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CHAPTER 11
IVY
Still storming. Still stuck. Still sore in all the right places. I don’t remember falling asleep. But I know exactly what wakes me.
A slow, lazy touch—fingers trailing down the bare curve of my back, light enough to make me shiver, deep enough to remind me of everything we did last night. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache, and my thighs… yeah, those are useless. Good luck walking after that marathon.
I groan into the pillow. “You have got to be kidding me.”
His voice is smug and deliciously low. “Good morning to you, too.”
I don’t have the strength to roll over. “I hate you.” “You’re welcome,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “You look ridiculously hot, by the way. All flushed and half-buried in the sheets.”
I make a noise that’s somewhere between a growl and a whimper. “I can’t move.”
“You don’t need to.” The bed shifts, and then I feel him sit beside me. “I brought coffee.”
That gets my attention. I crack one eye open. “You’re lying.”
A chuckle. “Never about caffeine.”
I force myself to roll over—slowly, because everything hurts—and blink up at him. He’s shirtless, smug, holding a tray like some kind of sinfully hot room-service fantasy. Toast. Fruit. Two mugs. Bottled water. I blink again.
“You made me food?”
“I did what I could given the circumstances.” He sets the tray gently across my lap, then leans in and brushes his lips against my temple. “Figured the least I could do after last night was keep you from starving.”
I peer down at the mug. One sip tells me everything. “You even remembered the sugar.”
“I listen,” he says, too casually.
I take another sip and sigh. “Okay. You can stay.” “I wasn’t planning on leaving.”
He climbs in beside me while I eat—slowly, carefully, because my muscles are staging a full revolt. He doesn’t touch me, just sips his coffee like we do this every morning. Like I didn’t scream his name so loud last night I’m surprised the resort didn’t evacuate.
Outside, the storm still rages—wind clawing at the walls, thunder rolling in waves. But in here? It’s quiet. Warm. Too comfortable.
His fingers graze mine as I reach for a slice of toast. I pause. There’s a beat of silence between us. But it’s not heavy anymore.
It’s full—of questions, of possibility, of something neither of us is ready to name. Carter’s voice cuts through the quiet, soft and low.
“So, what do you have planned today?” “Working. I have lots and lots of work to do today.” He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Really? Even after last night?”
I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks at the memory of our passionate night together, but I quickly school my features into a mask of nonchalance. “Yes, really. I have deadlines to meet.”
He chuckles softly, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. “Well, if you insist. But remember, breaks are important too.”
I shoot him a playful glare before taking another sip of coffee. “Are you trying to distract me?”
“Maybe,” he murmurs, then leans in and brushes a kiss across my lips—soft, slow, and far too effective. He tugs my bottom lip between his teeth before pulling away, and I feel the heat rush straight between my legs. Again.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, setting the empty mug aside.
“And you’re glowing.”
“I’m sweaty,” I correct.
“Glowing,” he repeats, dead serious.