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He stands and holds out his hand. “Dance with me.”
“Carter—”
“Just one.”
I don’t know why I say yes.
He pulls me close, his hand settling at the small of my back, my chest brushing his with every slow sway. His scent is everything—woodsy, clean, and a little like the wine on his breath. Expensive, masculine temptation.
“You fit against me like this was always the plan,” he murmurs against my ear.
“Carter…”
He doesn’t wait. He dips his head and kisses me.
It starts slow. His lips coax mine open like he has all the time in the world. My hands find the buttons of his shirt, dragging him closer until there’s no space left between us.
I feel his length against me. Hard. Thick. Pressed against my stomach as his mouth claims mine, and I shudder with need.
His hands slide down my back, gripping my hips, pulling me tighter. I gasp when he lifts me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist like instinct. He carries me to the couch, setting me down as his body covers mine. His mouth trails from my jaw to my collarbone, to the swell of my breasts.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he groans, pushing the hem of my dress up to my hips.
His fingers slide along the lace edge of my panties, stroking me through them until I whimper. “Carter…”
“Ivy,” he growls against my skin, “I can’t get enough of you.”
My breath catches as he pushes the fabric aside. I know we need to stop. We must stop. But I can’t find the words. Not when he’s circling my clit with just enough pressure to make my thighs tremble. Not when he kisses my neck, my chest, my mouth—like he’s trying to memorize the taste of every sound I make.
When his fingers slide inside, I gasp, back arching. His other hand grips my thigh, spreading me wider. I rock against him, hips rolling, heat building in my core so fast I feel like I’m going to snap in half.
His name leaves my mouth.
His groan vibrates against my skin. “You feel so damn sweet, Ivy.”
I want to give in.
To let him strip off his shirt and press his bare chest to mine.
To feel him take me right here, on this stupid, perfect couch, with the candles still flickering and my dress pushed around my waist.
Then it hits me. The sound of his voice. On that call. Whispering “I love you” to someone.
My heart stutters.
“Carter,” I gasp, hands pushing against his chest.
He stops immediately, pulling back just enough to look at me. His eyes are heavy with need, but his hands are still.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
He waits. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I breathe. “It’s me. I just—can’t.”
“Ivy, just talk to me, please,” he begs but at this point, I can’t even look him in his eyes.
He brushes my hair from my face. “Okay.”