“Carter,” I whimper.
He moans against my clit, the sound so deep and filthy it sends vibrations through my entire core.
“You taste so fucking good, baby,” he groans, his voice muffled as his mouth devours me.
Before I can even catch my breath, he slides two thick fingers inside me, the intrusion making me cry out. He starts slow, torturously slow, thrusting them in and out, curling them just enough to tease that aching spot deep inside of me. Without warning, he slams them in deep, picking up the pace, fucking me with his hand while his tongue flicks, circling my clit relentlessly.
My walls clench around his fingers, and the coil inside me snaps. I come so hard I can barely see shit, my heart races, and my body jerks helplessly against his mouth.He groans low in his throat, like he’s savoring every drop, still licking, stroking me through the aftershocks.
I collapse against the bed, unable to move, dizzy from the overwhelming waves of pleasure. He chuckles darkly under his breath, finally pulling away. I barely register the sound of the water running in the bathroom until I hear his deep voice call out.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, princess.”
I siton the kitchen counter, my legs swinging lazily as I watch Carter rinsing out a pitcher. He’s in a worn gray t-shirt that clings to his chest and those damn Wrangler jeans that makes me absolutely feral.
The aroma of freshly brewed iced tea with a hint of lemon fills the space. He insisted on brewing a fresh pitcher, something about how this is a necessity in the blistering summer heat in Tennessee.
My fingers pick lazily at my hangnails, my cuticles disgustingly overgrown. I miss my nail salon, the pungent smell of polish remover always blasting my nose every time I walked in. But, somehow, I don’t mind not having perfectly polished hands.
I’m pulled out of my haze from the warm feel of fingers gripping my thighs. My eyes drag slowly on his veiny, strong hands until I’m met with Carter’s icy blues, staring at me in admiration. He kisses me on the forehead, without saying a word, and he hands me an iced matcha, curated to my liking.
Smiling to myself, I kiss him on the nose. He grunts in response, turning back to whatever he was doing.
He’s pretending to be busy. I can see it in the way he keeps rinsing the same pitcher, pacing the kitchen like something needs to be done.
“Still mad about the brunch thing?” I finally ask, innocently taking a sip of my drink, even though we both know exactly what I’m doing.
He grunts without turning around. “You stole my truck.”
“I borrowed your truck for mimosas, and you pissed me the hell off.”
“You left a feather boa in the back seat and glitter in the air vents. I’m still finding sparkles every time I hit the defrost.”
I grin into my glass. “Okay, well, that’s just part of the ambiance now.”
He finally turns, the abnormally large pitcher still in his hand, eyes narrowed like he’s trying real hard not to smile. “You’re banned from brunch.”
“Um, no.”
He sets the pitcher down, grabs a plate, and places it next to me with the same kind of gruff affection he always pretends isn’t affection. Enchiladas—made exactly how I like them. When he found the time to learn to make them, beats me, but I’m starving.
“Eat, you need energy if you’re gonna keep testing my patience.” He teases.
I smile sweetly. “And you fucking love it.”
He grunts, with the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. I haven’t seen him smile yet; he must be allergic to joy or something.
I shovel a delicious bite of enchilada into my mouth, theflavors of tomatillo dancing on my taste buds. I glance over at the clock. “So… I should probably head out soon. You driving me or…?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he digs into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his keys, and twirls them once between his fingers before holding them out to me.
My eyebrows shoot up. “You’re actually letting me drive it?”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
I hop down from the counter, grabbing the keys, and toss them into my tote with a triumphant little grin.
“Thanks, baby.”
