A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1) (27 page)

She threw the paper into the toilet and leaned against the side of the sink. No, she thought. That wasn’t right. She wasn’t alone. The fact that she was standing in Carter’s apartment proved she wasn’t. He was the only one who seemed to understand her, who seemed to know what she needed or even wanted. He knew her in a way no one else did, and it was in a way that both thrilled and alarmed her.

She just wished she’d thought a little bit more about the consequences before turning up on Carter’s damn doorstep and telling him she wanted him to fuck her.

But the truth was, the only thing she’d thought about as she’d driven through the night was getting to Carter. The only person she’d wanted to see was Carter. The only arms she wanted around her, the only chest she wanted to press her face into, the only mouth she wanted against hers, and the only scent she wanted to breathe in were Carter’s.

She used the toilet, washed her hands, rinsed out her mouth, and moved back toward the door, cupping an ear to it, listening for Carter on the other side. It was silent. As quietly as she could, she turned the handle and opened it, peeking around the doorjamb.

Carter’s voice was soft and deep. “Hey.”

He was sitting on top of the covers, against the headboard of his bed, bare-chested and crumpled, with his jean-clad legs crossed casually at the ankles. His jeans sat comfortably under his belly button, showing a trail of coarse, dark hair that disappeared to, well, farther down.

Realizing she’d not noticed the artwork on his body while she was grinding all over him, her gaze wandered over his wide shoulders that were covered in the ink she’d seen on his arms. From his neck, the artwork moved past his collarbone to his strong stomach. He was a masterpiece. He was muscular, of course, but he didn’t scream
body beautiful
; he screamed
strength and safety
. He had a smattering of hair in the center of his chest that sat like an exclamation point next to his masculinity.

Kat cleared her throat and walked back into the bedroom. She stopped about two feet from the edge of the bed, not really knowing what she should say or do. She twisted her hands together at her stomach. She eventually glanced up to see Carter’s face was gentle, expecting nothing. She breathed a little easier and gave him a small smile.

“How ya doin’?”

“I’m okay.”

He raised a knowing eyebrow. “You’re a shitty liar.” He shook his head and patted his palm on the bed space next to him. “Come here.”

Kat’s body flushed. “What?”

Carter simply continued patting the bed.

He looked extremely appealing and mischievous, but there was also a tenderness in his eyes that Kat could do nothing but trust. She took another tentative step, and watched Carter pull the covers back for her. She stopped again, wondering if it was a sensible move to get back into his bed.

“Carter, I—”

“Peaches,” Carter interrupted with a dip of his chin. “It’s six thirty on a fucking Sunday morning. Now, I don’t know about you, but I could sure as hell sleep another few hours.”

Kat laughed at his expression. She was so very tired. Her whole body was exhausted.

“All right,” she murmured. She kneeled on the bed and shuffled ungracefully under the covers. Carter tucked them around her.

She froze for a moment, loving the softness of the mattress and pillows, before she turned her head back toward Carter. He was looking down at her, leaning over her on his forearm. The tenderness of his eyes had dissolved into something else that made Kat’s mouth dry. He looked hungry.

“I thought you were sleeping, too?” she asked with a nod toward the bed.

His eyes seemed to snap back into focus and he frowned in response, clearly confused. “I will.”

“So why are you not under the covers?”

Carter’s cheeks tinged pink and he shifted away from her, the muscles in his chest tightening minutely.

“Yeah,” he muttered. He glanced down at himself. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I’ll just stay here. I’m fine.”

After watching his face for a few seconds, Kat released a disbelieving laugh. Hadn’t this man been between her legs with his mouth on her nipple not seven hours earlier? Hadn’t she cried and sobbed into his neck as she told him she needed and missed him, while he promised to never let her go?

She snorted tiredly, nuzzling the pillow under her head. “Carter, shut up and get under the covers.”

He stayed where he was for a while, but she could feel the bed jiggling as though he was shaking his foot or something. Was he nervous? Just as she was about to turn back around and tell him to move his ass, the covers lifted and his body moved smoothly underneath them. He was close enough to her that she could feel the heat radiating from his body and she instinctively moved back.

