Carter #3
The way he says it—quiet, almost weary—catches somewhere it shouldn’t.
He isn't talking about the party. He’s talking about the season, the car, and the crushing weight of a name he has to carry for another year.
For a second, the star driver is gone, and there’s just a person trying to find a way to breathe.
But then the image of those girls downstairs flashes through my mind like a true traitor—the way they sized me up, the way Sienna always looks like she’s already claimed a seat at his table. The jealousy is a sudden, hot spike in my chest, and I can’t stop the words before they hit the air.
"Is that the only thing that helps?" I challenge, my eyes flicking to the beer and then back to his eyes. "The beer? Or does the rest of the 'flavor of the week' menu help take the edge off, too?"
One side of his mouth lifts, a tease of a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't know, Shortcut. I thought you were looking for my father for that kind of career advice."
It’s a jab, but it lacks his usual bite. The air between us is thick enough to choke on. I should push him away. I should go back to the pool house and the safety of my notebooks. Instead, I feel a reckless, burning boldness take over.
I rationalize it as curiosity. I tell myself it’s just figuring him out—just another problem I can get ahead of. But as I look at his mouth, all I can think about is the way he tasted before. The memory is a low-frequency hum in my blood that I can’t shut off.
"Maybe I’m tired of the advice," I grumble, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Maybe I just want another taste."
Dominic’s entire body goes rigid. For a second, he doesn't even breathe. His eyes darken, the pupils blowing wide until they’re nearly black, devouring the iris. The uncertainty from before is gone, replaced by something much hungrier.
"Just a taste?" he asks. His voice is all hard edges and danger, barely a breath away from my lips. He doesn't move to close the gap—he waits, forcing me to be the one to cross the line. It’s the ultimate power play, and I’m too far gone to care about winning.
"I still can't stand you," I breathe.
"Good," he growls, his forehead dropping against mine for a split second. The sheer presence of him is staggering. "The feeling is entirely mutual."
"Good. Then we understand each other perfectly—"
Dominic doesn't let me finish. He cuts the words right out of my mouth, his lips crashing into mine with a desperate, heavy force that knocks the remaining air from my lungs. I expected resistance, or perhaps one last parting insult to keep the walls up, but the cord has finally snapped.
It isn't a taste—it's a starvation. The kiss is hard, messy, and tastes of beer and the friction of every argument we’ve had since the day we met.
The next few seconds are a blur of friction and gravity.
My back is pinned against the wood of the door, and suddenly his hands are under my thighs, hoisting me up like I weigh nothing.
I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, locking him to me as he groans against my mouth—a low, broken sound that vibrates through my entire chest.
Everything is moving too fast and not fast enough.
The cool metal of his belt buckle bites into my inner thigh, a sharp contrast to the scorching touch of his skin.
My fingers fumble with the button of his fly, my movements frantic and clumsy, fueled by the terrifying realization that I don’t want him to stop—I want him to ruin me.
The noise from the party downstairs might as well be on another planet. There is only the ragged, synchronized rhythm of our breathing and the feel of him pressing past every defense I have left.
He doesn’t waste time with gentleness. There is no soft lead-in, no whispered reassurances.
This is a collision. He rucks up the hem of my skirt, his palms rough and impatient against my skin, and the first drive into me is hard enough to make my head snap back against the door.
I let out a choked sound—half-gasp, half-protest—my hands fisting in his hair to pull him closer even as my brain screams at me to push him away.
"Stay still," he commands, his voice a rasp against my ear that sends a fresh wave of static down my spine.
He grips my hips, his fingers digging into my skin with enough force to leave bruises that will remind me of this tomorrow.
But I don't stay still. I can’t. I fight him for the lead, arching my back, meeting every punishing, relentless thrust with a defiance that only seems to make him more clinical in his intent to break me.
It’s not romantic. It’s a combat of nerves and friction, an equalization of all the tension we’ve been building since the beginning.
I hate that my body is betraying me. I hate the way the rough denim of his jeans and the friction of his movements have my vision blurring into white-hot sparks.
Every time he hits his mark, my grip on this—on myself—loosens, and I clamp down harder.
He’s driving me to the edge of the cliff, and I’m pulling him over it with me.