Dating You / Hating You by Christina Lauren

chapter five

evie

“Are you nervous?”

I look up at Daryl from where I’m currently curled in half in the leg-press machine. “For what?” My eyes go wide in fear. “Are you adding more weight?”

She stares at me, unblinking, and then looks across the gym with a pointed sigh.

“Oh. Because of Carter?”

“Yes, because of Carter,” she says, and follows it with this deep little growl. “I can’t believe you have me sucked into this soap opera. I’m basically wandering the social Sahara by myself, but I could probably recite your text messages from memory. What am I doing with my life?”

“Sorry, I’ve been trying not to think about it,” I say. “Like, if I pretend I’m hanging out with any old agent buddy it won’t be as big a deal.”

“I still can’t believe you asked him out.” She takes a drink from her water bottle. “You’re usually so good about sticking to your guns, but you folded. You’re so going to bang him.”

I cover my ears. Don’t get me wrong, I do want to bang him, but Carter and I have been texting back and forth over the last week, and with each exchange I actually like him just a little more. And this is why the nerves are really starting to sink in. It’s all well and good to have this flirtation when he’s on the other end of a screen. It’s harder to mess up when I have minutes to craft perfect witty responses. But face-to-face I’m likely to mess it up somehow, right?

As much as I try to avoid this way of thinking, it’s hard not to be cynical. Like every single woman my age, I’ve been fixed up, from the bar scene to the book club and everything in between; had plenty of spectacularly bad one-night stands; and test-driven my fair share of dating sites. Personally, I’d rather die alone in a house full of cats in tiny matching sweaters than ever attempt any of it again.

I try to ignore the pressure to be coupled up, but it’s everywhere. Romance is the subject of movies and books and practically every song on the radio. There’s my own biological clock, quietly yet persistently ticking away. My parents—who had me later in life—are nearing their seventies. They’ve long since retired from their own Hollywood careers, and when they aren’t gardening or grooming their shih tzu, they’re asking me about my dating life.

But of course there’s that niggling voice suggesting I not care about any of it, that maybe I should give in and buy the cats instead. The problem is that I don’t like them. I may be a terrible married person someday, but I know for sure I would be an even worse cat lady.

“Evie?”

“Sorry,” I say, exhaling as I push the weight up, extending my legs. “I was just trying to figure out whether I could still be a crazy cat lady without the actual animals.”

“Don’t be weird,” Daryl says. Helping me up, she reminds me, “It’s just a date. If you hit it off, you tell me every filthy detail tomorrow. If it sucks, you go home and we plan how we’re finally going to give up on this whole dating thing and just marry each other for the tax breaks.”

“It’ll be fine.” I inhale, watching as she takes my place on the bench. “Anyway, how’s your new assistant?”

Daryl lets out a loud laugh, looking up at me as she moves through her reps. “Eric? Let’s just say I probably do more of his work than he does.”

“Oh, no.”

On top of all the other weirdness at work right now, Daryl’s boss called her into his office on Monday to inform her that she’s got a new assistant on her desk: Brad Kingman’s nephew. Recently injured UCLA quarterback Eric Kingman is six foot three, gorgeous, and not the sharpest tool in the shed. It took him two days to realize that the people calling his desk and asking for Daryl did not, in fact, have the wrong number.

A little smile plucks at me. “It’s not getting any better then?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.” She sits up, shrugging as she stands from the machine. “The dryer in his apartment complex overheated and all his shirts shrank. So at least the view from my office door has greatly improved.”

I grin as we both move to the treadmills. My assistant, Jess, is a godsend, and I would cut down anyone who tried to take her. “Hot or not, I’m not trading you.”

Daryl shrugs. “He’s sweet and makes me laugh, but come staffing season I will burn the place to the ground if he still hasn’t learned how to answer a damn email.”

I’m sure Daryl will be fine—she runs with the upper middle of the pack performance-wise, but she’s undoubtedly beautiful, and charming enough that any agency would want to keep her around.

“You’re so good at this, Evie,” she says. “You’re so good at handling the stress and the personalities.” Blowing her cheeks out, Daryl releases a long breath. “Eric is probably never going to remember everything we went over this week. Hopefully Brad will eventually figure out that this isn’t the kid for the job.”

And I just hope Daryl isn’t blamed when Eric messes something up. Because it’s true that there are a million little things to remember, and when you try to make your brain roll through them like a list, they feel overwhelming. On top of that, the P&D organization itself seems to be made up of a constellation of eccentricities. Of tiny, nitpicky, really irritating eccentricities.

