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.