Page 18 of Red Zone (PCU Storm #2)

CARTER

L yla’s mouth is warm under mine, her hands pulling me closer as we melt into the couch. Every time she shifts, her hips grind against me, and it’s absolute torture. Good torture. The kind that makes you forget about every single reason this is supposed to be a bad idea.

All other thoughts on why this probably isn’t the best idea are the last thing on my mind. I’m too focused on her.

On the heat of her skin under my hands. On the soft little gasps she makes when I suck on her neck.

She arches into me, and I groan against her collarbone. I’m so hard it physically hurts.

She leans up, breathless, lips swollen from kissing. “Do you want to…go to my room?”

I blink.

Then grin.

“I’d love to,” I say, dragging my palm down her side. “But you might have to carry me.”

She huffs a laugh, eyes rolling. “Seriously?”

I drop my head to her shoulder, still smiling. “I’m not even kidding. I’m so hard I might tip over.”

She covers her face with both hands, laughing harder now. “Oh my god.”

I kiss the side of her neck, then whisper, “Lead the way, Princess.”

She pulls herself off the couch, grabbing my hand. I follow—barefoot and half-dressed, not giving a damn about anything other than getting her behind a closed door.

And I mean it when I say I’m probably going to trip again.

She stops at the hallway, eyes on me like she’s not sure we should do this.

I give her that half-smile that I save for the real moments. “Still a yes?”

Lyla nods, quiet but firm. “Yeah.”

Then she turns and walks toward her room.

And I follow like a man who knows exactly what he’s about to lose control over.

Her bedroom is soft light with lavender-scented air, and it only takes two steps inside before my mouth is back on hers.

She kisses me like she needs me, like she’s been holding back for way too long. And I’m done pretending I don’t feel the same.

I walk her backward until the backs of her knees hit the bed, then push the sweatshirt off her shoulders. My hands find her waistband, and she lifts her arms again without hesitation. Her leggings and panties come off in one smooth motion, and I step back just long enough to take her in.

Fuck, she’s stunning.

She reaches for me next, tugging at my joggers, and I help her out, kicking them aside. We’re both stripped down, hearts racing. Every inch of my skin is on fire, but all I want is to feel her.

I press her down gently onto the bed, following her. My lips trace her collarbone, down to her chest, and I pause to take one nipple into my mouth, swirling my tongue over it until she gasps and threads her fingers through my hair.

I give the other breast the same attention, taking my time, watching her fall apart slowly. Her back arches, her thighs press together, and I trail my kisses lower.

“Carter…” she whispers, voice barely there.

I glance up. “Yeah?”

Her cheeks are pink. She bites her lip. “No one’s ever…kissed me down there before.”

I pause. Just for a second.

Looking her right in the eyes, I can’t stop the smirk that takes over my face. I move slowly and say, “You want me on my knees, baby?”

She swallows, eyes wide, giving me a subtle nod.

I slide down her body, trailing kisses over her ribs, her stomach, then lower still. I press my mouth to the soft skin inside her thigh, breathing her in. She smells like lavender and something sweet—something that’s only her.

Her breath hitches.

I nudge her knees wider and run my hands up the backs of her thighs, gripping gently. My thumbs brush over her hip bones. I kiss the inside of one thigh, then the other, slowly working her up.

She trembles, her hips shifting restlessly.

Finally, I press one slow, open-mouthed kiss right where she’s aching.

She moans, loud and unfiltered, fingers tangling in the sheets.

I drag my tongue over her clit—slow and deliberate.

I find a rhythm, alternating between soft sucks and gentle flicks, paying attention to every tiny reaction. Every gasp. Every roll of her hips.

One of her hands flies to my head, tugging at my hair.

Fuck, that turns me on even more.

Her thighs squeeze around me, and I grip her hips tighter, grounding her.

“You can let go,” I murmur against her. “I’ve got you.”

“I don’t want to suffocate you.”

I chuckle at that, causing her to gasp again, “Put that on my gravestone—went out doing what he loved most, eating your pussy.”

She whimpers, thighs trembling. “Oh, fuck. Please don’t stop.”

So, I don’t.

