A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(61)

Carter clutched the bridge of his nose. “No. I haven’t. I wouldn’t even know where the f*ck to start.”

Max crossed his arms over his chest. “I hear ya.” A small smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. “Damn, brother, after all these years. You found her.”

Carter smiled small and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Max smacked a playful hand to Carter’s biceps. “Get on that. Girl done grown up good.”

Carter snorted. No shit. Though Max’s suggestion that he hit it and quit it would ordinarily have his panty-dissolving smolder firmly in place, with his Peaches it seemed too … crass. She deserved more than that.

He glanced at the clock. It was three fifteen. Less than one hour until he saw her. He texted back.

I wouldn’t dare.

And he was only half kidding. He’d been more than a little surprised at her reaction to his tardiness at their first session. She’d looked ready to rip his head off, and he could see where she was coming from, but, damn, girl had a temper. Not that he was one to talk. But after the whole stern-talking-to, falling-off-ladder debacle, the session had gone pretty well.

It was strange how time passed so fast when he was with Peaches. It seemed so easy to be with her. He liked her sass and enthusiasm. It made him remember his own love of the written word, and he liked talking to her about the writer’s word choices and the intricacies of it all.

In fact, he liked talking to her, period. Talking to her—and now touching her. He couldn’t help but think about how soft her hair was when he’d pushed it behind her ear, or the silkiness of her skin at the back of her knee. Would her skin be that soft all over?

He cleared his throat and shook his head of the image of her wrapped around him as he pounded into her among the bookshelves.

Christ.

He wanted more. And not just in the let-me-see-what-you-look-like-naked sense.

What would it be like just to have an everyday conversation with her? The day she’d spoken about her father and the book he read to her was one of the best days he’d had inside Kill. He’d gotten a glimpse of the Kat Lane who existed outside of the prison walls, and now that he, too, was outside, he wanted very much to see more.

What might her reaction be if he asked her some more personal questions? Only questions about her likes and dislikes, not like her bra size or anything—though he’d wondered about that shit, too. They looked like they would fit in his hands perfectly. His body immediately reacted to that particular thought, which was more than a little embarrassing when he was surrounded by a bunch of guys.

His body still seemed to find it impossible to settle down when he was around her or when he thought about her. Regardless, as much as he would have loved to suggest they just get f*cking down to it, he knew she wasn’t that type of girl. He was fairly certain that if he ever heard of any man treating her that way, he would have no problem with f*cking. Their. Shit. Up.

His possessiveness could be a problem.

“Carter?”

He came from his thoughts and looked at Cam, who was motioning toward the entrance of the body shop.

“There’s a guy here to see you, man.”

“Who?” Carter asked, putting his coffee down.

Cam shrugged. “No clue. He just said he needed to talk to you urgently.”

“Don’t they all.”

He stopped midstride when he saw who was waiting for him on the sidewalk outside the shop, in a suit that must have cost at least two thousand dollars. Carter cursed and rubbed his palm down his face in aggravation.