Carve Me Free (Carve #2)

Prologue

Playlist:

Barns Courtney: Champion

Pink: Just Like Fire

NICO

She looked at me like I was vermin, and for some perverted reason, it only fired me up. That’s how we first met, at that wild party in France, long before tonight.

Her sweet perfume, that tilted head, and the way she studied me—like a child inspecting a strange bug. When she smiled, I felt ready for her to take me apart, wings first if she wanted.

Then her bull of a boyfriend ordered me to fuck off and dismissed me like an insolent puppy.

Now she’s here, pretending we’ve never met. She’s nothing like the glittering, posh creature from that night, just a woman in plain jeans and a buttoned-up shirt. But I know it’s her. I recognize that round, defiant chin and the way her mouth curves when she’s about to lie.

“You lost?”

Not my best pick-up line, but I’m too drunk to think of something clever.

She looks around the hall, unsure which door she entered or if she'll be sent back out.

The place is calm. A couple of Norwegians hunch over a foosball table. A muted TV in the corner lists tomorrow’s events, its captions promising dramatic snow conditions nobody believes.

The lighting glows warm, pooling softly over the room.

There’s the hum of the beer fridge, steady and expected.

And her.

Standing there like she had accidentally landed on the wrong planet. She tightens her grip on the strap of her purse, eyes flicking across the room, the tables, the athletes, the staff badges, the Olympic signs, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly.

“Oh,” she says in flawless English with a barely noticeable French accent. “I thought this was the… café?”

“It sort of is,” I say. “A café. A bar. A place to make questionable decisions.”

She narrows her eyes slightly, just a hint of the cold, arrogant look I remember that still haunts me. But it is only for a split second before she shoots me a charming smile that could melt a glacier. I feel like melting, too.

“So this is how you got in.” I blink.

“Got where?”

“Here. To the so-called café you are not supposed to be in.”

“I am a reporter.” She shrugs and pats the journalist badge hanging around her neck.

I lean forward, reaching out to take the badge and examine the laminated plastic between my fingers.

“This… is you?” I raise my eyebrows, showing her the photo on the badge. It shows a dark-haired harpy with a nose like Severus Snape.

“Old photo,” she snaps, snatching it back.

I take a sip of my beer, watching her over the rim.

She’s jittery.

Not scared, rather restless.

Like she’s been holding her breath for days and hasn’t realized she could inhale again.

“We’ve met,” I say flatly.

She exhales through her nose. Quiet. Controlled.

A perfect aristocratic non-reaction. Yeah, that’s the girl I remember.

“You are mistaken,” she says, her smile pleasant, her eyes shooting knives.

“Oh, common, my lady, drop the act.”

“What act?”

“That I didn’t meet you in Val d’Isère. That you didn’t glare at me like I insulted your entire bloodline. I guess it must’ve been some other woman wearing that exact expression while her boyfriend tried to break my legs.”

“You’re drunk,” she says finally. “And just because I’m French, you mistake me for some woman you met in France.”

“I am tipsy,” I correct. “And what says you’re French?”

“My accent.”

Her eyes are cold and deadly. Still, there’s something that stirs my blood, the spark I glimpsed at the party—a glint of curiosity. She inspects me like a child eyeing mysterious candy. The fact that I’m the candy nearly undoes me.

Then she blinks, and the moment is gone.

“I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”

There it is: the lie.

Neat, precise, delivered like she’s trained for it. And maybe she was. Whatever she is doing here now, she is not a journalist; she does not belong here. She belonged at that posh party with glittery French people sipping champagne and talking diplomatic bullshit with people they despise.

“Okay,” I say. “Must’ve been some other French woman with your exact face and your exact voice and your exact—”

I stop myself, but my eyes linger on her chest. She quickly buttons her shirt, fingers fumbling a bit, as if aware of my gaze. The fabric clings softly, unable to conceal the treasure beneath.

She arches a brow. I have stepped into dangerous territory. Good.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” she says.

“I’m a ski racer. We’re built on delusion.”

Her mouth twitches, and with that, the facade cracks.

She turns away like she needs a second to compose her molecules, then glances toward the glass doors leading to the snowy balcony — the only place in the room where nobody’s paying attention.