Like the way the legal department won’t read emails or contracts that aren’t in one of two specific fonts.

Or John Fineman’s odd—and dramatic—disdain for scripts with female characters named Maria.

And the fact that Brad once outright fired an assistant whose heels clicked too loudly on the marble floors near the elevators.

Being an agent is about a lot of things—balancing egos, coordinating projects, managing expectations, and above all, making money—but one thing it is never about is how something makes us feel.

And as Daryl and I each retreat into our own heads and I put on my headphones, something slowly dawns on me. Perhaps one of the reasons I’m not in a relationship is that I live all of my life precisely like that: assuming that nothing is ever about how I feel.

•  •  •

Carter and I are meeting at Eveleigh, a rustic farm-to-table joint on Sunset in West Hollywood. It’s perfectly situated between our two offices, as though we might simply leave work and stroll down the road for dinner. And although our texts have grown increasingly flirty, I wish it had occurred to me sooner that this might really just be a casual work-buddy dinner, because I have very clearly not come straight from work. Do I look too eager? Too high maintenance? I’m already concocting a credible explanation for why I might have worn a strapless black jersey dress and gold sandals to work, but when I hand my keys to the valet and look up under the vine-wrapped awning, I see Carter there, right in front of me in a dress shirt and freshly pressed trousers. He looks too crisp; there’s no way he’s just come from work, either.

In the time since I saw him last, I think I’d somehow convinced myself that he couldn’t be as cute as I remembered. Which would be fine because I like his personality a lot. But he is that cute; he’s even better-looking than I remembered, with dark shaggy hair and a sharp jaw, and this sweetly earnest gaze behind his glasses. And when he smiles, charisma just pours out of him and onto the sidewalk.

“Hey, Evil,” he says, walking toward me.

It doesn’t feel weird to reach up and hug him.

He wraps his arms all the way around me, and I shiver a little when I feel the solidness of his body against mine.

“It’s so good to see you.”

Don’t think dirty thoughts. Don’t think dirty thoughts.“You too,” I say.

The embrace lingers, like we’re old friends seeing each other after a long separation. It isn’t weird, though—it’s easy, just like before.

I know relationships are work. My mom reminds me of this all the time, and of the balance it takes for two people to combine their lives into one. But I’ve always felt like it shouldn’t be work right away. Over time, yeah, I can see some effort needing to come into play when the honeymoon phase wears off and you can finally admit to yourself that it’s really irritating when they leave their socks on the couch or how they slurp their milk while eating cereal. But initially, being with someone should feel like the best and most natural thing in the world.

I’ve never really felt that chemistry before, but I definitely feel it with Carter. My blood hums just being near him, and I can’t stop grinning. He smells amazing and holds me so tight, squeezing a little more just before letting go.

Straightening, he gazes down at my face. “I think I forgot how pretty you are.”

“Me too.”

Wait, what did I just say?

“Aww,” he says, laughing. “I like being called pretty.”

Linking his fingers with mine, he turns and we check in at the hostess stand. His hand is big and secure—like a clamp around mine—and I can’t stop focusing on the way it feels. So not a buddy dinner then.

Hand-holding might seem like a simple, innocent way to signify closeness and attraction, but my hand in Carter’s feels anything but simple.

They say we have more nerve endings in our fingertips than we do in our lips, and as we snake our way through the dining area and to our table I swear I feel every millimeter of contact between us. When he lets go so we can sit, my entire body feels cold.

He swallows, and I’m mesmerized by his neck and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the way his smile slowly creeps in from the side of his mouth.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“I’m really glad to be here.” It’s not like me to be so forthcoming, but I can’t help myself. My filter seems to have malfunctioned on the walk from the front of the restaurant to my chair.

“Me too,” he says, and then turns his attention to the incoming waiter, who tells us the specials and takes our drink orders.

“I’ll have a Red Bull and vodka,” Carter says, and I snort. When the waiter makes a slight face but starts to write it down, Carter stops him. “Not really. Sorry. I’m kidding. Inside joke. Bad joke. I’ll have whatever IPA you have on tap.”

The waiter is unamused. “Stone or Lagunitas?”

“Lagunitas.” Carter’s tongue peeks out, touching his lower lip.

I can’t stop looking at him.

The waiter turns to me.

“I’ll have a glass of the Preston Barbera.”

When the waiter leaves, Carter leans an elbow on the table. “You give good shoulder.”

“I . . . what?”

