CHAPTER 3. Carter #2
I move with him, straddling his thighs, knees pressed to the cold leather of the back seat. His hands shift lower, cupping my ass. He pulls me tight against him—and that’s when I feel it: the pressure of him, thick and unmistakably hard, straining through our clothes.
Holy shit. Thomas Moore is hard. For me.
The realization hits like a blow to the chest. My brain short-circuits, and all I can think is: this is happening.
This is actually happening. The man I’ve been in love with since before I even understood what love was—wants me.
No fantasy I ever had comes close to the way his body responds to mine.
I can’t help it—I rock against him, chasing the friction. The pressure is perfect, even through all the fabric. Thomas’s eyes flutter shut, and he makes a sound I’ve never heard from him before—half groan, half gasp, wrecked and wanting.
“Carter,” he breathes.
I roll my hips again, slower this time, grinding down against him. We both moan—the sound raw and hungry in the tight space between us. The pressure between us is unmistakable, and suddenly I’m achingly aware of my own cock, straining against my chinos, desperate for contact.
“Fuck,” Thomas groans, his voice rough. His hands tighten on my ass, guiding my rhythm against him. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Carter. So fucking long.”
The words hit like a spark to dry kindling.
I crash my mouth against his, all gentleness gone.
He responds instantly, his tongue pushing past my lips.
The kiss turns messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and panting breath.
I can’t get enough of him—the way he tastes, the rasp of his stubble, the way his chest heaves against mine like he can’t breathe without me.
I roll my hips again, and Thomas groans into my mouth, his grip tightening as he pulls me down harder against him. I can feel him throb beneath me, straining through his pants.
And the fact that I’m the one doing this to him—that composed, controlled Thomas Moore is unraveling under me—sends a rush of heat straight through me.
We move together, finding a rhythm—like we’ve done this a million times. Every roll of my hips, every pull of his hands, every shared moan feels like a conversation we were always meant to have.
“Fuck—” Thomas gasps between kisses. “Is this real? Are you real?”
“I’m real,” I murmur, nipping at his bottom lip.
He groans, hips bucking up to meet mine. The pressure builds—hot, dizzying—but it’s still not enough. My hands move between us, fumbling with his belt. I’m shaking, fingers clumsy with urgency and need.
“Is this okay?” I ask, breath catching. “Do you want—”
“Yes,” he says without missing a beat. “God, yes. Please touch me, Carter.”
My name in his mouth—wrecked and desperate—is all the permission I need. I get his belt open, then the button, then the zipper. He watches my hands, breath shallow, and I can feel the heat coming off him, his whole body thrumming like a live wire.
I slip my hand into his underwear—and then I’m touching him. He’s thick and hard in my hand, silky-hot and already wet at the tip despite the cold.
Thomas lets out a strangled sound, his head dropping back against the seat, throat exposed. I lean in and press my lips to it, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse against my tongue.
“Carter,” he gasps. “I’m not going to last if you—”
I ignore him, too caught up in the feel of him in my hand—the weight, the velvet drag of his skin against my palm. I stroke him once, slow and testing, and his whole body shudders.
I’ve imagined this moment more times than I can count. But nothing compares to the way he actually reacts—the way his breath catches, the sounds he makes, the way his hips jerk up to chase my touch.
It’s addictive.
Suddenly, the backseat feels too cramped. I need more space—need to see him, need to taste him. Before I can second-guess myself, I’m sliding off his lap and onto the floor between his knees. It’s a tight fit, my shoulders wedged between his thighs, my back against the front seats—but I don’t care.
Thomas looks down at me, realization flashing in his eyes. “Carter,” he says again, but this time it sounds like a warning. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I interrupt, already tugging his pants down his hips. “I’ve wanted to forever.”
He lifts his hips to help me, and then his cock is free—thick and perfect.
I wrap my hand around the base, and the way he twitches in my grip makes heat coil low in my belly.
I lean in, keeping my eyes on his, and flick my tongue over the head—getting my first real taste of him.
It’s just clean skin and salt, but it makes me even harder.
His reaction is immediate. His hand flies to my hair, gripping tight like he needs something to hold onto. “Jesus Christ,” he hisses through his teeth. “Carter, fuck…”
The desperation in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I’ve never felt so wanted. So needed.
