Although he is all impulse and brute strength, Carter’s kisses are calculated and considerate. He’s patient. He gauges what I like and how far I want to go. If I press my mouth to his a bit harder, he slows the way his lips move against mine, letting us exist in this heavy cloud of want. If I pull back, he chases me, stopping an inch before my mouth to let me decide if I want more.
I slowly pull away, and he follows, but pauses before our lips touch again. With our faces inches apart, his eyes are gluedto my mouth. His hand slides between our bodies to cup my face, gliding his thumb across my cheekbone like I’m the most interesting thing in the world.
He doesn’t look up when he speaks next. Doesn’t meet my eyes. His gaze is locked on my mouth and my mouth alone.
“You make me feel safe, too.”
I blink, confused by his words. His eyes drag up to mine, his hand moving from my chin to a stray piece of hair that’s fallen in front of my face. He pushes it behind my ear with a gentle smile.
I’m about to push. I’m about to ask questions about what that means, but I’m stopped short when his smile falls and his face goes stark white.
“Carter?” I ask.
“Oh, fuck,” he grumbles, and then his hands are on my hips and he’s practically shoving me off the couch. I slump to the floor, and he jumps over me in his sweatpants, hand slapped over his mouth. He sprints toward the bathroom, throws open the door, and I hear the toilet seat slam against the tank before the sound of Carter profusely vomiting erupts through the condo.
I let out a long breath, my eyes slowly shutting. Dropping my head to the couch, I stare up at the ceiling.
The fucking wine curse.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
carter
I’m a fucking loser.
Biggest, stupidest loser on planet earth.
I’m halfway through my third retch when a hand finds my back. Her fingers start making slow, comforting circles like my mother’s used to when I’d be sick with the flu and barfing my guts out.
This is the last thing that I ever wanted her to see. How fucking humiliating.
The thing is, I can’t even stop it. It’s the kind of puke that forces its way out of your body. It gives you half a minute in the penalty box and then pushes you right back out to face the music. I’m facing it. Miserably. The toilet bowl is splattered with red, like a fucking murder scene, and I don’t want to look at it hard enough to see what else I’ve dropped into it.
“Let it out,” Red says softly, kneeling next to me. Her hand keeps making its patterns and it’s working. The soothing feeling is actually making me feel better.
I cough a bit, dropping my head between my shoulders. “Did I ever tell you how much I hate getting drunk on wine?”
Aw, crap. My words are slurring. I knew I was drunk, but this is next level. Shejustfucking kissed me. I broke down a wall with her, and now I’m yacking in a bathroom and she’s comforting me? She drank as much as me at that wine tasting, yet here I am.
“I know,” she whispers. “It’s the curse.”
I grumble something, but then another wave comes and I’m puking again.
I want to tell her to leave. I know I’m not getting another kiss in this lifetime if she keeps watching, but her touch feels too good. It makes the puking suck a little less, and I just want her here.
I always want her here.
I must have asked something, because she’s talking again. Her voice feels just as good as her hand.
“Wine curse,” she explains. “Gets the best of us. Takes no prisoners. Tomorrow’s going to suck even worse if you don’t get this out.”
I only groan in response.
“Where is your ibuprofen?” she asks, and the hand is gone from my back, and I want to cry and beg for her to put it back. She rummages through the cupboards as I press my cheek to the toilet bowl. I think it might be over. I might be in the clear. I roll my head to look at her. Dressed in my clothes, beautiful red hair falling down her back. Perfect person. Perfect woman.
She pops open the pill bottle and shakes some into her hand, turning the sink tap on.
I just kissed her.
