Probably.
Fuck. I know I shouldn’t be here. It’s wrong on so many levels, not the least of which was telling one of my best friends to back off—like I have any claim over Carter—but I can’t get her out of my head. The way she isn’t impressed by the swagger and stats. The way her eyes sparkle when she’s being a smart-ass. The way she gives as good as she gets with that tart little mouth of hers. She doesn’t preen, and she sure as shit doesn’t want anything from me.
Unlike most people in my life.
I know I’m lucky to be following in my father’s footsteps, that I’m blessed with talent and living a life most people only dream of, but it took a hell of a lot of hard work to get where I am and sometimes the pressure feels like it’ll crush me. I don’t want to sound like a whiny little bitch, but the truth is, most people in my life are angling for something.
Sex. Parties. Tickets. Autographs.
And listening to all those people at the party talk about how I’m going to win Waverly a national title and get drafted in the first round?
It’s exhausting. I just want to be somewhere that I can be myself, with someone I know doesn’t give a shit about the Austin Reid legacy or what I can do for them. And that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it?
Everyone wants a piece of me, expects great things from me. Except Carter.
With her, I can be myself.
It’s funny, actually. I thought that leg of hers would be my saving grace. Turns out it’s just…her. The indifference she wears like battle armor is a salve to the pressure that’s always burning, slow and steady, just below the surface. The weakness I can’t show anyone.
Not even my own father.
I raise my hand to knock again, but the door swings open and there stands Carter, looking more tempting than a midnight snack. My gaze drifts over her, drinking in every detail from the way her hair falls in loose waves over her bare shoulders to the look of surprise that makes her dark eyes appear so damn innocent. She’s wearing a pink tank top—no bra—and I can see the faint outline of her nipples through the thin fabric, which skims the waistband of her shorts.
I shouldn’t look, but I’m only human, for fuck’s sake, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the tiny sleep shorts that showcase her gorgeous legs.
Carter clears her throat and I raise my eyes to meet hers, giving her the cocky QB grin I know drives her nuts.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, pretending to be annoyed. She’s a terrible actress. Her body language totally gives her away as she leans toward me, closing the distance between our bodies. Plus, she doesn’t slam the door in my face, so that’s got to be a good sign, right?
“You know, where I come from, it’s considered good manners to invite a guest in, maybe offer them a cold beverage, before the inquisition.”
She gives a sexy little snort and juts out her hip. “Funny, where I come from it’s considered good manners not to show up in the middle of the night uninvited. You do realize I’m not one of the jersey-chasing floozies who are enamored by your ability to throw a ball, right?”
“Trust me, Carter. I would never mistake you for the kind of woman who would be impressed by my amazing athleticism.” I raise an arm over my head, resting it against the doorjamb, my bicep inches from her face. She’d never admit it, but I saw her checking me out in the locker room, and I have a feeling I’m not the only one here having NC17 thoughts about my teammate.
This time she rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips.
I’m totally wearing her down.
“You’re lucky I didn’t tase you.” She waves a little black flashlight in the air and at the press of a button, a bolt of electricity crackles to life.
Holy shit. She’s serious. “You were going to tase me?”
She shrugs and opens the door wider, a sly grin spreading across her face. It’s sexy as hell and a thrill races up my spine. “Still might, but you’re welcome to come in and take your chances.”
There’s a tiny voice in the back of my head telling me there’s no way Carter’s going to tase me, so I latch on to it like a frat boy to a keg and follow her inside. Besides, the knowledge that Carter can take care of herself is kind of hot. Damn right she should tase any prick who hassles her—twice.
The apartment is smaller than my town house, but has the same basic furnishings since—surprise, surprise—we live in the same complex. But where my apartment is decorated with Wildcat gear, pizza boxes, and discarded athletic shoes, Carter’s feels like an actual home.
Hell, she’s even got real curtains on the front window.