I take him deeper, sealing my lips around him, tongue tracing the underside as I go. His thighs tense on either side of my shoulders, his breath coming in ragged pants above me.
“Your mouth,” he groans, fingers tightening in my hair. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this. About you. Like this.”
The sight of him nearly undoes me.
Thomas Moore—composed, untouchable Thomas—wrecked and breathless in front of me. His chest rises fast, mouth parted, eyes locked on mine, stunned and hungry. He watches me take him in, gaze heavy with want, drinking in every second.
I hollow my cheeks and suck harder, settling into a rhythm that has him cursing and moaning above me.
His hips start to move—small, restrained thrusts that tell me he’s hanging on by a thread.
I brace my hands on his thighs, feeling the muscles tremble under my palms, and take him even deeper, until he hits the back of my throat.
I swallow around him, and his whole body jerks.
“Stop,” he gasps, hands flying to my shoulders, pushing me back. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”
I pull off with a wet sound, lips tingling, and glance up at him. I let out a low chuckle. “Isn’t that the point?” My voice is hoarse, and there’s something deeply satisfying about that.
Thomas shakes his head, chest heaving. “Not yet. I’m not coming that fast the first time I get to be with you.”
The desperation in his voice knocks the breath out of me. Before I can respond, he’s hauling me up, back into the seat beside him. His hands are already at my belt, just as frantic as mine were earlier.
“I need to touch you,” he says, and there’s a rough edge to his voice I’ve never heard before. “See you.”
I just nod and lift my hips, helping him slide my chinos down my thighs and off. The car is cold, but I barely register it—every nerve in my body tuned to the way Thomas is looking at me, like I’m something he’s been starving for.
When his hand wraps around me, I almost lose it. After years of wanting—of imagining this exact moment—the reality is almost too much. I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in, trying to hold on.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear as his hand strokes me slow. “So perfect. I can’t believe we waited this long.”
“My fault,” I gasp, hips jolting into his grip. “Should’ve jumped you years ago.”
Thomas laughs, the sound vibrating through my lips where they press against his throat. “My fault,” he says—and he’s not joking like I am. “So much wasted time.”
“We're going to make up for it,” I promise, reaching for him again, wrapping my fingers around his cock.
We stroke each other in tandem, finding a rhythm that has us both panting. It’s awkward and perfect—our wrists bumping, bodies too close in the cramped backseat.
His free hand cups my face, tilting it up for a kiss that’s surprisingly gentle in the middle of all this desperate need.
“I love you,” he whispers against my lips. “I’ve always loved you.”
The words push me dangerously close to the edge. I stroke him faster, using the slick of his pre-come to ease the glide, knowing it’ll ruin him.
“I love you too,” I manage, though it comes out strangled and breathless.
His rhythm falters, his hand tightening around me. “Carter,” he gasps. “I’m close.”
The warning cuts through the fog in my brain. As much as I want this—want to see him come—I suddenly realize we could have so much more.
I pull back slightly, breath ragged, and meet his questioning gaze.
“Wait,” I pant, trying to collect myself even as every part of me screams not to stop. “I—uh—I have condoms. And lube. In the car.”
Thomas’s hand stills. “You do?”
I nod, face heating despite everything we’ve already done. “Glove compartment.”
“Get them,” he says, voice rough. “Please.”
Untangling myself is a mess—my pants half-down, limbs uncooperative in the tight space—but I manage to twist between the front seats, nearly taking out the gearshift with my knee. The car’s still freezing, but I’m burning, every inch of skin flushed with leftover heat from his hands.
I pop open the glove compartment and dig past receipts and old insurance cards until my fingers close around a small bottle and a strip of foil packets—Logan gave them to me before a Grinder date a few months back, “just in case.” I didn’t end up needing them. The guy was a total douchebag.
When I turn back, the sight of Thomas waiting in the backseat knocks the breath from my lungs.
His pants are gone, sweater shoved up to reveal a strip of stomach. His cock rests hard against it, his hair a mess from my hands, lips swollen from our kisses, eyes dark with want. He looks completely wrecked—and knowing I did that makes me dizzy.
“Come here,” he says, reaching for me.
I clamber into the seat with all the grace of a baby giraffe, but Thomas doesn’t seem to care. He pulls me into his lap, his hands finding my ass and squeezing, needing the contact. I groan.