She's quiet for a long moment. Then: "No. I don't care either."
"So what do we do?"
"I have no idea. But we should probably figure it out somewhere that's not a public library study room."
"My apartment?"
"Your apartment." Her voice squeaks which makes me smile.
We gather her stuff and head out, and I'm acutely aware that everything just changed. That whatever line we were walking, we just crossed it and there's no going back.
Chapter 7
Lennox
We barely makeit through Carter's apartment door before we're on each other again, because there is one thing I can say, Carter knows how to make a girl go weak in the knees with his lips.
He pushes me against the wall, his mouth finding mine with a desperation that matches my own. I drop my bag, my hands already working on the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his skin.
"Are you sure?" he asks between kisses, his hands gripping my hips. "Because once we do this?—"
"I'm sure. Stop talking."
I pull him back to me, and he groans against my mouth. His hands slide under my shirt, rough and warm against my stomach, and I arch into his touch.
"Bedroom," I manage.
"Too far."
He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the couch. We fall onto it in a tangle of limbs and desperation, months of tension finally breaking.
His shirt comes off first, I've been fantasizing about what he looks like shirtless since that first practice observation, and reality exceeds expectations. He's all muscle and sharp lines, a few scars from years of hockey visible against his skin.
I trace one with my finger. "Where's this from?"
"High-sticked sophomore year. Needed twelve stitches." He's working on my shirt now, pulling it over my head. "Stop distracting me."
"Make me."
He does, with his mouth on my neck, my collarbone, the edge of my bra. I'm gasping, my hands in his hair, pulling him closer.
"Lennox." My name sounds wrecked coming from him. "I've wanted this for so long."
"How long?"
"Since you walked into that first interview looking ready to destroy me." He pulls back to look at me. "You were so fierce. So certain. I wanted to hate you and I couldn't."
"I wanted to hate you too." I pull him back down. "Shut up and kiss me."
We're both fumbling with remaining clothes, desperate and clumsy and perfect. When we're finally skin to skin, he pauses.
"I don't have—we need?—"
"Wallet pocket of my bag. Side zipper."
He stares at me. "You came prepared?"
"I'm a journalist. I'm always prepared." I joke.