“Are you cold?” His voice, although concerned, sounded tight.

“A little.” She pulled the covers tightly into the crook of her neck.

After a moment of silent and heavy stillness, Kat felt Carter’s hand slide hesitantly along her waist. His little finger lightly grazed the skin of her hip before he pulled her body firmly against his so they were spooning, just as they’d been when she’d first woken up.

At first, Kat tensed, and silently willed her body to keep calm and stay quiet. It was embarrassing to simply think about how much his touch affected her. Her heart raced, her skin tingled, and the juncture between her thighs throbbed with an aching need. But, as she felt Carter’s solidity press into her back and his muscular arm wind around her, Kat’s body began to melt and relax.

“Is this okay?” Carter whispered, his breath caressing the skin of Kat’s neck like silk.

“Yeah,” she answered. “It’s okay.”

With a contented smile, Kat placed her palm over the back of his hand—against her stomach—and pushed her fingers, little by little, into the spaces between his.

It didn’t surprise her that they fit perfectly.

* * *

It was a little before eleven when Carter opened his eyes again.

For a split second, he wondered where the fuck he was, until he realized Peaches’ hair was covering his face like a peach-scented, auburn mask. He moved his head back. Contentment tugged at his stomach when he saw they hadn’t moved from their original position, and their hands were still entwined against her body. Like a creeper, he watched her sleeping before she began to stir.

After an awkward cup of coffee, over which they shot each other fleeting glances and shy smiles, and after she’d agreed for him to take her home, Carter led a nervous-looking Peaches down to the garage in the basement of his building.

“You’ve ridden a motorcycle before, right?” he asked, trying like hell to hide the lusty excitement pumping through his body.

“Yeah,” she replied as they approached Kala. “But riding with you? That’s a little different.”

Carter passed her a helmet. “And why’s that?”

She gestured meekly with her hand toward Carter, making him look down at himself in confusion: black boots, dark blue jeans, dark blue vintage Zeppelin T-shirt, leather jacket.

She was watching him in a way that made his jeans feel tight. The fact that she was wearing one of his sweaters did nothing to help. He cocked an eyebrow and cleared his throat to get her attention. Her eyes snapped up and he chuckled behind his hand.

“So, Peaches,” he growled, popping his collar. “You thinkin’ I’m sexy right now?”

Her cheeks flashed pink. “Shut up,” she muttered and pulled the helmet onto her head.

He snorted. “You’re too easy.”

He threw his leg over Kala’s seat and put on his shades. He cocked his head back and grinned. “Ya comin’?”

With one lithe movement, her leg was over the seat, her thighs at either side of his. Carter shook his head of the explicit visual flashing behind his eyes and grumbled a few choice expletives, as he turned the key in the ignition. He could feel her pressed up against him and could only imagine what it would be like to turn around and have her in that very position.

“You ready?” he called over the grumbling engine.

“As I’ll ever be,” she called back.

Carter smiled when her arms and thighs gripped him as he revved the engine. With her heat pressed into him, the smell of rich gasoline, and the sound of Kala’s engine roaring, he was pretty damn close to heaven.

Glancing up and down the windy street outside his apartment building, Carter tapped the clutch and they set off at speed, across the city, toward Peaches’ apartment.

* * *

Carter was probably the most casually sexy man Kat had ever met. He oozed sensuality without even trying, whether he was wearing prison-issue coveralls or a blue Zeppelin T-shirt that made the color of his eyes pop. Seeing Carter on a motorbike took that casual sexiness, multiplied it by about a billion, and served it with a side helping of hot fucking and hour-long orgasms.

He was sensational sitting astride the damn thing, and Kat had to work hard at trying to keep herself together. Her craving for him had certainly spiked to new heights of ridiculousness, which was why she was all sorts of puzzled with herself when she invited him up to her apartment.

She unlocked her apartment door and gestured for Carter to enter in front of her. He smiled tightly and stepped in. She followed and watched him place his bike helmets on the side table. The silence was thunderous, and the tension between them, as they stood opposite one another, shifted from heated sex to anxiety and back again.

“Drink?” she offered.

“Sure. Orange juice?” His voice was rough and rich.

