had for my father and ground it to dust. I didn’t want parents who squirreled away money and then ran. I didn’t want to come from that stock. I wanted a dad who apologized to me. Who hugged me and told me that he screwed up. That he was sorry for not supporting me through the last year. Who said something that validated all of my love for him. On that call, he didn’t even tell me he loved me. It was as though my parents had only known how to show love through gifts and—without their money—had no feelings left for me.
71. Distracted by the D
I knocked on Carter’s door with one goal in mind: To Confess Love. He opened the door, and I didn’t even get out a greeting. He hooked a finger through my belt loop and pulled me into his chest. His mouth came down on mine, his other hand pushing the door closed and then I felt the full palm of his hand on my butt, squeezing hard. He gripped me like he thought I might slip away, his kiss deepening as we stood in place, my bag dropping through my fingers, my hands reaching up to grip his hair.
Any chance of talking disappeared in the pull of his mouth off mine, his hand pushing me back, and as my shoulders hit the door, his knees hit the floor, his fingers at the top of my leggings. His name was a question off my lips and he ignored it, pulling at the waist of my pants and my panties, and then they were skimmed down my legs and around my feet.
He was a man on a mission, and my flats were off, my left thigh lifted over his shoulder, and then his mouth was between my legs, my hands skittering over the door as I tried to hold on to something. “Carter,” I gasped his name around the time that his tongue found that spot, the one he discovered one morning and could barely hold me down after. It wasn’t my clit, it was further back … and when he flicked his tongue over it, I was gone. I collapsed against the door, my hands weak on his shoulders, my weight on him, his hands holding me up as he worshiped me with his mouth.
Light flutters, so light and constant and perfect—at that spot then up to my clit, his fingers biting into my bare ass, a guttural groan humming over my sensitive skin and spelling out his enjoyment. I wanted to move, wanted to not be standing, two wants that got lost in the swell of pleasure. When I came, my nails dug into his shoulders, my foot braced against the floor, my thighs tightened around his head, and everything in my mind went black.
I had a vague recollection of him lifting me up. Of him carrying me to his bed. I found my bearings around the time that my back hit the sheets. I helped him pull off my shirt and watched as he yanked at his, his abs flexing as he threw it into the corner of the room, his fingers quick as they worked at his pants. He was so freaking hot. So strong, the cut of his muscles showing in the simple act of shedding his clothes. His eyes were on mine the entire time and when he crawled onto the bed, hard and ready for me, I was ready for him.
I was so ready for him.
“You need more furniture.” I picked up a shrimp with my chopsticks and gestured to his bare bones room.
“I don’t like clutter,” he remarked, scooping fried rice onto his plate.
“Yeah—I’ve seen your closet. I could tell.” I popped the shrimp in my mouth and chewed, watching him crack open a Coke.
He glanced my way. “You prefer your men messy?”
“Not at all.” I thought of Vic, who tossed his clothes on the floor, a maid picking them up the minute our back was turned. “I’m just jealous I wasn’t born with that gene.”
“I don’t know if I was born with it or if it was beaten into me.” He made a whip motion with his hand, and I raised my eyebrows.
“Please tell me it wasn’t by Presa.” I made a face and he laughed.
“No, no. My mom. She wouldn’t let me eat unless everything was in its place.”
I smiled at the image, one so different than my childhood. I could picture him, a miniature heartbreaker,