Page 40 of Love at First Sighting
Carter’s hands work the button on my jeans and he eases them down my legs.
The single light on the nightstand paints him in warm orange tones, and his shadow’s imprinted on the wallpaper behind him.
A limp lock of blond hair falls in front of his forehead as I unbutton his pants and he kicks off his shoes.
A scuffed Chuck Taylor flops off the bed as he leans in and kisses my neck.
Every touch is careful and precise, effective, just like the rest of him.
I arch my back for him and his fingers slip beneath the band of my bra and unhook it.
His bright blue eyes darken with hunger as he looks me over, tracing me with his hands.
Carter’s thumbs flick over my nipples, followed by his mouth.
He etches a trail of heat down the center of my stomach and his silence sears through me like a branding iron.
I’m used to talking, taunting, hearing him tell me every deadly, dirty string of words he has in him.
But this is deathly silent. Peaceful, almost.
He returns to my lips as our bodies press together. There’s a flurry of desperate hands, like they thought they could wait but it turns out they can’t.
Pants and legs tangle together as we fumble the rest of the way to bare. I reach into my purse beside the bed, manifesting a condom and helping him roll it on.
Carter positions himself between my legs and he slides into me.
I toss my head onto the pillow with a sharp groan as he rocks his hips and coaxes us into the right rhythm.
Carter holds his hands on my waist, nails digging into my hips, and each thrust comes with another whimper let loose with abandon.
Our mutual moans speak for themselves, above the roar of the TV from the room beside us, and at least I know our neighbor won’t raise a noise complaint. Carter grips my hips harder and carefully changes position, pushing deeper. He whispers how beautiful I am after each kiss.
Clasped fingers and neck bites and horrifically colored bedsheets in our grip. When we finish, we’re close together, as synced as I’ve ever imagined being.
He might not have said it himself yet, but I know I’m loved, too.
After a quick cleanup, Carter tosses me his undershirt and slides his boxer briefs back on before we reconvene under the itchy covers.
Each movement sounds like tearing paper.
The laughing starts small, until it’s not anymore, and I’m buried in his chest wondering how I got so lucky to find someone who makes me the happiest in the world.
The neighboring room turns the TV up even louder, which doesn’t help the giggling.
“What do you think he’s watching?” Carter asks.
He traces his thumb up and down the outside of my arm.
Meanwhile, I draw lines over the scars on his arm.
I know he thinks he’s a little broken, but what I like most is that he is always able to put himself back together.
I hope he knows he doesn’t have to do it alone anymore.
“Soap operas. Juicy ones.” His brows rise in intrigue. Muffled voices come from the other side of the wall, and I brainstorm what’s filling the screen. “You know, baby-daddy drama. Amnesia plotlines. Random buildings exploding.”
“You sure you’re not talking about Angel City Noir , Agent Ariel?” He laughs. “I can’t believe you’ve made me watch that.”
I kiss his nose and weave my fingers with his. “I know. We’re going to have to get you a booth at Comic-Con and make some money on appearances. No one will know you’re not actually on the show.”
“Ha ha,” he says with punctuated sarcasm. Then the man next door turns the volume up even more. This time we can practically hear the dialogue.
“How could you, Desmond?” I mimic, making Carter burst into laughter. “You knew that would jeopardize my engagement to him.”
“Desmond?”
“First soap opera name I could think of.”
“You sound like Alaka-Sam.” He laughs, waiting for the response to follow after a thrum of dramatic strings. Carter props his elbow on the bed and rests his head in the palm of his hand, ready to go along with my charade. “You know why, Genevieve.”
“Then say it.” I trace the shape of his lip with my thumb.
There’s a long pause. I picture greased-up soap stars staring longingly at each other across a luxuriously decorated room, nothing at all like the goofy lopsided grin Carter’s giving me now. With a setting nothing at all like the dingy motel room we’re calling home for the night.
“Because I love you.” He says it with a deeply overdramatic accent, the only guardrail between us actually confessing our feelings to each other.
Even if it’s all an act, something about it feels real and makes my chest tighten.
The show lapses into silence, and we linger in it before the TV switches off entirely.
Both of us look toward the wall. “Guess he heard what he needed.”
I nod. “I did, too.”
Carter and I hang in a heavy silence, his hand brushing my hair out of my face. He climbs under the itchy sheets beneath us and presses his lips to my forehead. “Good night, El.”
“And good night, Carter.”