I take Laurel’s hand in mine and intertwine our fingers, needing the comfort of her touch, which is crazy. I don’t needanythingfromanyone.
“That’s what changed. Why I stopped going. Why I haven’t been with anyone since.” I take her chin and tilt her face to mine, needing her to hear this, feel it. “If you’re asking if what we just did was okay, if it was worth it, ifyou’reworth it?” I pause, hold her gaze. “The answer is yes. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.”
Laurel opens her mouth, probably to ask more questions, but I’m not sure I have it in me to answer. I’m not used to heartfelt confessions, and what I said already has me exhausted. Besides, she’s naked. That gorgeous body is pressed against mine, warm and willing. Right now, I don’t want to talk anymore. I want tofeel. I want to forget my father, The Order, the sister who may or may not exist.
I kiss Laurel, long and deep, until she moans into my mouth, andfuck, my cock responds like she summoned it by name. Hard. Ready.Hers.
“God, you make the prettiest sounds,” I murmur with a lazy grin. “If you need me to prove it again…” I graze her bottom lip with my teeth. “I’m more than happy to oblige.”
Laurel’s response is instant. Her lips crash into mine. Her nails dig into my shoulder like she wants to brand me as her own.
I laugh, the sound so light it surprises me. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Then I press her into the mattress, cover her with my body, and make her mine all over again.
***
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Chapter twenty-six
Laurel
The next day I’m in my favorite class, art history. Chin propped in my palm, I stare at the projection screen at the front of the room, barely registering the golden haze of Botticelli’sPrimavera. The lights are dimmed, the faint hum of the projector mixing with the lazy whir of the ceiling fans overhead, the kind that move air more for show than comfort. Even in fall, there’s moisture in the air, a damp humidity that clings to my skin and curls the edges of the paper where I’m doing a poor job of taking notes. I should be thinking about brushwork, symbolism, and the Uffizi Gallery.
I’m not.
I’m thinking about Carrson.
About the way his mouth felt on my skin. About how his hands moved like he already knew what I needed. About how I came apart beneath him, and how he watched like it undid him too.
Now that it’s the light of day, questions rush in.What was that? Was it just sex?Something more? Are we going to do it again?
God. I hope we do it again.
I sigh and shift in my seat, restless. Sore in places I didn’t know could ache. Not a bad kind of pain. The kind that lingers sweetly. A reminder that he touched me like he meant it.
I smile before I catch myself.
A body drops into the chair next to me. Before I can glance over, a low, smoky voice asks, “What are you grinning about, little mouse?”
Carrson.
Here.
In my real life.
What the hell?
He stretches beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his thigh brushing mine just enough to be deliberate. A spark radiates out from the place where we touch and travels straight to my chest, lighting it up.
He grins at my stunned expression. Then he laughs. A real laugh. Rich and full and careless. Loud enough to make heads turn our way.
“Shh!” I elbow him, mortified.
“You should see your face,” he whispers, smiling with his eyes bright. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