He nods to my dress. “Your dress. Your shoulders.” Clearing his throat, he adds quietly, “You just . . . look amazing.”

I whisper, “Thanks,” and take a long drink of ice water to cool down the boiling just beneath the surface of my skin. “So, what’s the latest in Carterland?”

He grins at my subject change. “Work. Dodging calls from my parents. Texting a cute agent down the road. You know.”

I blush, deflecting, “You’re dodging your parents?”

“They want me to make more of an effort with my brother, but really it’s just their continued disapproval that I moved here in the first place.”

“Oh, no.”

He waves this off. “Mom is positive I’m going to end up homeless and buying crystal meth from a guy living in a box on Skid Row. I tried to tell her my apartment has a doorman and I don’t even know where Skid Row is, but she remains unconvinced.”

The waiter brings our drinks, bread, and a tiny notepad ready for our orders.

“My parents are both in Burbank now,” I tell Carter once the waiter leaves again, “so I see them a few times a month, but I can imagine how much my mom would worry if I lived across the country.”

“Yes, but my brother moved here when he was eighteen, and there was little to no meltdown.”

I tear off a piece of bread. “I don’t think I knew that.”

“Jonah,” he explains over his glass, “took his camera and his clothes and left. He went to a party one of his first weekends in town and ended up taking some photos that were featured in Rolling Stone.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. From there it was Elle, then People. For some reason my parents think lightning only strikes once and I am destined to flop.”

I want to remind him that all parents worry their children will struggle and that if there was ever a place where that happened a lot, it’s Hollywood, but my mind snags on something he’s said.

“Wait, is your brother Jonah Aaron?”

“He . . . is.” His eyes go wide, his hand frozen where it was lifting a piece of bread to his lips. “Please tell me you haven’t slept with him.”

I cough out a laugh. “That would be a no. But for some reason I think my friend Amelia has.” I take a sip of wine, thinking. “I think she met him at a Vanity Fair party or something.”

Carter gives me a rueful half smile. “Maybe I should find her and apologize on behalf of my family.” When I laugh again he seems to realize what he’s said. “I mean no,” he corrects, brows furrowed. “Sex with the Aaron men is prime. Best sex of your life. I should clarify that . . . Let’s move on. Work is good?”

A laugh trips out of me, and I press my napkin to my lips. “It’s really good. I’m putting together a package right now and it could be pretty big.” There’s something about Carter that diffuses my usual instinct to keep everything close, and it’s a struggle to not spill every detail.

But if he notices how I’ve reeled myself in, he’s polite enough not to let on, and instead knocks on the top of the table.

“Superstitious?” I ask, but he’s kept from answering as the waiter arrives with our entrées.

Carter washes his first bite of steak down with his beer and then sets the glass back on the table. “In answer to your question, I would never say that I’m superstitious, because that would be bad luck. But it has been suggested to be one of my less charming traits.”

I grin up at him, spearing a piece of broccoli.

“Mostly, I consider them quirks,” he says. “It’s possible I have a lucky tie. The old knock-on-wood one is a favorite. I throw spilled salt over my left shoulder. I’ve been known to frequent wishing wells, and I have to let the phone ring twice before answering.”

“Those are so adorably minor,” I say.

“You have some better ones?”

“I’m sure my friends would tell you I am quirks galore.”

Carter leans back in his chair and motions for me to proceed.

“I’ve already illustrated my knack for recalling random movie details.”

“I don’t know if that counts—maybe more of an asset, considering your line of work. I’m going to need a bit quirkier from you, Evil.”

I smile. “I can’t eat at buffets—a snag when so many catered events are the serve-yourself variety. It’s like I see that innocent serving spoon and all I can think about is how many unwashed hands have touched it. I always watch the twenty-four-hour Christmas Story marathon, and I’m an obsessive hand-creamer.”

He stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “That can’t possibly mean what just popped into my head.”

I move to gently kick him, but he traps my foot, keeping it there between his shoes.

“It means that when I’m on a call or sitting at my desk thinking about something, I tend to reach for my lotion, sort of instinctively. The longer the call, the more lotion I’ll use, and by the end I can barely grip my phone.”

“Okay, that’s pretty great.” Carter rubs his palms together, thinking. “I’m going to give you another one of mine so you don’t feel all insecure about your germ phobia or cream-filled hands: I can barely inhale before I’ve had coffee. I know people say that all the time, but in my case I almost feel like it’s a medical condition. I’ve brushed my teeth with shaving cream on more than one occasion and once relieved myself in my mom’s favorite potted palm.”