Here’s the thing. I’ve been inside my fair share of women’s apartments and I’ve learned to expect certain things. Same mix of bookstore art prints (usually Van Gogh), candles everywhere (always scented), and at least one tapestry hanging on the wall or over a window (likely Urban Outfitters).
Carter’s place is different. There’s an abstract painting over the couch, something with actual character, the splashes of color bold and provocative. There’s a candle burning on the coffee table (is no woman immune to this basic need to burn shit?), and there are a handful of pictures displayed throughout the room. Most are of Carter and a blonde who looks like she’s got pep for days. Probably her roommate.
Although I want to take a closer look, I resist the urge. It seems too personal and something tells me she wouldn’t approve of me touching her stuff. Plus, she still has the Taser.
“How did you know where I live?” Carter crosses her arms over her chest as if she’s just realized the tank top might not be concealing all the goods.
“Student directory. You should really think about removing your address.” I flop down on the couch, right next to the spot with her blanket and popcorn. “The last thing you want is crazy fans or reporters showing up at your door at all hours of the night.”
“The same could be said of cocky quarterbacks.” She eyes her vacant spot on the couch, probably trying to decide if I’m invading her space on purpose (spoiler alert: I am). It’s not until I dig into her popcorn that her stubborn pride kicks in. She puts the Taser on the end table and curls up on the cushion next to me, body turned toward mine, knee pressed against my thigh. “Are you drunk?”
I do my best to look incredulous because I’m definitely not drunk. At least, I’m pretty sure I’m not. “I’m the captain of the football team. It would be irresponsible to drink to excess. It’s my job to set a good example, remember?”
She arches a brow. “Really?”
“Really, really,” I say, quoting my favorite ogre.
Carter shakes her head and laughs, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. “Then why do you smell like my grandpa’s liquor cabinet?”
“Dunno.” I roll my shoulders and settle back into the couch. Turns out, they may look the same, but hers is way more comfortable than the one in our town house. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure I haven’t been drunk since sophomore year.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.” Her words may be snarky, but her tone is playful. I’m digging it. “You go to parties all the time.”
“I don’t need to be drunk to have a good time. In fact, some things are better sober.” I might be a little buzzed, but it’s the truth. Liquid courage is a cop-out for guys who don’t have the balls to talk to women. That’s never been an issue for me because I know what women like. Not because I’m some kind of sexual savant—although I kind of am—but because I pay attention. Seriously. It’s that simple. When I’m with a woman, I give her my undivided attention, my respect, and I always make sure she comes first.
Preferably on my tongue.
“Take football for example.” I slide my arm across the back of the couch, careful not to touch Carter. Her knee is still pressed to my thigh and it’s enough contact. For now. “When I’m on the field, I want to feel every sweaty, pulse-pounding play. I want to pump everything I’ve got into being the best, into scoring a goal. For my teammates and myself
.” My voice is low and gravelly and I swear to Christ you could cut the tension with a knife. “Even if I have to grind it out inch. By. Inch.”
I reach out and twist a strand of Carter’s hair between my fingers. It’s soft and silky, just like I imagined. I brush it back from her face, the rough pads of my fingertips scraping across her cheek. Her breath hitches and for a moment, I think she’s going to turn away, but her eyes remain locked on mine. Like maybe she’s as into this analogy as I am.
“Inch by inch?” she asks, her voice rising an octave.
“There’s no greater satisfaction.”
She bites her bottom lip, teeth digging into the plump flesh and driving me wild. I’d like nothing more than to nibble on those pouty lips myself, but when she finally speaks, she blurts out the last thing I’m expecting. “You must be hungry. I mean, you should probably eat. To help you sober up. I think I’ve got a sandwich from the café in the fridge.”
Oh, I’m hungry, but I doubt a sandwich is going to take care of this craving. I reach for her arm, but she bolts off the couch like her hair’s on fire. “I told you I’m not—”
The word drunk dies on my tongue because Carter’s shorts? They barely cover her ass. I can see the curve and swell of her flesh perfectly and my cock is suddenly ravenous, straining painfully against the zipper of my jeans.
