Page 90 of Stranger to Love

"And I don't actually live on Heeley Street," I admitted, my voice dropping. "I live just around the corner from there. I didn't want you to see where I really lived. It’s a decrepit house, Carrie. My mum cleans it every single day with this fierce sense of pride, regardless of the postcode, but it’s still falling apart."

I gestured vaguely toward the high ceilings and the pristine, designer kitchen around us. "I didn't want you to see my dad’s beat-up old van parked out front—the one he uses for every odd job he can find just to keep the lights on. I didn't want you to see the real world I live in, especially after knowing you live in a world like... this."

I felt small for the first time in a long time. I waited for the shift—the moment where the power dynamic reasserted itself, or where the gap between the wealthy professor and the struggling student became a canyon we couldn't bridge.

Carrie didn't move her hand from mine. Instead, she tightened her grip, her thumb tracing a soothing circle over my knuckles.

"Alex," she said, her voice firm and grounded. "I grew up in a house where the windows were boarded up for three winters because we couldn't afford the glass. My mother worked three cleaning jobs to put me through the school that gave me my first scholarship."

My mouth fell open slightly. I’d spent months imagining her as some blue-blooded academic born into silk sheets.

"This house, the car, the world I live in now?" She looked around the room with a distant, tired sort of pride. "This is the result of twenty years of clawing my way out of the exact same world you’re in. I don't see a decrepit house when I look at you, Alex. I see a woman who was working twice as hard as everyone else just to stand on the same starting line. If you think I’m going to judge your father’s van or your mother’s pride, then you don't know me at all."

A lump formed in my throat, so thick that I couldn't swallow. I’d been so busy hiding that I didn't realise I was hiding from someone who already knew the map of my life by heart.

I didn't care about the pasta getting cold or the fact that we were still sitting at a dining table. I just needed to be near her.

I reached across the table, my hands laced in her hair and pulled her toward me. Carrie met me halfway, her chair screeching against the floor as she leaned in. When our lips met, it wasn’t like the frantic, desperate kiss with Billie. This was deep, grounding, and heavy with a truth we’d both finally stopped running from.

She tasted like the distant hint of coffee and the shared secret of where we came from. Her hands moved to my hair, her fingers tangling in the strands and pulling me closer until I was practically hovering over the table. I groaned into her mouth, a sound of pure relief. The ache that had been sitting in my chest since I saw her in this red dress this morning finally started to dull.

"Carrie," I whispered against her lips, the name sounding like a prayer.

She pulled back just an inch, her eyes dark and searching, her breath hitching in her throat. "The dinner," she murmured breathlessly, though she made no move to actually return to her plate.

"Forget the dinner," I said, my voice raspy. I stood up, not breaking eye contact, and reached for her hand. I pulled her up with me, my heart fucking hammering a rhythm against my ribs that felt like it was trying to sync with hers.

I’d spent so long thinking this woman was a prize to be won or a grade to be earned. I didn't realise she was the first person who actually looked at me and saw…me.

She didn't protest as I led her away from the half-eaten meal. She just kept her fingers laced tightly with mine, her gaze fixed on me with an intensity that told me the guest room was definitely going to remain empty tonight.

"You're sure?" she asked as we reached the foot of the stairs, her voice trembling with that rare, beautiful vulnerability.

"I've never been sure of anything else," I promised, leaning down to kiss the hollow of her throat.

The moment of hesitation vanished. Carrie didn’t wait for me to lead anymore; she tugged on my hand, her grip firm and possessive as she pulled me toward the stairs. My heart was thundering against my ribs, a wild, frantic rhythm that only accelerated as we reached the landing.

She led me into her bedroom, and for a split second, I just breathed it in. It was exactly like her—sophisticated, calm, and deeply personal. The lighting was low and amber, casting long shadows against walls painted in rich, moody hues of forest green. The furniture was heavy, dark wood, and the bed looked like a place you could disappear into for days. It smelled like her—expensive, clean, and a little bit like the rain clinging to the windows.

I didn’t get long to admire the room.

Carrie turned, her back hitting the door with a soft thud as she pulled me flush against her. The air left my lungs in a sharp rush as her hands found the collar of my shirt, dragging me into a kiss that was anything but academic. It was hungry and demanding, a silent release of all the tension we’d been building since that first lecture.

My hands found her waist instinctively, pulling her closer until there was no air left between us. I tilted my head back, desperate for every inch of her. I trailed my kisses from her lips down the elegant line of her jaw, my hands sliding under the hem of that stunning red dress to find the soft, warm skin of her thighs.

"Alex," she breathed, her fingers digging into my shoulders. It wasn't a warning this time; it was a plea.

I pulled back just enough to look at her. Her hair was a mess, her lips were swollen from mine, and her eyes were dark with a vulnerability that hit me harder than any lecture ever could. The "Dr. Carter" who terrified me was gone, replaced by Carrie—the woman who understood the weight I carried because she’d carried it herself.

"I've got you," I whispered, my voice thick with a promise I finally intended to keep. "I'm not going anywhere."

She let out a shaky breath, her gaze searching mine before she reached for the buttons of my shirt. Her hands were trembling just enough to remind me that this was as monumental for her as it was for me. We weren't just crossing a line; we were erasing it.

Carrie made quick work of my shirt, her fingers nimble and determined as she shoved the fabric off my shoulders. I felt the cool air of the room hit my skin for only a second before her lips followed, pressing hot, lingering kisses across my chest that made my head fall against the door.

My hands were frantic, searching the smooth material of her red dress until I found the zipper at the small of her back. I pulled it down with a sharp, satisfying hiss, and she helped me guide the dress over her hips until it pooled like a crimson shadow on the floor.

Carrie didn't miss a beat. She moved me backward, her eyes locked on mine, until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the mattress. With a gentle but firm press to my shoulders, she pushed me down onto the bed. I sank into the heavy duvet, watching as she quickly moved to undo my jeans, dragging them off with a desperate kind of efficiency.