“Should I leave?” she asks, voice low. Not timid. Careful.

I shrug. “Depends. Are you actually lost?”

She hesitates and looks up at me. Her eyes wide. I am amazed at how many expressions this woman has. A minute ago, she looked like a snow leopard assessing her prey, and now she reminds me of a lost kitten begging to be fed and cuddled.

She answers, too softly for anyone else to hear:

“Maybe.”

And that’s when it hits me — the whole picture.

The stolen badge.

The plain clothes.

The way she keeps checking over her shoulder.

She didn’t come here to find anyone.

She came here to disappear.

Snowflakes drift outside the glass, catching light like sparks.

I set the bottle down, leaning closer but not touching her.

“Well,” I say. “If you want to disappear, you’re doing a terrible job of it.”

She purses her lips and gives me a half-smile.

“You’re not telling on me, are you?”

“No, because if you want to avoid me,” I add softly, “you’re doing an even worse one.”

And then, without warning, her hand crosses the distance between us, and her palm is on my torso. The contact sends shivers up my spine, and as she looks into my eyes, I drown.

“Do you,” I swallow. “Want to grab a beer?”

I finally say.

“I would have wine,” she answers slowly, still giving me that intense, curious look as if daring me to grab her hand, her ass, her anything, testing my reaction and absolutely certain of the effect she has on me.

“Wouldn’t recommend it,” I stammer. “The kind of wine they have here is not for the kind of lady you are.”

“Beer it is, then,” she shrugs and heads towards the nearest empty couch, sitting down.

When I am standing in front of the fridge, I take a breath.

Get it together, Nico. It’s just a woman.

Another breath, less shaky now.

You just won an Olympic silver medal. You’re the hero here. She’s just any other fan.

Another breath, steady. A smile spreads across my lips.

That’s it. I know this script. My whole fucking body knows this script. I’ve been there countless times.

I grab a bottle of Paulaner, open it, and throw the cap into the bin, missing by a mile. Then I sit next to her and hand her the bottle, touching her fingers deliberately. She does not flinch, nor does she pull away, but takes the beer.

I watch her, mesmerized. She grips the bottle, hesitates, then raises it to her lips.

“You’ve never drunk beer from a bottle, right?” I ask as foam trickles down her shirt.

“Sure, I have,” she snaps back. “It’s just been a long time ago.”

Then it hits me. She doesn’t really have many faces, because none are hers. She charms to win me and is spiteful to knock me back. I’ll only meet the real girl when curiosity wins, and the polished lady drops every act—maybe every layer of clothing, too.

“You know,” I offer, leaning on the couch nonchalantly and enjoying the warmth of her backside touching mine. “I could order some bubbles from the bar. They do have better.”

“Bubbles,” she says, smelling the beer weirdly. “Why? You celebrating something?”

“Well…” I chuckle.

Her act is getting a little too much.

I throw an arm around her shoulders and stroke her arm lightly, but for a moment, I cannot think of anything smart to say.

She does not shrug me off; she just looks at the hand stroking her arm, then back to me.

“I mean it, I don’t know,” she says. “And you obviously think I should. You won a gold medal or something?”

“Silver,” I stutter and pull my arm away.

Fuck, she’s not pretending. She’s not even impressed.

“Oh,” she adds, licking her lips. “I guess that’s good, too. Skiing, right? Alpine skiing. We’re in the Olympic alpine village.”

“Who are you?” I ask, shaking my head.

“Nobody,” she shrugs. “Though I have a feeling I insulted you. It is a big thing to have an Olympic medal.”

“Like the biggest thing in my life,” I answer honestly.

“And yet.” She touches my arm lightly, and her eyes take on that curious, studying look. “You chose to spend your biggest evening with me.”

“I… some guys went to bed preparing for the combined tomorrow, and my roommate, the guy with gold, is somewhere celebrating with his girl.”

“I see,” she says, and her eyes travel across my body, taking in every line. That look is intoxicating, and sadly, my dick answers her. I clear my throat to divert her gaze and cross my legs.

“Why did you come here?”

“Is skiing demanding?”

“You didn’t answer. Why did you come here?”