I subtly adjust myself as Carter flits around the kitchen, but the sight of her perky backside is making it impossible to concentrate. I close my eyes and try thinking of the usual boner killers—football stats, Pittsburgh, the draft—but it’s pointless. Her tight little ass is imprinted on the inside of my eyelids.
Get it together, asshole.
The last thing I want is for Carter to throw me out for being a perv, but I can’t help it if my dick wants to play man-to-man.
“Here you go.” Carter nudges my foot. When I open my eyes, she’s studying me like she’s afraid I’m going to pass out on her couch.
“Thanks.” I accept the bottle of water and plate she’s offering, resolved to try and sate my appetite with the sandwich and chips. “Don’t look so worried. I’m not going to pass out on your couch. If anything, I’m tired from today’s game. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. I was up late reviewing plays.”
She nods and takes her spot on the couch, folding her legs beneath her. Warmth spreads up my leg and straight to my cock as her knee brushes mine, but I keep my attention focused on the TV, where there’s a dude with big-ass horns and tree branches sticking out of his back like wings. “What the hell are we watching?”
Carter throws her head back and a throaty laugh I’ve never heard before bubbles out of her. “Only the greatest show on TV.”
She spends the next ten minutes explaining Riverdale to me and despite all odds, I’m kind of intrigued by the dark, vampy feel, so I settle in to watch as I chug down the last of my water. “Who’s that?” I ask when a skinny, dark-haired emo dude starts pounding away on his laptop.
“Only the best half of Bughead.” Her whole face lights up, triggering a pang of jealousy low in my gut. Great. Now I’m jealous of a guy on a fucking TV show? That’s stupid, right? “They’re my favorite ship.”
I don’t even ask. I’m pretty sure it’s short for relationship, but hell if I know. More importantly, I can’t help but notice the guy’s wearing a red shirt with a giant black S on it. Just like the one Carter was wearing earlier. Makes perfect sense now.
“That’s the kind of guy you’re into?” I jerk my head toward the screen and turn my body toward hers, encroaching on her cushion so our legs are fully pressed together now. “You can’t be serious.”
“What?” She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “He’s actually kind of badass, but he also happens to be a nice guy.”
I snort, my breath coming hot and fevered. “Nice?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to nice guys.” Her nostrils flare just a tiny bit, and I know I’m getting under her skin in more ways than one. Is it possible she’s feeling the same undeniable pull of attraction? “They’re…safe.”
I get it. She thinks I’m a man-whoring asshole. It fits the played-out baller narrative. I should be glad of it for about a million different reasons. Problem is, I’m having trouble remembering those reasons when she’s looking at me with fire in her eyes, chest rising and falling with labored breaths.
“Safe is boring.”
I don’t give her a chance to protest. I slide a hand around the back of her neck, relishing the pleasure of skin-to-skin contact—hers smooth and silky, mine rough and calloused—before I tangle my fingers in her hair and pull her close, stopping when our lips are a breath apart. I shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t be doing this. But she doesn’t pull away, just keeps those big brown eyes fixed on mine, and it’s so fucking hot I know safe is the last thing she wants, even if she’ll never admit it.
Just one kiss. One taste of the forbidden fruit.
We’ll get it out of our systems and move on.
The air is practically humming with electricity as I bring my other hand up to cup her cheek. I close the gap between us, brushing my lips against hers. I expect the kiss to be slow and gentle, but when she parts her lips, a small sigh escapes, and my control slips. The kiss explodes like wildfire, a desperate mating of tongues and desire as her lips incinerate the last of my restraint.
Carter’s mouth is soft and welcoming and every nerve in my body is screaming for more. I don’t know how long we go on like that, mouths searching for sweet salvation. It could be minutes; it could be hours. But when she finally pulls away, her lips red, swollen, and thoroughly kissed, reality comes roaring back into focus and I know I’m fucked.
One taste of Carter will never be enough.
