“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 word drunk dies 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?”
Carter throws her head back and a throaty laugh I’ve never heard before bubbles out of her. “Only the greatest show on TV.”
She spends the next ten minutes explaining Riverdale to me and despite all odds, I’m kind of intrigued by the dark, vampy feel, so I settle in to watch as I chug down the last of my water. “Who’s that?” I ask when a skinny, dark-haired emo dude starts pounding away on his laptop.
“Only the best half of Bughead.” Her whole face lights up, triggering a pang of jealousy low in my gut. Great. Now I’m jealous of a guy on a fucking TV show? That’s stupid, right? “They’re my favorite ship.”
I don’t even ask. I’m pretty sure it’s short for relationship, but hell if I know. More importantly, I can’t help but notice the guy’s wearing a red shirt with a giant black S on it. Just like the one Carter was wearing earlier. Makes perfect sense now.
“That’s the kind of guy you’re into?” I jerk my head toward the screen and turn my body toward hers, encroaching on her cushion so our legs are fully pressed together now. “You can’t be serious.”
“What?” She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “He’s actually kind of badass, but he also happens to be a nice guy.”
I snort, my breath coming hot and fevered. “Nice?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to nice guys.” Her nostrils flare just a tiny bit, and I know I’m getting under her skin in more ways than one. Is it possible she’s feeling the same undeniable pull of attraction? “They’re…safe.”
I get it. She thinks I’m
