I could give him space to recover, to process, to settle back into that nervous, sweet, innocent version of himself that’s been unraveling beneath me for the last few minutes. But I don’t want that. Judging by the way his body is reacting to me, the way his fingers keep flexing against my waist, like he wants to grab hold and take control but doesn’t know how, neither does he. So I lean in, dragging my lips along his jaw, slow and deliberate, feeling the heat rolling off his skin, feeling the way his chest rises too fast, like he’s barely holding onto himself.

I keep my voice low, teasing, knowing exactly what it’ll do to him, I murmur, “Do you want to feel how soaking wet you’ve made me?”

Carter sucks in a sharp breath so hard I think he might actually choke on it. His grip on me tightens instantly, his body jerking beneath mine, his head snapping forward like he needs to see my face, like he needs to know I really just said that.

I reach over, shutting the lamp off, the soft glow of the TV now the only thing illuminating the space between us.

Carter’s eyes widen in the dim light, his breath heavy, his pulse thrumming visibly beneath the skin of his throat, his hands still clutching me like he has no idea what to do with them. So I help him. I reach for the hem of his shirt, dragging it up, slow, letting my fingers graze over his skin as I peel it over his head, letting myself take in the heat of him, the broad expanse of his chest, the way every single inch of him is so goddamn firm beneath my hands. And Jesus fucking Christ. He is so much hotter than I expected.

Every inch of him is muscle and heat, tension coiled beneath his skin, his shoulders strong, his chest defined, his stomach lined with tight, solid ridges.

And I can’t stop staring. Because I knew Carter was built, I could see the way his shirts stretched over his arms, the way his hoodies fit snug against his frame, but this?

My nails drag lightly across his stomach, and he shudders, his hands twitching on my hips like he’s about to completely lose his fucking mind. And I want him to. I want him desperate. I want him ruined. And now, I’m going to make sure he gets there.

His hands are still gripping my waist, his body tense beneath mine, his muscles locked up like he’s terrified of making the wrong move. I guide his hands higher, over my ribs, over my stomach, letting him feel the warmth of my skin, the way I’m practically burning up for him. “Touch me, Carter.”

His breath stutters, his fingers twitching, his whole body locking up again.