My brow furrows as the dream turns confusing. That voice is oddly familiar . . . but why? Or who?
Logic is overwhelmed by sensation, and I grind back against the firmness, moaning in desire. Just a slightly different angle and I’ll be able to get . . .
My mind screams at me, forcing me awake.
Carter?
Oh, fuck.
Carter!
I flail wildly, kicking the blankets off in an effort to get away as fast as possible. “Get off me!”
“Wha—？” he stutters, clearly half asleep himself. And he’s an octopus, pulling me back in with his arms and legs until we’re snuggled together with my face buried in his bare, muscled chest, his arms encircling me and our legs entwined. Trapped, I freeze as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. I wiggle, and he looks down at me with half-open eyes. He’s probably seeing double or still asleep because he smiles and in a sleep-rough voice says, “Mmm, hey, Luna.”
I squirm, and my knee catches his morning wood.
“Ugh! Fuck!” He grunts as he doubles over into a fetal position, cupping himself.
But at least he lets me go, and I scoot to the other side of the bed, putting space between us. “Carter!”
“Why’d you rack me?”
“Why are you holding me hostage with your super-strong arms and stupidly big thing?” I gesture toward his groin, getting madder when he grins.
“Thing?” He chuckles, shifting himself in his sweatpants and still looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Seriously? What are you, twelve?”
I sit up, crossing my arms over my chest and frowning at him. “Twenty-three,” I remind him even though I know the question was rhetorical.
“Last night, you’re all ‘choke me, Daddy’ and now you can’t even say cock or dick?” he teases, and I can’t help it, I flush at the memory. Yeah, it was play acting . . . but it felt good doing it, too.
“That was different,” I argue. Carter raises a single brow in challenge. “Leave me alone.”
I get out of the bed, twisting and turning my sweatshirt to get it back down around my thighs, but I’m pretty sure I flash a fair amount of butt cheek in the process. Stomping to the bathroom, I can feel Carter’s eyes following my every move, so I give him a solid glare as I shut the door behind me.
As soon as I do so, I lean back on the door, my pulse racing. He’s getting to me, and I can’t allow that.
I sigh and go over to the toilet to sit down. Taking care of my morning business and then washing my face, flashes of last night come back. I stare at myself in the mirror in shock. I actually did that. Me, Luna Starr, had fake sex with Carter Harrington.
I’m mad at myself, completely embarrassed, and also, way deep down in a secret space I won’t tell a soul about, a little disappointed it was fake. Not because I want Carter but because the way he was bangin’ around and the things he said were definitely turning my core to liquid, and now I’m left tense and frustrated. Samantha would tell me to rub one out really quick, but I can’t . . . not here. Not when he could hear me. I would die of mortification.
And then another thought strikes me. What if Carter’s taking care of his own morning business out there? And I don’t mean peeing. The man had a whole bonfire’s worth of wood in his sweatpants.
I wouldn’t mind seeing that!
I tell my inner ho to shut up, even though I’m already imagining Carter taking himself in hand, stroking hard and fast, and coming on the bed right where I slept last night as he grits his teeth so I won’t hear him say my name.
No, bad Luna! You’re not some orgasm-starved nympho who’ll do anything for a hit of dick.
As if he can sense me thinking of him, Carter knocks on the door. “Luna?”
I startle hard, sure that he somehow knows what I’m thinking. “What? Can’t a girl use the bathroom in peace?” My voice is too sharp even to my own ears, an obvious tell that something’s up.
“You good?” Carter asks, and I swear I hear his smug grin in the two little words.
“Yep, fine. Just fine. Totally all good here.” I bury my face in a towel, wishing I had one tiny ounce of cool in me, but I don’t. Never have, never will.
“Uh, okay,” Carter stammers, probably thinking I’ve bumped my head in here and concussed myself. Or more likely, that I’m in the middle of ‘handling’ things the way I figured he was. “I’m going to go check on Gracie. She sleeps like the dead, so she’s probably still conked out, but Peanut Butter probably needs to piss too,” Carter says through the door. He clears his throat and adds, “That’ll give you some privacy to do . . . whatever.”
He totally thinks I’m rubbing one out.
“Sure, yeah. Thanks,” I squeak. “Oh, make sure Peanut Butter doesn’t get the rose bushes again.” The advice is unneeded, but I don’t know what to say. How do you go from ‘get your cock off me’ to taking the dog out?
A moment later, I hear the door to the room open and close.
Slowly, I crack open the door, peeking out.
Empty. All alone.
I start toward the dresser, but the mess of pillows and sheets on the freshly slept-in bed catches my eye. And then I glance at the door. If Carter already thinks I did jill off, then what’s the harm in actually doing it? At the least, it’ll take the edge off and clear my head so I can think properly at breakfast.
I don’t decide. I act. I rush over to the door, peek out to the hallway to make sure it’s clear, and then close and lock it. Locking it is key because if Carter actually walks in on me . . .
I hop in the bed, grabbing the pillow that still smells like Carter and not examining why that’s so sexy. Nope, not doing that right now . . . and probably not later, either.
I lie face down, gathering the pillow in one arm to bury my nose in his scent, and slip my other arm underneath my body. With my hips lifted and my knees parted, there’s a delicious sense of vulnerability as I feel my lips spread to the air of the room.
I grin into the pillow when I feel my wetness coat my fingers. This is gonna be quick, what Samantha calls the ‘Hundred Flick Dash’。
I close my eyes, and though it’d be a nightmare in real life, in my mind’s eye, I imagine Carter walking in on me . . .
“What the fuck?” His exclamation is in surprise, but his eyes are hungry for me, enjoying the view.
“Carter!” My fingers stop as I blush furiously.
“Sorry, I . . . fuck, that’s hot,” he whispers, and I can tell he’s not lying. The circus tent in his pants confirms that. “I came back to get my phone, and I heard . . . something. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I am.” At least I think I am, given the way he’s licking his lips.
“Don’t you dare stop,” he says, stepping closer to the bed. “Let me watch you get yourself off. Show me how you like it.”
“Look. But don’t touch.”
“Deal,” Carter says, climbing onto the bed. He sits down behind me, his ass on his heels and off to the side a bit so he can see my pussy and my face as I curl to the side to see him too.
He’s straining to get out of his pants, the long, thick rod visible in his sweat pants.