“I don’t know. Is skiing a demanding sport?”

“I asked…” The words taste petty, so I give up. “Yes. Very. Imagine holding a squat position for three minutes, with g-forces and bumps throwing you off balance and gusts of wind eating you alive.”

“Hmm.”

“What is this conversation?”

“I don’t know,” she repeats, as if that was the answer to everything. “Frankly, I have no idea what I am doing or why I am here.”

Her eyes meet mine, and what I see in the depths of those cold-lake irises makes my head swell.

There’s desire, fear, sadness, thrill, pleasure, resentment, all crammed in there at once like they’re fighting for space.

It shouldn’t be possible to feel that much and stay upright, but she does, jaw tight, shoulders squared, like she’s bracing for impact.

It’s eating her alive, and she still refuses to flinch.

Her fingers tap an uneven rhythm on her thigh, then curl into a fist. Her chest rises a little too fast. She’s perched on the edge of the couch like it’s a ledge, not a cushion, knuckles white on her bag strap before she forces them to relax.

The good little princess mask is still on, but underneath, everything is rattling.

What flares in me then is beyond desire; it’s awe. The urge to flip her onto her back and fuck her senseless slams into something softer and dumber—the instinct to put my hands on her and hold, steady, until the shaking stops.

“Just shut it out,” I whisper, leaning in, close enough to feel her breath on my mouth.

“Pardon?” Her voice lands smoothly, but her hand hooks in my shirt and stays there.

“Shut it all out,” I murmur. “Just be…”

“With you?” A quick, disbelieving huff escapes her as the words slip past her defenses.

“…free.”

The corners of her mouth twitch, the tight line easing.

Her lashes lower; the room, the hall, the whole damn Olympic village disappears from her face.

She closes her eyes before our lips touch, before I can taste her, like she has to shut the world off to step into this.

Her palm finds the back of my head, fingers threading into my hair and hauling me closer, and something in her grip changes—from clenched to claiming.

She’s not calm. She’s vibrating. Her nails bite my scalp, her mouth already parting for a kiss that hasn’t quite landed yet, her body wound high and hot against mine. And still, she drags me in, choosing this over whatever’s waiting outside that door.

She’s going to be as free as can be. Tonight, I’m just the idiot she’s using to tear the leash.

The champagne I ordered from the bar didn’t impress her, but it was the best I’ve ever tasted. Not because my brain will forever link those bubbles to the taste of her pussy, but because it was just that expensive.

Yet she only smirked when the golden liquid touched her lips, like this was kids’ stuff compared to whatever she’s used to. Still, it did its job. With the beer and two glasses of sweet bubbles in her blood, the fine tremor in her fingers finally eased as her hands traced the lines of my muscles.

I lie on the bed, propped on one elbow, watching, fucking mesmerized, as she strokes my chest and abs like she’s trying to carve every line into her memory. There’s nothing lazy or practiced about it; she’s too intent, too focused, like she’s studying something she’s not sure she’s allowed to keep.

My sweatpants are still on, my hard-on already doing its best to get me naked, when she starts kissing and licking my skin, greedy and almost frantic.

She’s down to her underwear. She peeled all her clothes off the second we stepped inside, muttering that her skin burns, like the fabric itself was suffocating her.

For a heartbeat, she was all jagged movement, fingers fumbling at buttons, breath too fast, eyes a little wild, as if she’d either get naked or explode.

She was shaking all over, every touch a mix of hunger and barely contained panic, so I suggested a drink first to calm her down and give her hands time to stop buzzing like live wires.

She knocked it back like medicine, the worst of the tremor easing, that wild energy in her sharpening instead of fading.

Now we’re on the bed, her mouth hot on my chest, her fingers finally steady on my body, and I’m seriously starting to regret being the gentleman who prolonged the torture.

I’ve seen women strip for me before. I’ve never seen someone escape their clothes.

“Will you tease me forever?” I manage.

The smile she gives me is wicked, playful, so fucking sexy it hurts.

“As long as you can bear,” she says, and tugs both my pants and boxers down.

Tonight she’s the one tearing the leash. I’m just too drunk and too gone on her to see she’s fastening one around my throat.