“I’m not sure you should share that last part,” I whisper.

Carter wipes his mouth and sets his napkin on the table in front of him. “You’ve got a very mischievous smile there, Evil.”

I point to my chest. “Me? You should see yours.”

He leans forward. “It’s because I like being around you. It’s like the same buzzy feeling I get when one of my clients posts a grammatically correct tweet.”

This makes me laugh because I can absolutely relate. “That’s pretty buzzy.”

He pulls his lower lip into his mouth and sucks it, watching me.

I don’t remember Carter being this overwhelmingly sexual when we first met. Maybe it was because I wasn’t showing shoulder, or because we were both dressed as preteens, but it’s definitely overwhelming right now.

Carter sips his beer, looking out through the foliage of the indoor-outdoor space to the sidewalk. It’s a busy neighborhood anytime, but it’s cooled down a bit tonight and the streets seem full of people out walking, headed somewhere, headed nowhere.

“It’s so warm here in the fall,” he says, tilting his glass up to his mouth again. I watch him swallow, feeling this tight, creeping anxiety, because dammit, I like him. “It surprises me every time.”

I might really like him.

“Our summer always comes late,” I say. “June and July are pretty nice. The summer really hits in August through October.”

He turns back to me and smiles. “I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.”

“Was it a hard decision to leave New York?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. I’d thought about it for a few years, but always hesitated because it sort of felt like Jonah’s territory.”

“I could see that, I guess.”

“But as my career progressed, LA became an obvious option.” He spins his spoon on the table, absently staring down at it. “There’s only so much for talent agents in New York—theater is huge, obviously, but . . . I don’t know . . .” Taking a deep breath, he seems to grow more contemplative, until he exhales and turns his face up to me, smiling again. “I needed to do something different. I like TV-Lit but would like to be more film-based. Baby steps.”

The degree to which he’s genuine throws me again and again. Everything about him seems so up front and frank, but there’s a complexity, too. No wonder he’s good at this job.

“Have you ever considered leaving California?” he asks.

“Not really,” I admit, scrunching my nose. “I’m too much of a movie fanatic to give it up.”

“Where did you grow up?”

I hook my thumb behind me, as if he can see it from here. “Not LA proper. In San Dimas.”

“Bill and Ted’s!” he sings.

“That’s what everyone says,” I tell him, laughing. “And yes. It’s a pretty small town. I was such a nerd in high school.”

He gives a skeptical snort.

“Honestly,” I assure him, “I was.”

“You couldn’t have been as nerdy as I was: the founder of my school’s Magic: The Gathering club.”

Nodding, I tell him, “I was president and sole member of the anime club at my school before anyone else liked it.”

“Anime is cool.”

“It wasn’t then, trust me.”

Carter leans in, clearly ready to bring out his big guns. “I didn’t get a date in high school until senior year because I liked show tunes and the girls assumed I was gay. No guys asked me out, either, because they assumed I was stuck-up, not straight.”

“My first concert was Hanson.” I pause, watching him. “My worst fear is someone posting a video of me in isolation rocking my face off the entire time.”

“Are you trying to scare me away?” He pulls out his phone and spends about thirty seconds scrolling until he turns it for me to see. “Look at this mess.”

Carter is probably fourteen in the picture. His nose is too big for his face. His hair looks like it was cut by a distracted parent. He’s laughing, and his mouth seems completely filled with metal.

“I can top that.” I pull out my phone and open it to my mother’s Facebook page, easily finding her Throwback Thursday post to my tenth-grade school picture. This was before my Lasik, so I have glasses thicker than an ashtray and am wearing a tie because I was trying to pull off some ill-advised skater chic.

Carter’s eyes narrow and he leans in to look closer. “What are you talking about, Evie? You’re pretty here.”

Wow. He is blind. “Carter.”

“What?”

He looks up and something—no, everything—in me melts. When he blinks, the soft expression doesn’t dissolve; it stays there, stronger now as he lets his gaze move across my face and to my mouth.

“What?” he says again, smiling now. “You know I’m hoping to kiss you later, no matter how many dorky pictures you show me.”

My heart takes off, a beating drum in the wild jungle beneath my ribs. “I’m older than you,” I blurt.

He just shrugs, like this was a completely normal thing to say. “So?”

“We’re in the same business.”

I watch him process this for a breath, and he chews on his lip before saying, “Maybe it’s not ideal, but it’s not worth staying away from you because of it.”

