A Pound of Flesh (A Pound of Flesh #1)(72)

“I just don’t buy the whole Sex is like heaven and I’m surrounded by cherubs while I’m getting off thing,” he said finally.

Kat shifted on the denim jacket at his words. She had to keep reminding herself that Carter spoke freely when it came to sex.

Carter propped himself up on his forearm. “Sex is just sex. It’s two people wanting the same thing and doing what needs to be done,” he muttered with a shrug. “It’s raw, hard, and, I don’t know, I mean, for me”—he pointed to himself—“When I’m in bed with a woman …”

His words came to a grinding halt. He looked away.

“Carter?”

“What?” he murmured, playing with the grass he was sitting on.

“You were saying?” Kat encouraged with a dip of her head, trying to catch his eye.

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t get it, so whatever.” He pulled the grass out with his fist.

*

Carter couldn’t believe his mouth had run away with him like that. Speaking to his Peaches about his being with other women was just … weird. He didn’t feel embarrassed or ashamed but more uncomfortable with her knowing. Which, considering his reputation, was f*cking absurd. She was bound to assume his sexual record was about as clean as his criminal one, yet he still couldn’t find the words to talk to her about his past sexual exploits.

Regardless of whether she wanted to know or not, he wasn’t about to tell her, just as he was sure as shit not going to ask her about the guys she’d been with. His fists tightened at the mere thought.

“You know,” she said, pulling her hair off her shoulders and pushing it up into a messy bun, “I could kill for a popsicle.”

Carter, who’d been watching her play with her hair, nodded. Talking about sex was doing nothing for his attempts at being a gentleman. His gaze meandered across her body. The curve of her neck as it met her shoulders just ached for his mouth along it. He had no doubt in his mind she would be delicious.

“What can I get you?” She pushed her shades up into her hair.

“I’ll have a popsicle, too.” He reached into his back pocket. “Here.” He pulled out a ten-dollar bill. “Let me get it.”

She looked at the money and raised an eyebrow. “Why do you have to pay?”

Carter smiled. “Because I want to. Now get off your feminist high horse and take the f*cking money. I owe you for the Oreos anyway.”

With a small smile, Peaches took the bill. “Fine. What flavor do you want?”

Carter reached for his shades and pulled them down his nose, leaning toward her. He stared right at her and whispered, “Peach.”

Once purchased, and with her own raspberry ice, she sank back onto the grass next to Carter, who was lounging on his back. They were silent as they enjoyed the blue sky, the warm breeze, and the cold flavored ice.

“This is nice,” she murmured after a moment.

Carter didn’t reply but licked the remaining juice off the wooden stick in his hand.

She sighed. “I used to come and sit here with my mom and dad when we stayed in New York. We’d play hide and seek and he would always pretend he couldn’t find me, even when I knew he could see me.” Peaches closed her eyes. “He liked sitting here,” she continued. “He liked it in the fall. The leaves would surround us and we’d just sit here.”

“My dad and I would play here, too,” he offered. Her eyes snapped open, clearly surprised at his divulging personal information.

Avoiding her gaze, Carter trailed his finger slowly along the strands of her chestnut-red hair lying on the grass. “We’d play by the pond before we would start on the statue.” He gestured with a tip of his head in the direction of the bronze structure covered in small children. He kept his eyes on his finger. “And my mom would …” He exhaled. “My mom would come and take me. It was a passing-off point. Neutral ground for them.”