Chapter 33 Willow
Willow
The first thing I register is warmth. Not my blankets or the cocoon of my bed, but him. A heavy arm draped over my waist, the steady rise and fall of his chest behind me, the solid heat of his body pressed along my back.
And then the second thing hits me, an ache between my thighs. A slow, pulsing reminder of exactly what we did last night. My stomach clenches.
I blink my eyes open, staring at the faint glow of morning filtering through my curtains. I can feel him before I even have to look. Carson. Still here. Still in my bed.
I stay frozen for a moment, my brain short-circuiting between what the fuck did I do and I should do it again.
But then the panic kicks in. This was a mistake. A huge mistake. I don’t do this. I don’t wake up tangled with someone. I don’t stay for slow mornings and pillow talk. I fuck, I leave, I move on.
This is dangerous. The last guy I did a morning with shattered me. And I don’t think I’m healed yet.
I carefully peel back the blanket, trying to shift his arm without waking him. He lets out a soft grunt but doesn’t move. Good. I slide one leg free, then the other, sitting up slowly, reaching for my clothes on the floor.
“Are you seriously sneaking out of your own bedroom?” he asks—too amused for this early in the morning.
I freeze, my fingers curling around my tank top.
Shit.
Slowly, I glance over my shoulder, and sure enough—he’s awake, cracked-open hazel eyes gleaming with amusement as he props himself up on an elbow, his smirk way too smug for my sanity.
“I—” I snap my mouth shut, heat creeping up my neck. That’s exactly what I was doing.
He grins wider. “Gotta say, peaches, this is a first. Thought I was the one who was supposed to sneak out before morning.”
I huff, yanking my tank top over my head. “I wasn’t sneaking.”
His brow arches, totally unconvinced. “Mm-hmm.”
I scowl, crossing my arms. “I was just getting dressed.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “And avoiding looking at me while you did it?”
“I was not—”
“Oh, you totally were.” His grin is all teeth now, downright cocky as he shifts, the blanket slipping lower on his hips.
I hate that my gaze immediately dips down. Hate even more that last night comes flashing back in a rush—his hands on my body, his mouth, the way he fucking destroyed me.
I snap my head back up. “I need coffee.”
Carson chuckles as I shove my shorts on and practically stomp toward the kitchen. His voice follows me, teasing and far too satisfied.
“You’re welcome for the orgasms, by the way.”
I flip him off without looking back.
And fuck—I can still hear his laughter.
The second I step into the kitchen, I pull in a deep breath and straighten my spine. I am fine. This is fine. No big deal.
I move on. I don’t get attached. Last night was just—
Carson fucking me into next week and making me forget my own name.
I groan under my breath and yank open the cabinet for a coffee mug. Twisting around, I find him behind me.
My pulse kicks, hands tightening on the mug as I force myself to ignore him. Easier said than done when he’s right there—radiating heat, every inch the kind of morning-after fantasy I should never admit I want.
Jeans hang low, button undone, gravity the only thing keeping them on him. His chest is bare, golden skin stretched over muscle, shoulders rolling as he cracks his neck, casual as hell, owning the space without even trying.
Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
I school my face, turn back to the machine, press the button, sip coffee. Pretend I don’t feel every move he makes. Pretend my body isn’t buzzing. Pretend my scent isn’t giving me away.
He props a hip against the counter, smirk already carved into place, cocky amusement rolling off him. Eyes steady on me, sharp, knowing. He doesn’t need to say a word—I can already feel him laughing at the show I’m putting on.
I refuse to meet his gaze, focusing instead on the coffee as it drips into my mug.
“You sure you weren’t sneaking out?” His voice is thick with amusement, a low rasp that curls down my spine.
I scoff, giving him a side-eye. “I live here.”
He lifts a brow, tilting his head. “That didn’t stop you from trying.”
I roll my eyes and grab the sugar, dumping a scoop into my cup before reaching for the creamer.
Carson moves.
Quick. Smooth. Effortless.
Suddenly, I’m caged in, his arm braced on the counter beside me, his bare chest just there behind me, his body pressing the faintest bit into mine. I go still, my breath catching in my throat.
He reaches past me—so damn close his scent wraps around me, warm and rich, hot cocoa and whiskey, something dangerous and delicious all at once—and grabs a glass from the cabinet above my head.
The bastard.
My fingers clamp around my mug, heart pounding, heat flooding me in a way that has nothing to do with coffee. And then, just as easily, he moves back—like he didn’t just steal every damn thought from my head, flip my stomach inside out, leave me raw and buzzing.
He turns to the sink, fills a glass, drinks. Ignores me.
I should be relieved. I’m not. My chest rises and falls too fast, my grip strangling the mug, thighs pressing tight as slick gathers, shameless and needy.
Carson takes a slow sip, eyes cutting to me over the rim, smirk curling.
Smug. Arrogant. Asshole.
I scowl, wrenching my gaze away before I do something reckless—before I let him pin me against the counter again and find out just how far he’ll take it.
“I hate you,” I mutter, taking a long pull of coffee.
Carson chuckles, low and rough. “No, you don’t.”
And he’s right. I don’t.
His smirk sharpens, smug bastard knowing damn well my pulse is racing, my breath shallow, my thighs pressed tight as I lose the fight against the pull between us.
And he’s not finished.
He moves in, slow and deliberate, crowding my space. His glass of water sits forgotten on the counter as his arms cage me in, hands braced on either side. Trapping me.