My heart seems intent on climbing up into my throat. “I’m notoriously married to my job.”

“That’s super convenient because so am I. It’ll be like we’re cheating on our jobs with each other.” He says this as if he’s just discovered some brilliant loophole.

I’m aware of how I’m perched on my chair, and of the woman at the table next to us watching us without any subtlety. I’m aware of the car alarm going off somewhere down the street and the waiter clearing plates at the table behind me. I have the sense that Carter can see me reacting to all of these things but isn’t fazed by it in the slightest.

“I’m pretty bad at this,” I admit. “But I have a great romance backup plan that includes a pack of small animals in sweaters, with me as their leader.”

His smile is warm and slow, and when it reaches his eyes, something inside my chest turns over in defeat. “That could be cool, too.”

In the silence that follows, it seems like an enormous hole opens up in front of me and I decide to jump straight in. “Do you want to come back to my place after this?”

This surprises him, and his eyes widen slightly behind his glasses. “Yes.”

•  •  •

Because it’s Southern California and everyone drives everywhere—alone in their own car—Carter follows me back to my place. My building is in Beverly Grove, just southeast of Santa Monica Boulevard; the area has sprawling houses and wide lawns interspersed with larger remodeled art deco apartment buildings. LA is like that: suburb and city all swirled together.

I meet him at the front entrance and try to smile like this is no big deal, but it’s an enormous deal. The last guy I had at my place was my dad. Before that, it was Mike when he came for dinner with Steph. Before that, I can hardly remember. Probably the cable guy.

I can tell we’re both unsure what to say, and the energy between us buzzes. He has this sexual charisma that I’m not convinced I can handle. I can’t stop replaying our hug at the front of the restaurant and how he felt against me, all long bones and firm muscle.

I’m sort of relieved that Carter isn’t one for small talk in situations like this. Are we going to have sex? I feel like sex is imminent but would rather shove a hot poker in my ear than trust my instincts on this right now.

He could ask me about the weather, or about traffic, or earthquake statistics, or any number of the obvious California topics, but he just follows me into my place and pauses in the living room, looking around.

It’s a nice place, and I’m proud of it, even though I’m hardly ever home for more than sleeping. The building is modern, and my apartment is an open floor plan that includes a large main room with living room, kitchen, and small nook by the window, where I have a table. There’s a vase of flowers on top, and everything smells subtly of the peppermint candle near the stove. I can even see Carter’s eyes widen at the enormous flat-screen I inherited from my dad when he upgraded to the obscene flat-screen.

“The guy across the alley is a juggler,” I say, motioning to the window. “Apparently it’s a clothing-optional hobby. I’m not going to lie: it’s pretty great.”

“I was already going to say this place was cool, but that might earn an upgrade to amazing,” he says. “I can promise you that none of the apartments I looked at came with a naked juggler.”

“It’s usually in the morning . . .” The implication of my words—sleepover!—lingers between us as he steps closer, clearly moving past the Exploring Evie’s Apartment phase of the evening and into just Exploring Evie.

Carter is only a step away from me and his hand comes out, curling around my hip. A few beats of silence pass.

“Are you thirsty?” I ask, jittery.

Traffic on the street blares past, and a dog barks obnoxiously in the building next door.

Carter shakes his head. “No, I’m okay.”

“Okay.” I chew my lip. “Hungry? Or need to use the restroom?”

He laughs. “No.”

My hand is shaking when I take his and lead him down the hall.

“Evie?” He hooks his thumb back over his shoulder. “We can stay out here . . .”

I shake my head, and he follows me wordlessly down the hall into my bedroom.

He pulls up short just inside the door. “It’s just that . . . I don’t think we should . . .” He glances to the bed and then back to me. “Yet.”

“That’s okay,” I agree in a nervous whisper. “I just want to be in here. My parents gave me all the furniture in the living room, and I don’t want to be thinking about this the next time they’re over here sitting on their old couch.”

His eyes crinkle behind his glasses when he smiles at this. “You’re a trip.”

He says it like it’s a good thing. Like it’s a great thing. In my room we stare at each other for a few seconds. I keep waiting for the weirdness to descend, but it doesn’t.

Carter lifts his hands, cups my face, and smiles at me.

Oh God, my heart is going to jackhammer its way out of my chest. I am definitely not planning a wedding to Daryl tonight.

“You okay?” he whispers, just an inch away from kissing me.

“Yeah.”

He leans in, putting his lips against mine.

