Page 36 of No Save Point

My stomach plummets, my pulse kicks up, my entire body locking up like I just got caught. Because fuck him. He’s right, and he knows it.

Tate doesn’t wait for an answer. He just downs the rest of the water, sets the glass down with a quiet clink, and strolls back toward the stairs like he didn’t just ruin my fucking night. Carter is still silent beside me, still lost, still probably trying to process what the hell just happened.

I don’t know how long we sit there, the weight of his words still hanging in the air, still pressing down on both of us. But when I finally look at Carter again, really look at him, I see it. I can’t ignore it. His jaw is locked, his breath coming slow, like he’s actively trying to control it. His hands flex against his thighs, his fingers curling, gripping, like he needs something to hold onto, something to ground himself before he completely unravels.

I should say something. I should absolutely not lean in, tilt my head, and say, “Carter…?”

His eyes snap to mine instantly, wide and wrecked, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. I know that look. That deer-in-headlights, caught red-handed, holy-shit-please-don’t-call-this-out look. I shift slightly, letting my fingers graze over my knee, pretending to be casual when I’m absolutely not, my stomach twisting at the way his body still hasn’t relaxed, at the way he looks like he wants to be anywhere but here. But it’s too late. I already know. And I don’t let it go. I tilt my head, voice softer now, testing, teasing, waiting. “You good?”

Carter makes a low, strangled sound, something between a groan and a curse, his hand dragging through his hair in pure frustration, his entire body still so tense it’s a miracle he hasn’t snapped in half. “Fuck, Haven,” he mutters, shaking his head, voice rough, almost like he’s pissed at me but more pissed at himself.

And maybe he is. Maybe he’s pissed that his body is betraying him. Maybe he’s pissed that I noticed. Maybe he’s pissed that Tate was right.

I press my lips together, watching him, waiting, letting the silence stretch between us, letting him stew in it until he finally, finally looks at me again.

I keep my voice light, steady, just to see what he does when I say it. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

His breath shudders out of him, his fingers flexing again, his whole body still locked up like a live wire. “Haven.”

My name is barely a word. More like a warning. His fingers twitch, his breath comes rougher now, his gaze locked onto mine like he’s fighting some internal battle and losing miserably, then he moves.

It’s not a sharp movement, not sudden or rushed, not the kind of desperate reaction I might have expected from someone in his position. His hand comes up, slow but sure, his fingers brushing along my jaw, just barely there, just enough to test, just enough to give me the chance to pull away.

I don’t, can’t. Not when he’s looking at me like that, like he’s trying to memorize every single thing about this moment, like he’s trying to ground himself in me before he completely drowns. His thumb drags along my cheek, his touch hesitant but warm, steady but uncertain, like he’s never done this before but already knows exactly how he wants to. And then, in a voice so low, so wrecked, so desperate I feel it straight in my chest, he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

I don’t answer right away, I let the question sit in the space between us, let it sink in, let myself feel the weight of it, the weight of him, the weight of what this means, because he didn’t just ask because he wants to.

He asked because he needs to. Because his brain is spinning, because he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with any of this but he knows that if he kisses me, maybe he’ll figure it out. I nod, just barely, and it’s the only answer he needs.

Carter moves in slow but sure, his grip on my jaw firming slightly, his breath ghosting over my lips, and then… He kisses me. And,fuck, can he kiss.

It’s hesitant at first, uncertain in a way that makes my stomach tighten, makes my pulse skip, makes me feel the weight of his inexperience in a way that isn’t awkward or fumbling but intoxicating. He’s learning me. His lips press against mine soft at first, just a test, just a taste, just enough to see how I’ll respond. And when I sigh into him, when I tilt my chin up to chase more, when I curl my fingers into the front of his shirt like I suddenly need something to hold onto before I completely lose myself in this, that’s when he really starts kissing me.

His mouth moves against mine, slow and deep, then he does something I don’t expect. His hand moves, sliding from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers threading into my hair, tugging just slightly, just enough to make me gasp against his lips.

Carter groans, low and deep, barely a sound but still a vibration against my mouth, and then his other hand grips my waist, pulling me in like he’s finally letting himself feel this, like he’s finally accepting the fact that he wants me, like he’s finally understanding that he can.

I don’t even know when I ended up in his lap, but I do know that I don’t want to leave it. Not when he’s kissing me like this. Like he’s devouring me, as if he’s been starving for this and didn’t realize how hungry he was until right now. And the worst part, I don’t think I want him to stop.

Carter’s head tips back against the couch, his breath shuddering, his fingers still gripping my waist like he’s afraid to move, like he’s afraid if he lets go, something irreversible will happen. I can feel the tension in his body, the heat rolling off him in waves, the weight of his hesitation pressing thick between us, battling against the want that I can see written all over his face.

He’s holding back. Even now, with me in his lap, with my fingers trailing up his chest, with my mouth pressing soft against his skin, he’s still holding back.

So I push him a little more. I drag my nails up the back of his neck, threading my fingers into his hair, tugging slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch, just enough to make his hands tighten on me.

And then, because I want to hear him say it, I whisper against his throat, “You don’t feel guilty about this, do you?”

His whole body reacts instantly. A sharp inhale, his muscles flexing, his grip tightening on me so fast that I can barely process the way his hands clench against my waist. But he doesn’t answer. Not in those few brief moments. Not until I shift, rolling my hips again, pressing myself closer, testing, teasing, waiting for him to break.

“Fuck, Haven.”

The words are barely a breath, rough and strangled, full of something that sounds like a warning but feels like surrender. I pull back just enough to look at him, to watch the way his chest rises and falls too fast, to see the way his jaw is clenched so tight I can practically feel the tension radiating off him. “Carter.”

His eyes snap to mine instantly, desperate, like he’s looking for an escape but already knows he’s too far gone to take it.

I drag my fingers back down his chest, slow and deliberate, my touch barely there but enough to make his breath catch again. “Tell me.”

His throat bobs, his fingers twitch against my waist, his entire body pulled tight like a wire about to snap. He finally gives me what I want. “No.”

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