closer. But he keeps his hand steady on my chin, holding me in place.
“Careful,” he says, his breathing hard, rapid.
I gaze up at him, those bright blue eyes swallowed by the spread of his pupils.
“No,” I whisper. I am sotiredof careful.
I tug his hand away from my chin and lean forward to suck his lower lip into my mouth, biting gently. Though not as gently as I could.
A tremor runs through his whole body, and his hands lash upward to tangle in the back of my hair, dragging me closer. His mouth opens under mine, hot, demanding.
The center console between us digs into my ribs, but I don’t care. The discomfort is a distant idea, nowhere near as powerful or as present as the desire to feel his skin against mine. To slip my hand down over the velvety softness of his worn jeans and trace the contours of his heat and hardness.
To take him in my mouth, while he’s still behind the wheel, and feel him lose control, chest heaving, hands tight in my hair. Even if the windows offer a view of us to anyone who happens to walk by.
I don’t care.
I slide my hand down his chest, toward the button of his jeans, but a loud buzzing sound intrudes. It takes me a second to identify it as his phone, still in its tidy cubby, vibrating obnoxiously against its plastic cage.
Carter jolts, pulling back slightly. His lips are red and swollen.
“Ignore it,” I murmur.
But it’s too late; reality has seeped in with the arrival of that incoming text.
Carter straightens up, shifting his body away from me, even as he reaches past me to retrieve his phone.
Damnit.I drop back into my seat, my mouth still tingling from his.
Carter unlocks his phone and thumbs for his messages. He goes deadly still after a moment, staring down at the screen.
Eagerness spikes through me. Could it be Erik already?
But no. Not based on Carter’s intense, shamed expression and the flush to his cheeks.
Oh shit fuck.I forgot about the new girl. “Everything okay?” I ask, clearing my throat. My voice is too high-pitched for normal.
Carter doesn’t answer right away. He clicks the screen off and returns the phone to its cubby. “It’s Stephens,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “He wants me to come in. Something about late essays.”
Uh-huh.At noon on a Saturday without any notice? That doesn’t sound right. If it is, Stephens has hellacious timing. Like, crystal ball, see into mirror darkly, psychic shit.
“Are we good to go back to campus?” Carter asks. “Or do we need to shake down the front desk clerk at the DoubleTree in Danvers for cookies and information?” He offers me a smile, but it’s tight, forced. I can sense him retreating, even with his physical form still in the seat next to mine.
Of course.
A surge of anger rises in my throat. Anger at myself. Iknowbetter than this. But I keep sticking my hand in the boiling water and then being surprised when my skin blisters and burns.
“We can go back,” I say flatly, shifting to face forward. Clearly, that’s the better choice for both of us right now. I need to focus on more important things, anyway. Like finding out what the hell is going on. With or without Devon.
I need to come up with another approach.
I grimace.Or stop avoiding the next most logical one.
10
My relationship with my mother has never been easy. I mean, she didn’t drown me in the tub as an infant, so that’s something. There are people who wouldn’t have been able to handle even my existence, let alone the cost of how I came to be.
Fear does terrible things to love, though. Twists it, mangles it, often beyond recognition. Not to mention, I’m a constant reminder of the life and the “normal” daughter she desperately wanted but could never have. Like a perpetual pressure sore that will never fully heal.
