33. Knock. Knock.
C9. I stared at the number, innocently set into the door, and chewed on my nail. Glanced at my watch, which hadn’t changed. Still fifteen minutes past midnight.
If only I hadn’t stopped by the bookstore and furiously scanned the tabloids…
If only I hadn’t swung by Benta’s, who’d had boy drama to discuss…
If only I hadn’t watched three freaking episodes of PLL with her…
If only I had taken the subway instead of a cab…
If only I hadn’t made the ultimate tourist mistake and left my keys in the cab…
I was up the stairs to my building, reaching for the key before I realized what happened. I sprinted down the steps, waving my arms and screaming at the cab, which continued its merry path a block away. I muttered a line of obscenities, stomping my feet in the middle of the street, my keys still lying on the seat of the cab, my Fendi fluffy keychain lost forever.
I trudged back up the steps and leaned on the front door, doing a half-hearted search on the taxi commission’s website. It took five minutes to find out that the only chance I had of getting my keys back was by filing a lost item report in person. Talk about archaic practices. As I closed the browser, one of my neighbors opened the lobby door, and I gratefully slipped in, one step closer to home.
The elevator was halfway up before I realized I didn’t have a way to get into my apartment. The spare key I’d left for Benta and Cammie—stuck under my mat after the night they’d nearly gotten me evicted for being drunk and loud on my doorstep—I’d used it a week earlier when I couldn’t manage to find my house key in the depths of my purse. It was still sitting on my kitchen counter, patiently waiting to be returned to its rightful place under my mat.
I’d run out of options. I stared at the door of C9. Carter’s apartment. At least I’d remembered the unit number, all of that obsessing coming in handy. I glanced at my watch one last time before reluctantly lifting my hand and knocking on his door.
I woke him up. When he opened the door, I could see it in the rough mess of his hair, the scratch of his voice, but more noteworthy: his lack of clothing. Bare-chested, he braced muscular arms against the doorframe, his biceps popping, shoulders strong and wide, a six-pack screaming attention to the gorgeous cuts on either side of his hips. Bright yellow pajama pants hung low on his hips, the ties undone and I forgot about my lost keys, forgot all about my Netflix plans, forgot everything but a raw desire to drop to my knees and yank down those pants.
I swallowed. “Hey Carter.”
“It’s late.”
“I left my keys in a cab.” I gestured toward the street for some unknown reason, my eyes continually tripping back to his abs. Damn.
“You need a place to crash?” There was a smile in his tone and I pulled my eyes up to his face. God, he was pretty. Had some dark stubble going that made his eyes pop. And he was actually smiling. Maybe Benta and Cammie’s party in the hall had been forgiven.
“Ah… no.” Maybe? I struggled to explain. ” I can’t get into my apartment. Do you have a spare?”
He pushed off the doorframe and stepped back, running a rough hand over the back of his head and I could get a freaking foot massage by running my soles over the hard ripple of those abs. “I should. Come on in.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, meekly stepping inside and sneaking a look around. It was sparsely furnished, a leather sectional laid out before a large flat screen, a farmhouse-style table the only other piece of furniture in the room. “Your apartment is bigger than mine.”
He laughed, walking over to the kitchen counter and digging around in a drawer. “You sound so surprised.”
“Well.” I didn’t finish the sentence, standing awkwardly in the entranceway. My second glance saw the art on the walls. “Wow.” I stepped closer, the piece in the foyer area gorgeous, a hundred swirls of color centered around a woman’s face. “Is this…?” I touched it to test my eyes, my hands brushing over the raised oil brush strokes. “Holy shit. This is a Presa Little.”
He looked up from the drawer and met my eyes with a look of wary surprise. “Yeah. You know her stuff?”
“Umm … yeah,” I said softly, turning back to the piece. “I’ve followed her for a while.” My parents had had a Presa Little in our Colorado home, purchased on one of our shopping trips to Paris. Mom used to spend the day shopping, and Dad and I would hit galleries, art something that we both loved. “How did … her stuff is wicked expensive.” I glanced at him and saw his face darken.
“She was a friend of mine. It was a gift.”
