A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)

Kat let her gaze travel down the bare, muscled forearm holding her firmly around the waist, allowing her eyes to wander slowly up past his elbow to the black, gray, and red of the tattoos that decorated the smooth skin: an eagle, flames, and vines that wound their way across strong muscle. Before she got farther, she clenched her eyes tightly as flashes of the night before accosted her.

 

She’d behaved like a lunatic: embarrassed herself and treated Carter like a damn punching bag. Was she insane? Jesus, what had she been thinking, getting a cab to his apartment when she was drunk?

 

Speaking of which, her mouth felt like she’d been breathing almond-flavored sandpaper all night, and her eyes were sticky from the tears she’d cried for the better part of three days. How could she have let Carter see her this way? He grunted quietly into her hair, making the area between Kat’s legs heat instantly at the memory of him above her, rutting against her, sucking, licking, and whispering delectably deplorable words.

 

Christ. They’d almost had sex!

 

Granted, that had been her game plan from the minute her stupid, drunken ass had called Jack for Carter’s address and hailed a cab, but that was beside the point. She hadn’t been thinking clearly. She rubbed a hand down her face and shifted a little more, taking Carter’s wrist in her hand as gently as she could while lifting it from her waist. His response was quick and immediate. He clamped his arm back around her, pulling her body hard against his. Kat could feel his crotch pressing nicely against her ass, and bit the inside of her lip to stop the moan of surprise from escaping.

 

Was he hard?

 

Carter muttered a curse into the nape of her neck. “Where ya goin’?” His breath was warm and his voice was gruff from sleep.

 

“Um, bathroom?”

 

Carter’s grip on her didn’t loosen instantly. Instead, he smelled her hair and mumbled something indecipherable before he lifted his arm and rolled back. Kat tried to ignore the bereft feeling that entered her spine when the cold air hit, and pushed the covers back with a sigh.

 

Her legs were a little unsteady when she stood up from the bed and wandered sleepily toward the en suite, not daring to look back at the man she’d left alone. She closed the door with a small click and dropped her forehead against it with a thump. What was she doing?

 

Well, the answer to that was fairly self-explanatory. She’d used Carter as a screaming board and potential booty call, in order to clear her head of the anger and the grief that had ripped her wide-open the day she’d left her grandmother’s house. She’d driven for fifteen hours straight from Chicago to New York. And that was after she’d smashed her cell phone against the sidewalk when it had begun to ring incessantly.

 

Why the hell did her mother or Beth think she would want to speak to either of them again?

 

Kat stumbled back from the door, looking around at the beautiful marble floor and stunning shower stand, and shuffled over to the huge rectangular mirror hanging on the wall. Jesus Christ, she looked like death. She grabbed some toilet paper and ran it under the faucet before wiping vigorously at the skin under her eyes in an attempt to erase the mascara lying there in all its hideously smudged glory. Her face looked exactly how she felt: tired, angry, and alone.

 

She threw the paper into the toilet and leaned against the side of the sink. No, she thought. That wasn’t right. She wasn’t alone. The fact that she was standing in Carter’s apartment proved she wasn’t. He was the only one who seemed to understand her, who seemed to know what she needed or even wanted. He knew her in a way no one else did, and it was in a way that both thrilled and alarmed her.

 

She just wished she’d thought a little bit more about the consequences before turning up on Carter’s damn doorstep and telling him she wanted him to fuck her.

 

But the truth was, the only thing she’d thought about as she’d driven through the night was getting to Carter. The only person she’d wanted to see was Carter. The only arms she wanted around her, the only chest she wanted to press her face into, the only mouth she wanted against hers, and the only scent she wanted to breathe in were Carter’s.

 

She used the toilet, washed her hands, rinsed out her mouth, and moved back toward the door, cupping an ear to it, listening for Carter on the other side. It was silent. As quietly as she could, she turned the handle and opened it, peeking around the doorjamb.

 

Carter’s voice was soft and deep. “Hey.”

 

He was sitting on top of the covers, against the headboard of his bed, bare-chested and crumpled, with his jean-clad legs crossed casually at the ankles. His jeans sat comfortably under his belly button, showing a trail of coarse, dark hair that disappeared to, well, farther down.

 

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