He followed her to the kitchen, where he stood, filling her apartment with his height and broad shoulders and waited while she poured him the juice. She felt his eyes on her, just as she’d watched him in his own kitchen that morning. It was bizarre how aware of him Kat was. Her whole body seemed to gravitate to his. But it’d always been that way; she’d just been too busy trying to keep up a professional demeanor with him to notice it before.

“Are you hungry?” she asked as he wandered around her sitting room, his eyes settling on her collection of watercolors.

He laughed. “I’m starving.” He rubbed his belly.

She placed her glass down and walked over to the fridge. “Let’s see what I’ve got.”

There wasn’t much, but there was enough to make bacon-and-tomato omelettes. Carter didn’t look convinced when Kat offered him as much, but she assured him she was a master at any type of egg cuisine.

Kat placed all the ingredients on the countertop. “Hey, Carter, can you cook bacon?”

Carter rolled his eyes. He shook out of his jacket. “Of course. Why?”

“I need you to brown the bacon while I take a shower.” She turned back to him and grinned. “Think you can handle that?”

“Please,” Carter retorted, grabbing the pack of bacon. “Go and have your shower, and leave this shit to me.” He grabbed her shoulders and moved her out of the way. “Be gone,” he said firmly, pushing her out of the kitchen space. He waved her away and gave her a grin that made his face crooked.

Kat held back the pathetically girly sigh threatening to break, and turned toward her bedroom. Once there she pulled off the sweater Carter had given her. With a swift glance back at the door—making sure she’d closed it properly—she held the sweater to her face and breathed in his cologne. It was lush and heady. She pulled it from her nose, folded it, and laid it on her bed.

Showered and redressed in black jeans and a Blondie T-shirt, and with her damp hair in a knot at her neck, Kat sauntered back into the kitchen to find Carter leaning casually against the counter, reading
Walter the Lazy Mouse
. She watched him turn the page, seemingly engrossed.

“How’s the bacon coming along?”

“Shhh,” he replied. His eyes never left the page as he put his index finger to his lips. “Walter’s asleep.”

Kat grinned. She grabbed a bowl, a pan, and a knife for chopping the tomatoes.

Carter moved around her and placed the book back carefully next to the flowerpot where it had been since Kat had left it there two days before. When she’d arrived back from Chicago, she’d read it aloud to a captivated audience of a framed picture of her father and a bottle of Amaretto.

Good times.

Kat was surprised at how well Carter worked in the kitchen. He seemed domesticated, which was, at the very least, sexy as hell.

“It’s rude to stare,” he pointed out as she watched him whisk the eggs.

“Sorry.”

She hadn’t even realized she had been staring; it was just the muscles in his forearm and the way in which they flexed and tensed as he moved fascinated her. Coupled with his tattoos, he was quite the sight to behold. She rubbed the back of her neck with her sweating palm, cleared her throat, and resumed her tomato chopping.

“You’re all flushed.” Carter’s voice came from behind her, directly into her left ear.

Kat’s spine straightened instantly. He put the bowl down next to her chopping board and leaned against the counter, trapping her between his arms.

“Wanna tell me what you’re thinking about?” he asked in a low rumble she felt in his chest pressing against her back.

She moved her head back, resting it on his shoulder. “No.”

Carter laughed quietly and ran his nose up along her jaw to her earlobe. “From the color of your skin,” he whispered, “I can bet it was something really fucking good.”

“Mmhm.”

He laughed quiet and sexy. “Peaches.” His hands meandered their way to her waist.

“Yeah?”

“The bacon’s burning.”

Kat’s eyes flew open and the smell of the burning meat registered instantly in her nostrils. She shoved past a chuckling Carter and yanked the frying pan from the heat. It was smoking and a little crisp, though it wasn’t entirely unsalvageable. Kat glared at Carter, who was trying his hardest to look innocent, and failing miserably.

For the next ten minutes, while Kat cooked the omelettes, Carter asked her about Arthur Kill. He asked about her students and told her about Riley’s visit to his place after he’d gotten parole. It was apparent that Riley and Carter’s love of cars, and all things metal and fast, was what had brought them together.