A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(65)

The first time he’d blasted Kala to New Jersey one hot summer afternoon; her engine had been so loud his bones had vibrated.

Carter opened his eyes to see her gazing back at him, innocent and wanting. She was such a f*cking paradox. The stirring in the depths of his stomach twisted sharply until it began to bloom into something more, something bigger.

[page]It was more than yearning. It was craving. No, he was ravenous for more of her—in every way she’d allow him to have her.

He sucked in a breath against the crushing need to kiss her.

She blinked. “What?”

He cleared his throat, the need to place his mouth against hers rising like a tidal wave through his body. “Nothin’.”

Well, this shit was new.

He didn’t kiss women—ordinarily, they kissed him. Usually, they begged. He’d wanted to do unspeakable things to Peaches since he’d first seen her, but kiss her? That had never crossed his mind.

Until now.

“So, what do you like to do when you’re not, you know, getting covered in oil?” Her smile was awkward. Her smile was f*cking adorable.

He wanted to lick her bottom lip. Maybe suck on it. “I like to play guitar.” His voice was rough. “Watch TV. Drink. Ride my bike. Nothing exciting.”

“Yeah, I noticed your helmet.”

“Yes. My baby.”

Peaches laughed. “Boys and their toys.”

“Damn straight.”

She toed the floor. “My dad rode a bike when I was little. I love bikes.”

Of course she f*cking did. As if she could be any more damned perfect. Jesus. He stubbed out his smoke and flicked it to the side. “We should go back in.”

Nodding, Peaches pushed from the wall. Carter followed behind closely, watching the luscious sway of her hips as they went inside. There, out of nowhere, a big, bearded * with a huge bag smacked hard into her, sending her flying. Carter grabbed her waist, pulling her upright against his chest before she hit the deck.

“Shit!” she gasped, grasping his forearm.

“Watch it,” the * sneered without a second glance. “Blind bitch.”

Carter took three huge strides and grabbed the *’s wrist, making him spin around. The bastard winced as Carter squeezed the pressure points he knew would hurt like a bitch.

He tried to pull from Carter’s grasp. “What the hell, man?”

“Carter,” Peaches called, hurrying to his side.

He ignored her and twisted the *’s arm farther.

“You’re gonna break my wrist!”

Carter growled, “And I will, if you don’t apologize to this lady.”

The * opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.

“Apologize,” Carter ordered.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned, but Carter kept his grip.

“Carter, he apologized. Let him go,” Peaches said.

Smirking at the fear in the *’s eyes, he squeezed once more for good measure before he released him. The * stumbled back, clutching his wrist. He grabbed for the bag he’d dropped on the floor and hurried away, Carter’s stare burning holes in his back.

Peaches spun around, pushing his biceps. “What the hell was that?”

Before he could answer, she stormed back toward the reading room, heels hard on the floor, arms jackknifing at her sides. By the time he reached her, she was banging shit around on the table.

“What the f*ck did I do?” he asked, his voice low.

She didn’t answer him as she flung herself onto her chair.