18. Carter
18
Carter
I am fucking losing it.
Haven is still in my lap, her weight pressing down in a way that is making it impossible to think, her fingers still tracing over my skin like she’s enjoying watching me completely come undone beneath her. I am, I’m so gone for her it’s pathetic. This is a moment I’ve thought about, dreamed about, replayed in my head over and over again for the past year, imagining what it would feel like to have her this close, to feel the heat of her body against mine, to hear her say my name like that, soft and teasing, like she already knows exactly how to ruin me.
I don’t know how the fuck to handle it. Her hands are everywhere, moving over my chest, pressing into my shoulders, testing, exploring, like she’s still figuring me out, like she’s trying to learn exactly how I react to her.
And, God, my body is betraying me in ways I can’t even pretend to control anymore. Pressure building so fast I feel like I can’t breathe, every single muscle in my body locked up as I try to keep my composure. But it’s not working. It’s so not fucking working. I shift under her, gritting my teeth, barely swallowing down a groan as I feel the way she settles against me, the way she presses down just a little more. Yeah. She definitely notices what’s happening to me right now.
I’m so hard it hurts. Every part of me is screaming for more. More weight, more friction, more of her. The fabric between us is the only thing saving either of us from seeing just how far gone I am.
Fuck. I should be embarrassed, maybe? I think? Fuck, I don’t know.
Haven moves again, shifts just enough to drag over me, and I realize with absolute, undeniable clarity I’m so fucking screwed. I drop my head back against the couch, sucking in a sharp breath, my hands clenching and unclenching where they rest against her waist, because I know if I touch her right now, I’m not going to be able to stop. I am so far past the point of being okay, so far past the point of rational thought, so far past the point of pretending that my body isn’t already reacting to every single move she’s making. And just when I think it cannot possibly get any worse…
A mocking bitter laugh rings from the other side of the room. Fucking kill me.
My entire body goes rigid, every muscle locking up as I squeeze my eyes shut, already knowing exactly who the hell that is before I even look.
No. No, no, no, not right now. I feel Haven stiffen against me, her body going tight, her breath catching, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
And then, because my life is actually a goddamn joke— “Well, well, well,” Tate smirks from the doorway, sounding way too fucking pleased with himself. “Look at you, little brother.”
I am going to commit murder. Right after I figure out how the fuck to make this entire moment erase itself from existence. I can’t fucking move. Because if I so much as breathe wrong right now, Tate is going to see exactly how hard I already am, and I will never hear the end of it.
Haven is still sitting in my lap, still pressed against me, if I thought I was losing it before, I am completely done for now.
Tate takes a slow, easy step further into the room, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, expression unreadable except for the sharp gleam of amusement in his eyes. I swear to God, I can already feel him planning every single way he’s going to ruin my life after this. He leans against the doorway, tilting his head, taking his time looking between me and Haven like we’re an interesting puzzle he’s trying to figure out. Then, with a slow smirk, he lets his gaze settle on me and says the one thing that almost makes my soul leave my body. “Didn’t realize you had it in you.”
Heat punches through my chest, up my throat, straight into my face so fast I might actually be on fire, because he knows. He fucking knows. I feel Haven stiffen in my lap, her fingers tightening on my shoulders, and I already know she’s about to say something reckless, something that’s going to make this situation ten times worse, because she never lets Tate get the last word.
But I cannot handle that right now. I cannot handle any of this right now.
I swallow hard, dragging in a sharp breath, gritting my teeth so tight my jaw might actually snap. “Tate.”
I say his name like a warning, like a threat, like I am one second away from absolutely losing my shit if he doesn’t leave. But he just grins wider, like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week.
“Relax, little brother,” he murmurs, pushing off the doorway, stepping closer. “I’m just here to grab something.”
Haven’s head snaps toward him, her expression unreadable, her body still tense against mine. “Then grab it and go.”
Tate lifts a brow, clearly amused by the way she’s trying to act like she’s in control of this situation, like she’s not currently sitting in my lap, like she doesn’t already know exactly how much I am struggling right now.
But then, instead of making it worse, which I know for a fact he absolutely could—he just shrugs, and heads toward the kitchen.
I think, for one brief, fleeting moment, maybe I am going to survive this night. Until, from the kitchen, Tate’s voice drifts back through the room, casual and lazy, like he’s barely even paying attention. “Try not to break him too fast, Haven. Poor guy’s already halfway gone.”
The second Tate’s words hit the air, something inside me snaps.
It’s not the usual annoyance, not the usual brush-it-off-like-it-doesn’t-get-to-me bullshit I’ve let him get away with my entire life. This is fucking different. I know exactly what he’s doing. The constant poking, the smug little comments, the way he always has to be the one in control, the one looking down, the one making me feel like I’m constantly playing catch-up.
I am so fucking done with it, I move beneath Haven, gripping her waist for just a second before I move her off me, carefully but firmly. He’s about to get my full fucking attention. Haven doesn’t protest, doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the way her body tenses, like she knows something just changed, like she can feel the storm that’s about to hit. I push up from the couch, stalking toward the kitchen with purpose.
Tate barely looks up as he takes another sip of water, like he doesn’t have a single care in the world, like he hasn’t just spent the last few minutes making me feel like I was nothing more than his personal fucking entertainment.
That only pisses me off more. I stop just short of him, my shoulders squared, my chest tight, my pulse pounding in my ears as I stare him down, as I finally, finally let him fucking have it. “You think you’re so fucking superior, don’t you?”
