So I push him a little more. I drag my nails up the back of his neck, threading my fingers into his hair, tugging slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch, just enough to make his hands tighten on me.

And then, because I want to hear him say it, I whisper against his throat, “You don’t feel guilty about this, do you?”

His whole body reacts instantly. A sharp inhale, his muscles flexing, his grip tightening on me so fast that I can barely process the way his hands clench against my waist. But he doesn’t answer. Not in those few brief moments. Not until I shift, rolling my hips again, pressing myself closer, testing, teasing, waiting for him to break.

“Fuck, Haven.”

The words are barely a breath, rough and strangled, full of something that sounds like a warning but feels like surrender. I pull back just enough to look at him, to watch the way his chest rises and falls too fast, to see the way his jaw is clenched so tight I can practically feel the tension radiating off him. “Carter.”

His eyes snap to mine instantly, desperate, like he’s looking for an escape but already knows he’s too far gone to take it.

I drag my fingers back down his chest, slow and deliberate, my touch barely there but enough to make his breath catch again. “Tell me.”

His throat bobs, his fingers twitch against my waist, his entire body pulled tight like a wire about to snap. He finally gives me what I want. “No.”

I feel the word like a jolt straight to my chest. But he’s not done. His grip tightens, his body trembling beneath mine, his breath rough and uneven as he shakes his head. “I don’t feel guilty,” he murmurs, almost like he’s admitting it to himself more than to me. “Not even a little.”

The confession hits me in a way I wasn’t expecting. Because sweet, careful, overthinking Carter has spent so much time convincing himself that wanting me was something he had to keep buried, something that wasn’t supposed to happen, something that came with consequences. Now he’s admitting that he doesn’t care.

That this—me, us, whatever the hell this is, is something he wants, something he’s letting himself want, something he’s not going to keep running from.

I bite my lip, watching the way his hands flex against my waist, the way his gaze bounces between my mouth and my eyes, like he’s still trying to hold onto the last shred of control he has left. And I think about giving it back to him. I shift again, just a little, just enough to make his breath catch one more time, just enough to see how much further I can push him.

18

Carter

I am fucking losing it.