A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(103)

Well, the answer to that was fairly self-explanatory. She’d used Carter as a screaming board and potential booty call, in order to clear her head of the anger and the grief that had ripped her wide-open the day she’d left her grandmother’s house. She’d driven for fifteen hours straight from Chicago to New York. And that was after she’d smashed her cell phone against the sidewalk when it had begun to ring incessantly.

Why the hell did her mother or Beth think she would want to speak to either of them again?

Kat stumbled back from the door, looking around at the beautiful marble floor and stunning shower stand, and shuffled over to the huge rectangular mirror hanging on the wall. Jesus Christ, she looked like death. She grabbed some toilet paper and ran it under the faucet before wiping vigorously at the skin under her eyes in an attempt to erase the mascara lying there in all its hideously smudged glory. Her face looked exactly how she felt: tired, angry, and alone.

She threw the paper into the toilet and leaned against the side of the sink. No, she thought. That wasn’t right. She wasn’t alone. The fact that she was standing in Carter’s apartment proved she wasn’t. He was the only one who seemed to understand her, who seemed to know what she needed or even wanted. He knew her in a way no one else did, and it was in a way that both thrilled and alarmed her.

She just wished she’d thought a little bit more about the consequences before turning up on Carter’s damn doorstep and telling him she wanted him to f*ck her.

But the truth was, the only thing she’d thought about as she’d driven through the night was getting to Carter. The only person she’d wanted to see was Carter. The only arms she wanted around her, the only chest she wanted to press her face into, the only mouth she wanted against hers, and the only scent she wanted to breathe in were Carter’s.

She used the toilet, washed her hands, rinsed out her mouth, and moved back toward the door, cupping an ear to it, listening for Carter on the other side. It was silent. As quietly as she could, she turned the handle and opened it, peeking around the doorjamb.

Carter’s voice was soft and deep. “Hey.”

He was sitting on top of the covers, against the headboard of his bed, bare-chested and crumpled, with his jean-clad legs crossed casually at the ankles. His jeans sat comfortably under his belly button, showing a trail of coarse, dark hair that disappeared to, well, farther down.

[page]Realizing she’d not noticed the artwork on his body while she was grinding all over him, her gaze wandered over his wide shoulders that were covered in the ink she’d seen on his arms. From his neck, the artwork moved past his collarbone to his strong stomach. He was a masterpiece. He was muscular, of course, but he didn’t scream body beautiful; he screamed strength and safety. He had a smattering of hair in the center of his chest that sat like an exclamation point next to his masculinity.

Kat cleared her throat and walked back into the bedroom. She stopped about two feet from the edge of the bed, not really knowing what she should say or do. She twisted her hands together at her stomach. She eventually glanced up to see Carter’s face was gentle, expecting nothing. She breathed a little easier and gave him a small smile.

“How ya doin’?”

“I’m okay.”

He raised a knowing eyebrow. “You’re a shitty liar.” He shook his head and patted his palm on the bed space next to him. “Come here.”

Kat’s body flushed. “What?”

Carter simply continued patting the bed.

He looked extremely appealing and mischievous, but there was also a tenderness in his eyes that Kat could do nothing but trust. She took another tentative step, and watched Carter pull the covers back for her. She stopped again, wondering if it was a sensible move to get back into his bed.