Tate lifts a brow, clearly amused, clearly enjoying the fact that I’m finally reacting. “Well, you’re certainly making this fun.”
That’s it. That’s the last fucking straw. I step closer, my voice low, tight, sharp, the words punching out of me before I even have a chance to consider holding them back. “You walk around acting like you’re untouchable, like you’ve got everything figured out, like you’re the fucking king of the world just because you’ve done this before, because you’ve had people fall at your feet, because you know how to play the fucking game.”
Tate watches me, expression unreadable now, the usual amusement dimming just slightly, but I don’t stop. “But here’s the thing, Tate. You don’t have anything I don’t have.” I take another step, my voice lowering. “You don’t have anything I can’t take.”
Something glimmers in his eyes that tells me I just said the exact thing I was supposed to say. Good, because I’m not done. “You’re not better than me.”
I let that sit between us for half a second, let the weight of it settle into the air, let the truth of it press into his ribs the way he’s been pressing into mine for my entire fucking life. “And if you think you are, you better be ready to prove it.”
Tate finally sets his glass down. When he looks at me again, his smirk is gone. He leans against the counter, fingers tapping against the glass he just set down, his eyes boring into me with that same fucking look, the one that says he thinks he’s already won, the one that says he’s waiting for me to crack.
Not this time. I hold his gaze, breathing sharp and even, my muscles still locked up with the weight of everything I just threw at him, waiting for him to take his hit back. Of course, he does. His smirk comes back, like he’s not even trying.
Then just to twist the knife, just to make sure I’m already halfway to losing my mind before he even says it, he tilts his head toward the couch, where Haven is still sitting, her body tense, her hands curled into fists against her thighs, watching us.
And then in the lowest, most self-satisfied voice I’ve ever fucking heard from him he says it. “You sure about that, little brother?”
I don’t respond. I already know whatever he says next is going to make me absolutely fucking lose it. A slow, wicked smirk, the one designed to make me snap, one that’s already working, he adds, “Because I’m willing to bet I’d be better at making her fall apart. Better at making her scream my name. Better at making her take my dick and beg for more.”
The world fucking explodes. My vision goes white-hot, my pulse roaring, slamming into my chest so fast I don’t have time to second-guess it before the words are coming out of my mouth. “Want to bet?”
The second it’s out, the room shifts. Tate’s smirk doesn’t falter, but his eyes flash, something that tells me I just gave him exactly what he wanted. But I don’t fucking care. Because fuck him. He wanted a reaction? He got one.
Haven is still watching from the couch, wide-eyed, breath caught in her throat, fingers tightening against the fabric like she doesn’t know if she should let this completely derail. Her eyes dart between us, color spreading on her cheeks, her chest rising and falling just a little too fast, and I swear to god, the fact that she isn’t telling me to stop only makes the fire in my veins burn hotter.
Tate isn’t smirking anymore. Not the usual cocky, I’ve-got-you-right-where-I-want-you bullshit grin he always throws my way. Not the taunting, smug amusement he wears every time he knows he’s gotten under my skin.
It’s subtle, barely there, just a glint of something unreadable behind his dark eyes, just a half-second hesitation before he tilts his head slightly, processing, trying to figure out if I really just said what he thinks I said.
The second I realize that I actually managed to shake him even just a little, I almost want to double down. Tate’s gaze wanders over me, trying to decide if I just lost my entire goddamn mind, or if I really meant what I just threw at him.
His lips part like he’s about to say something, maybe to call me out, maybe to throw another dig, maybe just to push this moment into something even worse than it already is, but then he hesitates. Like he’s not sure.
He lets out a slow breath, sharp but quiet, then tilts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at me like he’s still trying to figure out if I actually just fucking challenged him. And then, finally, voice lower now, slower, he repeats my words right back to me. “You want to bet?”
I don’t fucking breathe, I don’t know what happens if I answer him. And because I don’t know what happens if I don’t. I’ve spent my whole life feeling like I was just one step behind him. And I don’t fucking answer. I think we both already know the answer to that question. Tate doesn’t say anything else. No comeback. No smug response. No final dig to put me back in my place.
He just watches me for a second longer, like he’s making some decision in real time, like he’s recalculating something, like I just did something that changed the entire goddamn game. Then, without another word, without so much as a glance back at me, he moves. He walks past me, past Haven, but as he reaches the edge of the couch, he stops.
Pauses. And then, just loud enough to make sure we both hear it, he speaks. “Don’t let him have everything just yet.”
Haven sucks in a sharp breath, her whole body tensing beside me, and I don’t dare move, don’t dare react, don’t dare do a single goddamn thing as Tate lets the words settle between us. And then, just as easily as he said it, he keeps walking. Doesn’t give me the chance to respond. Doesn’t let me process the full weight of what he just implied before he’s already halfway up the stairs, disappearing into his room like he didn’t just set off a goddamn bomb in mine. I don’t move.
Haven doesn’t either. For a full, stretched-out moment, we just sit there, completely still, completely silent, completely drowning in whatever the fuck that was. And because my body still hasn’t caught up with my brain, because I don’t know what else to do, because I am actively malfunctioning in real time, I drop back onto the couch beside Haven, my elbows resting on my knees, my fingers raking through my hair. And, completely breathless, completely wrecked, completely unable to wrap my head around any of it, I finally say the only thing I can manage. “What the actual fuck just happened?”
Haven doesn’t answer. Because I don’t think she knows either.