Heat floods me, thick and intoxicating, only worsening when he dips his head, lips grazing the shell of my ear.
“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he murmurs, teasing, taunting.
I swallow hard, clutching my mug like it’s the only thing tethering me. “Thinking about what?”
His lips curve against my skin. “Last night.”
A full-body shiver rolls through me, and I hate how easy it is for him to get this kind of reaction from me. His fingers ghost down my arm, barely touching, but enough to make me ache for more. He wraps his fingers around my coffee mug, easily taking it from me, and places it to the side.
“The way you fell apart for me…” he murmurs, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of my throat. “The way you sounded as I gave you orgasms. How your body gripped me tight, unwilling to let me go.”
A strangled sound tears from my throat, and I can’t fight it—I turn into him, moth to flame, reckless and starving. His lips are right there, and I don’t think. I can’t. I grab his face and crash my mouth to his, the kiss desperate and hot and everything I’ve been denying.
He groans against me, hands snapping to my waist, grip bruising as he drags me flush against him. Solid heat, hard in all the right places.
I moan, tilting my head, giving him more, giving him everything. Letting him devour me, letting him own the kiss, own me. And maybe he has been waiting for this, maybe I have too—fuck, I don’t care anymore.
I don’t care about the fact that this is stupid. That we probably shouldn’t be doing this. That there are other people who have a key to this apartment and could walk in at any second.
I just care about this. About him. About the way his hands slide up my body, about the way his mouth moves against mine, demanding, devouring.
His tongue brushes against mine, and I whimper, my knees going weak as heat pools low in my belly.
Carson growls, gripping my ass and lifting me onto the counter, stepping between my legs, pressing himself exactly where I need him most.
I need more.
My fingers fist in his hair, tugging, and he groans, pulling back just enough to bite at my bottom lip. I moan into his mouth.
“Peaches,” he rasps, his forehead resting against mine, his breath hot and uneven. “Tell me to stop.”
I can’t.
I don’t want to.
I shake my head, my lips brushing against his. “No.”
He grins, that sinful, cocky smirk that does things to me, and then he’s kissing me again, his hands roaming, his body pressing into mine in a way that makes my head spin.
And that’s when it happens. The apartment door swings open. And everything comes crashing down.
Carson rips himself away from me, spinning just in time to see Graham and Hunter step inside. The tension that immediately settles into the room could level a fucking city.
They don’t say a word.
They don’t need to.
Their eyes say it all.
Hunter’s jaw is locked so tight I’m surprised his teeth don’t crack.
His nostrils flare as he takes in the scene—me still perched on the counter, breathless, flushed, lips swollen, Carson standing way too close, his jeans still unbuttoned.
Our combined scent is heavy with lust and desire in the air.
Graham, on the other hand, looks two seconds from murder. His gaze cuts from me to Carson, sharp and cold, assessing, calculating, fury simmering under the surface.
I swallow, forcing myself to slide off the counter, straightening my clothes, trying to pretend I wasn’t just seconds away from letting Carson fuck me right here in the kitchen.
“I—” My voice catches, so I clear my throat and try again. “I’m going to get changed.”
Silence.
Thick. Heavy. Unforgiving.
And I can feel their eyes on me as I flee, disappearing down the hall, locking myself in my bedroom before my knees buckle and I have to face what the hell just happened.
I lean against the door, my heart hammering against my ribs, my breath uneven.
I press my ear to the door, breath shallow, their voices bleeding through—low, angry, knives slicing the thick silence apart.
“You fucking crossed the line,” Graham growls. “We talked about this. The last thing we needed was to get involved.”
Carson’s chuckle is dark and amused. “Yeah? And how’s that working out for you, G? Because last time I checked, we’re all involved.”
A thud, followed by a sharp grunt. Someone got shoved or punched.
Hunter’s voice is low when he speaks. “She’s been hurt, Carson. You should have fucking said no.”
Carson laughs—an actual, full-bodied, bitter laugh.
“Oh yeah? And you would’ve said no? If she came to you—wearing next to nothing, looking at you as if you were the only thing in the goddamn world?
If she pulled you into her bed, whispered your name the way she did mine?
” He snorts. “Tell me you would’ve said no, Hunter. Fucking lie to me.”
Silence answers him.
A beat of pure tension.
I swallow hard, fingers locked tight around the doorknob, my pulse slamming against my ribs.
God, I’m pathetic. I pushed for this, begged for it, cornered him until there was no way to say no.
And now? I’m hiding. Cowering in my room like some brat who got caught breaking the rules—furious at myself for wanting it, hating myself for being too scared to face it.
Carson exhales roughly. “I don’t regret a single second of it. Not one. And I won’t apologize for it.”
Graham’s response is clipped, a loud inhale through his nose, attempting to stay calm. “It’s not about regret, Carson. It’s about control. If we lose it, if we—” A pause. A growl. “We are supposed to protect her.”
“She’s not some fragile little thing,” Carson snaps. “She wanted this. And I wasn’t about to push her away when every part of me has been dying to touch her since the day we fucking met.”
“And if she wakes up tomorrow and realizes she made a mistake?” Hunter asks.
Carson doesn’t answer right away. And I’m waiting for him to tell them I woke up regretting it. But he says, “Then I’ll deal with it.”
The silence that follows is too much—too thick, too suffocating, too charged with everything they aren’t saying. I back away from the door, my heart pounding.
This just got a whole lot more complicated. I can’t pretend Carson was a one-night stand. Not after this. I seriously didn’t think this through.