I slide one hand lower, slipping a finger inside as I keep my mouth on her clit, curling gently until I find that spot that makes her cry out. Then I do it again. And again.

Her body tightens. Her breath stutters. And when she finally comes apart, legs shaking, hips rising off the bed, my name on her lips like a confession?—

I know I’ll never be the same.

And I never want to stop being the one who gets to worship her like this.

She’s breathless, flushed, and practically melts into the mattress when I crawl back up beside her. Her hair’s a mess, cheeks pink, and her eyes are fluttering closed.

“Fuck,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “That was unreal.”

I grin, leaning on my elbow. “You good?”

She nods lazily. “Better than good. Toys are fine, but…the real thing?” She lets out a soft laugh. “Way better.”

I chuckle and brush my fingers down her side. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She reaches for me and brushes her hand over my abs, eyes trailing down to where I’m still hard.

“You’re…not done.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I say quickly. “You’re tired.”

She bites her lip like she’s debating something. “I could help you out.”

Tempting as hell. But instead, I nudge her hip and slide off the bed, quickly throwing my joggers back on. “Come on. Let’s clean you up.”

She groans like I’m making her run sprints. “You’re too nice, Hayes.”

I turn on the tap in her tub and test the water temperature, adjusting it until it’s just right. Then I help her off the bed and guide her to the edge.

“You’re serious?” she asks, blinking at the bath.

I nod. “You’re tired. You keep yourself going at a pace that would put most people six feet under. Relax for a bit.”

She steps in slowly and eases down, letting out a deep sigh as she sinks into the warmth. Her eyes drift shut for a moment, steam curling around her.

I sit on the floor beside her, arm resting on the edge of the tub, eyes on her face.

It’s quiet for a while—just the sound of water lapping and our breathing.

Then, softly, she says, “What do you see for your future?”

I look at her, surprised by the question.

“I mean…off the record,” she adds. “Not what you’d say in an interview. What do you really want?”

I take a breath, rubbing the back of my neck. “I want the league, obviously. NFL’s the dream.

But beyond that? I want stability. I want to not have to keep looking over my shoulder or worrying where I’m gonna land next.”

She nods slowly, watching me.

“I want a place that’s mine,” I add. “People who choose to stay.”

There’s a pause.

“Sounds like a solid plan,” she whispers.

My fingers drift along the edge of the tub. “What about you?”

She lifts a shoulder. “A career in athlete branding, someday at the pro level, hopefully. Definitely telling deeper stories. Helping people be seen for who they really are. As more than an athlete.”

I smile. “You’ll kill it.”

She smiles back, then leans her head against the tile. Her fingers brush mine over the rim of the tub.

Then, quieter, she adds, “It’s weird. Stress doesn’t always feel like stress for me. It just…builds.

And then, sometimes, it’s like my brain pulls the fire alarm.”

I glance at her, urging her to continue, not with words, but by giving her my full attention.

“When I was younger, it started with these episodes where I couldn’t move.

Like my body just literally shut off. It started with just my right arm, then both my arm and leg.

Eventually, it affected all four limbs at once.

I used a wheelchair off and on for a while since the episodes would last anywhere from half an hour to a couple of days.

They thought it was a type of seizure at first, but it was…

more complicated. The seizures actually came later, but they’re pretty controlled now.

The six months without my license as a senior in high school were brutal, but we made do.

It all stemmed from something called a stress conversion disorder.

Basically, my body stores up all the stress it feels and experiences, then when the dam breaks, it shuts down. ”

I don’t say anything—just let her keep going.

“Now, it’s mostly my OCD. Routines help. Lists, order, patterns. It’s the only way I feel in control.”

I nod slowly. “That’s why you always have your tablet and all the different notebooks for different things, the color-coded sticky notes too.”

Her eyes are bright with surprise. “You stalking me?”

I smirk, “No, just observant, Princess. But you are fun to watch, especially when you’re walking away.” I wiggle my brows at her, earning a small splash of bath water.

And we sit there, fingers brushing, the water still warm, the air still quiet.

I don’t know what it is about her, but I feel like I could watch paint dry with her next to me and still feel excited.

“All right, time to get out before you turn into a prune.” I grab the towel off the hanger, holding it open for her, and she carefully gets out of the tub, looking more and more tired by the second.

