There’s a tiny voice in the back of my head telling me there’s no way Carter’s going to tase me, so I latch on to it like a frat boy to a keg and follow her inside. Besides, the knowledge that Carter can take care of herself is kind of hot. Damn right she should tase any prick who hassles her—twice.
The apartment is smaller than my town house, but has the same basic furnishings since—surprise, surprise—we live in the same complex. But where my apartment is decorated with Wildcat gear, pizza boxes, and discarded athletic shoes, Carter’s feels like an actual home.
Hell, she’s even got real curtains on the front window.
Here’s the thing. I’ve been inside my fair share of women’s apartments and I’ve learned to expect certain things. Same mix of bookstore art prints (usually Van Gogh), candles everywhere (always scented), and at least one tapestry hanging on the wall or over a window (likely Urban Outfitters).
Carter’s place is different. There’s an abstract painting over the couch, something with actual character, the splashes of color bold and provocative. There’s a candle burning on the coffee table (is no woman immune to this basic need to burn shit?), and there are a handful of pictures displayed throughout the room. Most are of Carter and a blonde who looks like she’s got pep for days. Probably her roommate.
Although I want to take a closer look, I resist the urge. It seems too personal and something tells me she wouldn’t approve of me touching her stuff. Plus, she still has the Taser.
“How did you know where I live?” Carter crosses her arms over her chest as if she’s just realized the tank top might not be concealing all the goods.
“Student directory. You should really think about removing your address.” I flop down on the couch, right next to the spot with her blanket and popcorn. “The last thing you want is crazy fans or reporters showing up at your door at all hours of the night.”
“The same could be said of cocky quarterbacks.” She eyes her vacant spot on the couch, probably trying to decide if I’m invading her space on purpose (spoiler alert: I am). It’s not until I dig into her popcorn that her stubborn pride kicks in. She puts the Taser on the end table and curls up on the cushion next to me, body turned toward mine, knee pressed against my thigh. “Are you drunk?”
I do my best to look incredulous because I’m definitely not drunk. At least, I’m pretty sure I’m not. “I’m the captain of the football team. It would be irresponsible to drink to excess. It’s my job to set a good example, remember?”
She arches a brow. “Really?”
“Really, really,” I say, quoting my favorite ogre.
Carter shakes her head and laughs, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth. “Then why do you smell like my grandpa’s liquor cabinet?”
“Dunno.” I roll my shoulders and settle back into the couch. Turns out, they may look the same, but hers is way more comfortable than the one in our town house. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure I haven’t been drunk since sophomore year.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.” Her words may be snarky, but her tone is playful. I’m digging it. “You go to parties all the time.”
“I don’t need to be drunk to have a good time. In fact, some things are better sober.” I might be a little buzzed, but it’s the truth. Liquid courage is a cop-out for guys who don’t have the balls to talk to women. That’s never been an issue for me because I know what women like. Not because I’m some kind of sexual savant—although I kind of am—but because I pay attention. Seriously. It’s that simple. When I’m with a woman, I give her my undivided attention, my respect, and I always make sure she comes first.
Preferably on my tongue.
“Take football for example.” I slide my arm across the back of the couch, careful not to touch Carter. Her knee is still pressed to my thigh and it’s enough contact. For now. “When I’m on the field, I want to feel every sweaty, pulse-pounding play. I want to pump everything I’ve got into being the best, into scoring a goal. For my teammates and myself.” My voice is low and gravelly and I swear to Christ you could cut the tension with a knife. “Even if I have to grind it out inch. By. Inch.”
I reach out and twist a strand of Carter’s hair between my fingers. It’s soft and silky, just like I imagined. I brush it back from her face, the rough pads of my fingertips scraping across her cheek. Her breath hitches and for a moment, I think she’s going to turn away, but her eyes remain locked on mine. Like maybe she’s as into this analogy as I am.
“Inch by inch?” she asks, her voice rising an octave.
“There’s no greater satisfaction.”
She bites her bottom lip, teeth digging into the plump flesh and driving me wild. I’d like nothing more than to nibble on those pouty lips myself, but when she finally speaks, she blurts out the last thing I’m expecting. “You must be hungry. I mean, you should probably eat. To help you sober up. I think I’ve got a sandwich from the café in the fridge.”
Oh, I’m hungry, but I doubt a sandwich is going to take care of this craving. I reach for her arm, but she bolts off the couch like her hair’s on fire. “I told you I’m not—”
The worddrunkdies on my tongue because Carter’s shorts? They barely cover her ass. I can see the curve and swell of her flesh perfectly and my cock is suddenly ravenous, straining painfully against the zipper of my jeans.
I subtly adjust myself as Carter flits around the kitchen, but the sight of her perky backside is making it impossible to concentrate. I close my eyes and try thinking of the usual boner killers—football stats, Pittsburgh, the draft—but it’s pointless. Her tight little ass is imprinted on the inside of my eyelids.
Get it together, asshole.
The last thing I want is for Carter to throw me out for being a perv, but I can’t help it if my dick wants to play man-to-man.
“Here you go.” Carter nudges my foot. When I open my eyes, she’s studying me like she’s afraid I’m going to pass out on her couch.
“Thanks.” I accept the bottle of water and plate she’s offering, resolved to try and sate my appetite with the sandwich and chips. “Don’t look so worried. I’m not going to pass out on your couch. If anything, I’m tired from today’s game. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. I was up late reviewing plays.”
She nods and takes her spot on the couch, folding her legs beneath her. Warmth spreads up my leg and straight to my cock as her knee brushes mine, but I keep my attention focused on the TV, where there’s a dude with big-ass horns and tree branches sticking out of his back like wings. “What the hell are we watching?”