Kennedy
“Rise and shine.” The insistent whisper-hiss is followed by a not-so-gentle shake. I give a tug on the comforter and bat aimlessly at the hand clutching my shoulder. It’s my only day to sleep in. I am so not getting out of this bed. “What is Austin Reid doing on our couch?”
Shit.
Panic slams through me as I try to think of a good explanation. Truth is, there’s no good explanation for making out with Reid on the couch, so I stall, taking the time to wipe the sleep from my eyes. Part of me had hoped he’d just sort of shuffle out in the morning and we could avoid this whole awkward morning-after disaster.
Clearly that was wishful thinking.
Becca’s watching me expectantly, a devious grin on her face as she waits for details.
Best to stick with the truth.
Just maybe not the whole truth.
Yes, I’m a hypocrite. But it was a onetime thing. No repeat performances. And definitely no post-kiss obsessing with my bestie.
When I finally meet her eyes, Becca’s practically vibrating with excitement. “I can’t believe Austin Reid is on our couch. God, he’s so hot. Even when he’s sleeping. Wait. Did you hook up with him last night? Please tell me you hooked up with him. Was it amazing?”
As a matter of fact, it was. The guy damn near set my panties on fire—with just his mouth—and it was all I could do not to rip his shirt off and lick each and every one of those perfectly sculpted muscles. But I can’t say that, so I stuff the guilt down deep and gesture to my fully clothed self, then at the empty bed. “Does it look like we hooked up?”
Not exactly a lie, but not the whole truth either.
“I knew it was too much to hope for.” Becca sighs dramatically and inches back toward the door, sneaking a peek down the hall. I’m not sure if she’s checking to make sure he’s still asleep or if she’s just plain old checking him out. I bite the inside of my cheek. Probably the latter. “Only you could have that sexy man beast over and not make a move. So, what’s he doing here then?”
I climb out of bed and grab a sweater off the back of my desk chair. Reid’s not getting another free pass to the peep show. Even if he is the world’s best kisser. No wonder the women on campus are lin
ing up for a taste. Just the memory of his lips on mine brings a rush of heat to my cheeks.
I turn from Becca, hoping she won’t notice my telltale blush. “He stopped over last night. We watched some TV and he fell asleep. No biggie.”
“He just stopped over on Saturday night to watch some TV?”
Okay. I totally get why she sounds skeptical. It does seem unlikely given he’s one of the hottest guys at Waverly. Toss in my aversion to football players, and my story’s like a house of cards.
“And then y’all decided to have a sleepover?” she asks, pointing from me to the general direction of the living room. The smirk on her face says she’s not buying.
I shrug and wrap my sweater around my body, making sure there’s no nip action. “I got up to use the bathroom and when I came back, he was asleep. Maybe he passed out.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re bullshit. Reid wasn’t drunk. And I may have been in the bathroom longer than I thought, having a mini-meltdown, because, seriously, what was I thinking letting him kiss me?
Or, okay—real talk—kissing him back?
“I cannot believe Austin freaking Reid is sleeping on our couch!” Becca’s squealing now and if I don’t calm her down, she’s going to wake him up. Which would probably be fine except for the part where we sound like crazy fangirls. Or fangirl, I guess, since it’s just Becca.
Whatever. I just need her to bring it down a notch.
“Shh! He’s going to hear you,” I whisper-yell. “And you cannot tell anyone about this. They’ll get the wrong idea and I do not need that kind of drama. The media is already a circus and Coach will kick me off the team if he thinks I’m distracting his star player.” I sigh and rake a hand through my hair. “Plus, my mom would kill me.”
Becca laughs it off, but my mom would flip her shit if she knew a football player spent the night in my apartment. I can’t deal with that right now. I’ve got enough on my plate without adding her disappointment.
“My lips are sealed.” She presses her lips flat, but it only lasts for maybe half a second. “But, um, what do we do now?”
Claiming Carter (Waverly Wildcats Book 1) Page 11