Her cheeks are still flushed, but her eyes are telling how tired she really is.

“I don’t mean to sound like a bitch, but you need to leave if you want me to go to bed.”

I meet her gaze, wondering what flipped the sudden switch. “Why?”

Without saying anything, she starts nibbling on her bottom lip, one of her nervous tells. I carefully free it using my thumb and leave my hand resting on the side of her face. Her shoulders start tensing and releasing, seemingly on their own accord.

“Come on, Princess. Tell me.”

She huffs out a breath, “I have a…routine that I have to do before I can get in bed, or I can’t fall asleep.”

“Like a skincare routine?” I ask as I plop myself down on her bed, making myself right at home.

That earns me a laugh. “Well, that too, but I also have to do things in a certain order. It’s weird and would honestly freak people out if they saw it all.”

Ah, I get it now. She has a compulsion routine and thinks I’ll judge her for it.

“Hey now, I am a college athlete. A really damn good one, if I do say so myself.”

She rolls her eyes so hard I think they might get stuck up there. “I know all about routines and superstitions. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

She gives me a look—half amused, half like she’s trying to figure out if I’m serious.

“You’re not going to think I’m crazy?” she asks, her voice quieter now. More cautious.

I cock a brow. “I just had my mouth on your pussy thirty minutes ago. I think we’re past the point of judgment.”

That earns me a real laugh, and fuck, I like the sound of it.

“Okay, fine. But you asked for it.”

She gets up and tugs an oversized T-shirt down over those legs that have been driving me insane all night. I try to play it cool, stay relaxed on my elbows, but my eyes don’t miss a thing.

She moves around the room with purpose. Not rushed, not frantic—but calculated. Specific.

First, she walks to the light switch and flips it off, then back on. Once. Twice. Then she leaves it off and whispers, “Off means rest.”

I keep my mouth shut and just watch.

Next, she crosses to her dresser and checks each drawer, tapping her fingers along the handles in a rhythm.

Tap, tap, pause. Tap, tap, pause. Every time, she murmurs something under her breath too quiet for me to hear, but I don’t need to.

I know a ritual when I see one. I’ve known kids who had them to feel safe.

I’ve had them, when bouncing between foster homes felt like the only thing I could control was the order I laced my cleats.

She’s at the closet next. Opens it. Closes it. Opens it again. Runs her hand over the hangers.

Then closes it with a nod, like it passed some kind of test.

I don’t say a word.

She finally turns back toward me, eyes flicking up to see if I’m laughing. I’m not.

I sit up, rest my arms on my knees. “Is that all?”

She huffs a breath, embarrassed. “Almost. Skincare’s next. I told you, it’s weird.”

“No,” I say, voice low. “It’s you.”

Her eyes dart to mine.

“And it’s not weird. It’s just…how you make sense of the world. Right?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just slips into the bathroom while I decide to move to the chair at her desk, waiting around like some dumbass for her to kick me out.

A few minutes later, I hear the faucet shut off, the gentle clink of bottles being set down, and then she reappears, wiping her hands with a towel before dropping it into the hamper, and looking ten percent less guarded.

She crawls into bed slowly, adjusting her pillows, fluffing them twice on each side, aligning the blanket with the edge of the mattress. And when she’s finally still, her eyes find mine.

“You’re still here.”

“I am.” I smirk. “Told you—college athlete. We’re superstitious. You don’t mess with a win.”

She snorts under her breath, but her expression softens. “You gonna show me your routine now?”

I move back toward the bed, climbing up onto the mattress like it’s suddenly sacred ground.

“Nah. Mine’s boring.”

“What is it?”

I lean closer, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. “Win the game.”

She snorts. “Such a deep soul, Hayes.”

“Maybe someday you’ll see just how deep I can really go.” I wink at her as she swats at me.

“Night, Princess.”

“Goodnight, quarterback.”

I leave her room, half wishing I could stay, half wondering what the fuck just happened.

Mostly wondering how fucked I’m about to be as I realize I might be catching something instead of throwing.

And that thing I am catching, it might just be feelings for my coach’s daughter.

Fuck.