He stepped closer, coming to stand beside me, my hand still outstretched toward the bare canvas. A Presa Little original. A six-figure piece, easy. And from behind him, in the hall that probably led to his bedroom, another one, midnight blue swirls of ocean—
I stopped thinking about the painting or my keys, because right then he pulled me around, closing the gap between us and pressing me gently to the wall, my hair against a painting that could buy me a future. “Are you sure you lost your keys,” he grumbled, “or did you wake me up for something else?”
I put my hands where I’d wanted to for the last ten minutes, sliding them down the bumps of his abs and over the line of his hips, hooking my fingers underneath the waist of his pajama pants. “Both?” I whispered.
There was a moment of silence, his eyes on mine. They were wary, as if he didn’t trust me. And hungry, as if he was fighting just to keep away. I stared up at him, my breath catching in my throat, and begged him for more with my gaze. He sighed, his eyes falling to my mouth, and I felt the moment he gave in, his head lowering, his lips pressing to mine.
Instantly, I could taste his need, his want. It was in every stroke of his tongue, the growl in his throat, his hot hands rough on my skin. My hands went further, underneath his pajama pants, and slid around, gripping his hard ass. His hands wrapped around my waist, picking me up and he carried me to the wooden table, setting me on its surface, his hands busy as they yanked my shirtdress out from underneath my butt and pulled the fabric up and over my head. Then he laid me back, our kiss continuing, a deep feast of starved souls. And I was. In the last year, every kiss I’d received had been a taunt, a tease, or a mind fuck. I hadn’t been really kissed, or touched, or desired in so long. And there, in his apartment, his hands hot on my skin, his mouth feverish against mine … it was as if I were experiencing everything for the first time.
His fingers slid under my bra strap and pulled it down.
His lips moved off my mouth and trailed down my neck, sucking on a spot on my collarbone, his fingers sliding gently down, over my panties, my knees lifting up, feet hooking around his back and pulling him closer.
I felt every single one of his fingers as they brushed in between my legs, and I shuddered, his mouth pausing, head lifting to look at me. “You okay?” he asked. I reached down and pushed his hand back. “Don’t stop,” I gasped. His fingers moved, gently circling, teasing, getting closer and closer until one brushed over my clit, the silk of my panties providing the perfect barrier, my hips all but exploding off the table. “Oh my God,” I gasped. “Carter.”
His mouth, a hot, wet place of perfection, left my neck and moved up, his eyes careful and concerned, watching my face as his touch moved, his eyes darkening when he saw me reach the edge. “Don’t stop,” I begged.
“Don’t worry,” he said, lowering his head and biting gently on my neck. “Take your time,” he whispered, and I whimpered as his mouth trailed lower, skipping along my skin, a quick scrape of his teeth across my stomach, the intensity building, every sensor in my body tuned to and focused on his fingers. God, this was with my panties on. What would it be like when I was naked? When it was his cock and not his fingers? When he was inside me and pushing deeper, his hands holding me close, his…
“Oh my God, I’m—”
“Not yet,” he growled, and his hand ripped at my panties, pulling them down, and his hot mouth was suddenly where his fingers had been, his hands on me, holding me down as he explored me with his mouth, his tongue light and constant as it played across my clit then dipped lower and deeper. The man had no fear, no hesitation, and I dug my hands in his hair as I tried to stay in control, tried to stay coherent. The sensation … it was building, spreading outward from his mouth, every muscle tensing, my body clenching in preparation for what was coming, and he groaned my name in worship and
in that sound, raw and primal…
in the clench of his hands on my skin…
in the wet, perfect flick of his tongue…
in the dark look of ownership and confidence in his eyes…
in the buildup, a hundred pieces of arousal climbing together…
I lost words, I lost thought, I lost every single piece of myself. My shoulders came off the table and I whispered his name, my eyes closing, hands grabbing at him, his mouth staying on me as the intensity grew and stretched and inhaled my world.
I fell down to earth lazy and broken. My legs rolled off his shoulders, and I lay there on his table, his fingers soft as they trailed away, his mouth sweet as it slowly kissed its way off my skin, his arms strong as they lifted me off the table and carried me away, down a dark hall with another stunning Presa Little painting, and onto a bed that was big and soft.
There, he drew me into his arms. Take your time, he had said. Quite possibly the best three words I’d ever heard during sex. I ran my hand along his forearm and shifted against him, closing my eyes and listening to the beat in his chest.
There, lulled by the metronome of his heart, I slept.