I can’t—I honestly can’t describe the way it feels to kiss him. I marvel at the smooth firmness of his lips and the contrasting sharp stubble on his upper lip and chin. I imagine it scraping the skin of my neck and down, down. I marvel at his hands, holding me right up against him, sliding around my back.

A current runs through me when his tongue touches mine; it’s even stronger when he makes a quiet little groan and slides one hand down over my ass. I feel like a teenager the way I’m unable to get enough of his mouth, and just come at it from every angle, needing every kind of kiss he has: bigger and smaller, deeper and just these tiny little kisses like raindrops.

I feel like I’ve been kissing him forever, and also like I’ve never really been kissed before tonight. He’s taller than me and I’m on my toes, stretching to get closer, like I need him inside me however I can.

Gently, his hands slide to my hips, guiding me back toward the bed and down.

He follows, helping us both toward the pillows, and I haven’t felt this hunger in so long. The consuming kind of want, where kissing like this is nearly overstimulating but my body keeps pushing for more and more.

Carter is over me, and we’re moving together and I feel him, hard between my legs. His bare hand cups the back of my bare leg and I bring my knee toward my chest, opening myself, wanting him closer. He lets out this small grunt before telling me we seem to be really good at this.

The way he moves, rocking just right against me, I know I’m already close because, God, it’s been so long and it’s so so good. We are good at this. And if almost-sex with our clothes on has me on the edge already, how would I survive naked Carter, Carter that has access to every part of me? I can feel that tension and warmth just there, but he pulls away. I start to tell him to come back, reaching for his hips, but his hand is there, warm and steady, up my leg, down inside my underwear, and he groans into a kiss when he feels me, slippery under his fingers.

I feel frantic, like I’ve been twisted in a wringer, and I have to clench my teeth so I don’t cry out.

Instead, a shaky whine escapes, and it makes his breath catch. He pulls back to look at my face.

“You’re wound so tight,” he whispers before bending to kiss my neck. “How do I make you unravel?”

His hand is moving and his mouth slides from my neck to my jaw, and even when I arch away, eyes closed, I feel him follow me, his lips chasing my skin, telling me to come here, kiss him, tell him what I like. When I open my eyes, he’s still watching me. He smiles, leaning in to kiss me again.

“This okay?” he says, eyes clear and earnest.

I nod. Relief is like a drug, warm, rushing through my limbs.

We’re doing this.

I work at his belt clumsily, no longer concerned with when and where we have sex, and his laugh is a tiny warm burst of air against my lips. I get that he’s not laughing at me, he’s laughing at this, at the frantic, fumbling groping.

I smooth my palm down his stomach and gasp at the feel of him, the thrill of making him hard like this, the rush from the power of it. He moves into my touch and I slide my leg over his hip and like this we shift together, letting our hips do the work, letting our mouths move in this easy, hungry tandem.

I’ve forgotten the fevered powerlessness of letting someone else touch me, the desperate hope that they’ll get me there. But very soon I realize that he will, and he does, his hand steady against me. I try to keep my eyes open as it builds, but he watches me with such a singular intensity that I close them so it’s just the sensation of his fingers on my clit and his cock in my hand . . . and I dissolve.

His sounds propel me on, quiet grunts, and he’s moving faster, so hard against my palm, fucking, and then he comes with a helpless groan: living and vital in my grip, his relief so warm against my skin.

He laughs again, stilling my hips with the hand he’s used to touch me; it’s wet, and the intimacy of that—the knowledge that he knows how I feel and just made me come—makes me ache all over again.

We fall quiet in the darkness.

Carter’s mouth finds mine and he kisses me with that telling, satisfied laziness.

“Still okay?” he asks in a deep, scratchy rumble.

“Yeah. You?”

“I’m great, are you kidding? I didn’t have to do that by myself later tonight.”

I start to laugh but he immediately consumes the sound of it, his mouth coming back over mine.

“I think I made a mess on your comforter, though.”

I pull away, feeling down between us. “My bed is like, ‘What is this substance?’ ”

He laughs hoarsely into my neck, and just when I start to worry whether I’ve just sounded too . . . single, he says, “Yeah, me too.”

“You’re insanely hot. I don’t believe you haven’t been with someone recently.”

“And you’re gorgeous. The lack of opportunity isn’t why we’re single.”

I nod, looking up at his face. “It’s been suggested that I’m picky. And maybe a little work-obsessed.”

He laughs again at this, bending to kiss me. “I just think we both need something else to look forward to every day.”