Chapter 7
Lennox
We barely make it through Carter's apartment door before we're on each other again, because there is one thing I can say, Carter knows how to make a girl go weak in the knees with his lips.
He pushes me against the wall, his mouth finding mine with a desperation that matches my own. I drop my bag, my hands already working on the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his skin.
"Are you sure?" he asks between kisses, his hands gripping my hips. "Because once we do this—"
"I'm sure. Stop talking."
I pull him back to me, and he groans against my mouth. His hands slide under my shirt, rough and warm against my stomach, and I arch into his touch.
"Bedroom," I manage.
"Too far."
He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the couch. We fall onto it in a tangle of limbs and desperation, months of tension finally breaking.
His shirt comes off first, I've been fantasizing about what he looks like shirtless since that first practice observation, and reality exceeds expectations. He's all muscle and sharp lines, a few scars from years of hockey visible against his skin.
I trace one with my finger. "Where's this from?"
"High-sticked sophomore year. Needed twelve stitches." He's working on my shirt now, pulling it over my head. "Stop distracting me."
"Make me."
He does, with his mouth on my neck, my collarbone, the edge of my bra. I'm gasping, my hands in his hair, pulling him closer.
"Lennox." My name sounds wrecked coming from him. "I've wanted this for so long."
"How long?"
"Since you walked into that first interview looking ready to destroy me." He pulls back to look at me. "You were so fierce. So certain. I wanted to hate you and I couldn't."
"I wanted to hate you too." I pull him back down. "Shut up and kiss me."
We're both fumbling with remaining clothes, desperate and clumsy and perfect. When we're finally skin to skin, he pauses.
"I don't have—we need—"
"Wallet pocket of my bag. Side zipper."
He stares at me. "You came prepared?"
"I'm a journalist. I'm always prepared." I joke.
He laughs, actually laughs and retrieves the condom from my bag. "Okay, that's the hottest thing anyone's ever said to me."
"Just wait."
What follows is intense and raw and nothing like I expected.
Carter's not gentle, I don't want gentle, but he's attentive.
Paying attention to every sound I make, every response, learning what I like with the same focus he brings to everything else.
His fingers touch every part of my body, and then my back arches off the couch.
"Here?" His hand finds exactly the right spot.
"Yes. God, yes. Don't stop."
"Not planning on it."
When we finally come together, it's overwhelming. He's big and I need a moment to adjust, but then…
"Fuck," he breathes. "You feel incredible."
"Move. Please move."
He does, and it's perfect. Hard and fast and desperate. His hands grip my hips, leaving marks I'll feel tomorrow. My nails rake down his back, and he hisses but doesn't stop.
"Lennox." He's close, I can tell. "I need you to—"
"I'm there. Right there."
His hand moves between us, finding exactly where we're joined, and that's all it takes. I come hard, his name on my lips, and he follows seconds later with a groan that sounds like surrender.
We collapse together on the couch, sweaty and breathing hard and completely wrecked.
"Holy shit," I manage after my brain starts working again.
"Yeah." He's still inside me, his face buried in my neck. "That was..."
"Really good?"
"Understatement."
We stay like that for a long moment, neither of us wanting to move. Finally, he pulls out carefully and deals with the condom, then pulls me back against him.
"So," he says eventually. "We just had sex."
"Excellent observation skills."
"On my couch."
"Also accurate."
"While you're supposed to be writing an objective article about me."
I turn to face him. "Are you having post-sex regret?"
"No. Absolutely not. I'm having post-sex 'how the fuck do we navigate this' thoughts."
"We figure it out. Together." I trace patterns on his chest. "I'm still writing the article, but I'll be fair. Honest about what I've seen, what's changed."
"And us?"
"We keep it quiet until after the series publishes. Then..." I hesitate. "Then we figure out if this is something real or just built-up tension."
He pulls me closer. "It's real. At least for me."
"For me too."
We kiss again, softer this time. Sweet instead of desperate.
"Stay tonight?" he asks.
"I have an early shift—"
"I'll drive you. Stay. Please."
I should go home. Should create distance. Should do a hundred responsible things.
Instead, I get on top of him, leaning into kiss him, and whisper the word yes, and the moment I do he’s pulling me closer, deepening the kiss.
***
I wake up in Carter's bed, sunlight streaming through the windows. His alarm is going off somewhere, and he groans, reaching past me to silence it.
"Morning," I mumble.
"Morning." He kisses my shoulder. "You snore."
"I do not."
"Just a little. It's cute." I feel his lips curl into a smile, which makes me smile.
I turn to face him. He looks different in the morning light, softer, younger, more vulnerable than the captain persona he wears.
"What time is it?"
"Six. I have a team meeting at seven." He traces my face with his finger. "But I have a few minutes."
"Just a few minutes?"
"We could make them count." I laugh, because we spent most of the night making every minute count.
Morning sex is slower, quieter, but no less intense. He takes his time, mapping my body like he's memorizing it, and when we both finally come, it's with whispered names and tangled hands.
After, in his shower that's barely big enough for one person let alone two, he washes my hair with surprising gentleness.
"You're good at this," I observe.
"At what? Shower sex?"
"At being... soft. Caring. It's different from your captain persona."
"That's the performance. This is real." He rinses soap from my hair. "With you, I don't have to perform."
The words settle in my chest, warm and terrifying.
"Carter—"
"I know. Too much, too fast. But I'm done pretending I don't feel things." He turns off the water. "Now come on. I need to get you to your shift and still make my meeting."
He drives me to the café, and it's surprisingly domestic, him in his practice gear, me in yesterday's clothes, coffee in travel mugs, morning radio playing softly.
"This is weird," I say.
"Good weird or bad weird?"
"Good weird. Scary weird." I reply not sure what to really say to him.
He parks outside the café and turns to face me. "Tonight. After the game. Come over."
"Your father will be at the game."
"Which is why I'll need you after." He kisses me quickly. "Please."
"Okay. After the game." I get out and watch him drive away, my heart doing complicated things in my chest.
Isla takes one look at me when I walk in and smirks.
"Walk of shame?"
"Walk of no shame. There's a difference."
"You slept with him." She points at me, and her mouth open in shock.
"I'm not discussing this here—"
"You totally slept with him. Was it good?"
"Isla—"
"It was good. I can tell by your face. You have that freshly-fucked glow."
I throw a dish towel at her.
But she's not wrong. I do feel different. Lighter. Like something that was wound too tight finally loosened.
"Just be careful," Isla says more seriously. "I know what it's like to fall for someone complicated. It's wonderful and terrifying and—"
"I'm not falling for him."
"Lennox. You spent the night. That's falling."
Maybe she's right. Maybe I am falling and maybe that's exactly what I need to do.