Page 44

CHAPTER FORTY

arden

Carter grumbles some nonsense and then falls down next to me on the couch. He hands me a bottle of water, letting out a deep and weighted breath. By the way he winces and burps a bit, I’m pretty certain that the wine is starting to settle in his stomach, and it isn’t settling well.

I nuzzle into the pillows, doing much better than the enormous guy beside me. When he kicks his legs onto the couch and places them on my lap, I don’t even complain. I just crack open my water bottle and take a greedy sip.

Being wine drunk isn’t for the weak. The hangovers are criminal, too. I might love red wine more than I love a lot of things, but I’ve suffered deeply because of that love. I don’t pretend like I’m above the wine curse. It is a real thing. It takes out the best of us.

“You don’t look too hot, Bub,” I tut, patting his shins.

“I don’t feel too hot, Bub,” he mutters, draping his arm over his eyes.

“Here,” I say, scuffling forward as much as I can with his legs on my lap. I tap his chest a couple of times until he drops his arm and cracks open his eyes. “Open.”

“You’ve been saying that a lot to me lately.”

“What?” I ask, but he’s opening his mouth like the obedient golden retriever that he definitely is not. No. Carter Forkerro is a doberman. Or a Kangal Shepherd. Something protective and loyal. Someone who will guard you with his life.

God bless the golden retrievers of the world, but they’re going to befriend the robber who breaks into your house while the doberman bares its teeth the second they smell them.

I tip the water into his mouth, my eyes dropping to his throat as he swallows.

God, this is definitely the wine curse on my part, too. It just affects me differently. I want to stare at the column of his throat for the next ten minutes, and that’s not a sane thought.

When I’m satisfied with how much he’s drunk, I lean back in my spot.

“First breakfast and now the water. I feel like a dog sometimes.”

A laugh explodes out of me because I am growing convinced that he knows my thoughts better than I do. I pat his legs again, looking over at his face, eyes closed and suffering.

“You’re a good boy, though. The best pup.”

He sniffs a laugh. “Do I get a treat?”

“What would you like?”

“A cuddle.”

I stare at his face, my smile fading. “What?”

“I am a drunk cuddler, Red. Don’t hold it against me, alright?

” He sighs, finally cracking open his eyes to look at me again.

He drops his hands to his chest and rubs a spot there as if to soothe himself.

“Plus, I know you’re missing Stinky right now.

He’s not here, and I’m sorry for that, but I’m the next best thing. ”

My smile is back, loving how he remembers all the little details of me. “I should have brought him in my purse.”

He nods very seriously. “Rookie mistake.”

“You want to cuddle?” I ask, ensuring that I’m understanding his request. He dips his chin, his eyes rimmed red. “On this couch? You’re a big boy, Carter. I don’t know if we’ll fit.”

“We’ll fit,” he counters, and he pushes himself as far into the crease of the couch as humanly possible, opening his arms. “Or we can go and cuddle in bed. It’ll be ten times more comfortable, but I don’t want to risk making you even slightly uncomfortable.”

The idea of sleeping next to him in bed is appealing, which is why I can’t do it. I know what happens if we do. I know how much physical restraint I have left when it comes to him.

With a deep sigh, I pull the blanket off the back of the couch and crawl to his front. There’s just enough room, but I’m so close to the edge that I run the risk of spilling right off and onto the floor.

Carter tugs the blanket over our bodies, half of his legs still sticking out.

He runs his hand over my stomach and tugs my back to his chest as tightly as he can.

I won’t fall now. He’s made himself my human seatbelt.

I nuzzle deeper into his arms, letting out a soft breath, when he turns on the television and puts on one of my favourite shows.

“You okay?” he asks softly in my ear.

A bit too okay.

I nod against his arm, reaching down to place my hand over his.

“Thanks for tonight, Red.” He leans in, pressing his lips to the spot just behind my ear.

I shudder, making him freeze, and for a second, I truly debate flipping over and crushing my mouth to his.

But then he swipes his thumb against my stomach and lets out a deep breath and I force myself to stay put.

“I had the best time. Don’t thank me,” I whisper, and I can’t help it, I slide back a bit more into his touch. His hand snaps up to my hip, holding me there. I can feel his heart racing against my back and I’m certain mine is running alongside it.

The television flickers through the dark room, but neither of us speak. His fingers rest gently on the skin of my hips. I’m dressed only in his T-shirt and a pair of his boxers. So easily removable. Just thin pieces of loose fabric between us.

“Rule number one,” he says in my ear, his voice deep and hoarse. My head reels to remember our contract. “Is this situation dire?”

Rule #1: No Funny Business: Hand holding, touching, and normal couple things are permitted. Kissing only if the situation is dire . No physical contact beyond that point.

I nod against his arm frantically. “Yep.”

He turns me in his arms so quickly, it’s remarkably impressive. Within seconds, I’m facing him, chest to chest. My hands are on his face, his are on my hips. His eyes burn into mine. One of his hands slides to my backside, and then glides down my thigh, hoisting it over his hip.

“Quickly,” he says quietly. “I’m slowly perishing. My heartbeat is fading. I can see the light in the distance, beckoning me.”

I crack up, breaking into laughter in the same moment where I was just burning.

“I think I see Amelia Earhart. She’s waving to me.”

I laugh harder, shaking so hard that his grip slides to my back so he can keep me on this couch .

“She’s sitting next to Abe Lincoln. He’s wearing a helmet. Better safe than sorry, I guess.”

“Shut up,” I beg, trying to breathe evenly to keep myself calm. His smile slowly fades into something more gentle, more…thoughtful. He swallows, eyes darting down to my mouth, hand sliding up my spine.

His eyes flicker back up to mine. We look at each other for a moment that lingers like forever. “I like your laugh.”

I just nod, sliding my hand to the back of his head and slowly pulling myself to his mouth.

It’s soft, sweet, and simple. All words that are the opposite of who Carter is.

Neither of us deepens it at first; we just lose ourselves in the most tender and languid kiss to ever happen in the history of time.

One that feels separate from our arrangement, even though we just cited it as a part of it.

My heart stills. Like it wants to stop beating after this moment.

Like nothing will feel the way this kiss feels again.

I don’t ever want to forget the weight of his mouth or the way that his eyes transform into a darker blue when they’re full of desire.

I want to study the slide of his hands against my body.

I want, I want, and I want when it comes to him, and one taste is never going to be enough.

I knew that. It’s why I’ve stopped myself from doing exactly this.

Although he is all impulse and brute strength, Carter’s kisses are calculated and considerate.

He’s patient. He gauges what I like and how far I want to go.

If I press my mouth to his a bit harder, he slows the way his lips move against mine, letting us exist in this heavy cloud of want.

If I pull back, he chases me, stopping an inch before my mouth to let me decide if I want more.

I slowly pull away, and he follows, but pauses before our lips touch again. With our faces inches apart, his eyes are glued to my mouth. His hand slides between our bodies to cup my face, gliding his thumb across my cheekbone like I’m the most interesting thing in the world.

He doesn’t look up when he speaks next. Doesn’t meet my eyes. His gaze is locked on my mouth and my mouth alone.

“You make me feel safe, too.”

I blink, confused by his words. His eyes drag up to mine, his hand moving from my chin to a stray piece of hair that’s fallen in front of my face. He pushes it behind my ear with a gentle smile.

I’m about to push. I’m about to ask questions about what that means, but I’m stopped short when his smile falls and his face goes stark white.

“Carter?” I ask.

“Oh, fuck,” he grumbles, and then his hands are on my hips and he’s practically shoving me off the couch.

I slump to the floor, and he jumps over me in his sweatpants, hand slapped over his mouth.

He sprints toward the bathroom, throws open the door, and I hear the toilet seat slam against the tank before the sound of Carter profusely vomiting erupts through the condo.

I let out a long breath, my eyes slowly shutting. Dropping my head to the couch, I stare up at the ceiling.

The fucking wine curse.