Page 37 of No Save Point

I feel the word like a jolt straight to my chest. But he’s not done. His grip tightens, his body trembling beneath mine, his breath rough and uneven as he shakes his head. “I don’t feel guilty,” he murmurs, almost like he’s admitting it to himself more than to me. “Not even a little.”

The confession hits me in a way I wasn’t expecting. Because sweet, careful, overthinking Carter has spent so much time convincing himself that wanting me was something he had to keep buried, something that wasn’t supposed to happen, something that came with consequences. Now he’s admitting that he doesn’t care.

That this—me, us, whatever the hell this is, is something he wants, something he’s letting himself want, something he’s not going to keep running from.

I bite my lip, watching the way his hands flex against my waist, the way his gaze bounces between my mouth and my eyes, like he’s still trying to hold onto the last shred of control he has left. And I think about giving it back to him. I shift again, just a little, just enough to make his breath catch one more time, just enough to see how much further I can push him.

18

Carter

Iam fucking losing it.

Haven is still in my lap, her weight pressing down in a way that is making it impossible to think, her fingers still tracing over my skin like she’s enjoying watching me completely come undone beneath her. I am, I’m so gone for her it’s pathetic. This is a moment I’ve thought about, dreamed about, replayed in my head over and over again for the past year, imagining what it would feel like to have her this close, to feel the heat of her body against mine, to hear her say my name like that, soft and teasing, like she already knows exactly how to ruin me.

I don’t know how the fuck to handle it. Her hands are everywhere, moving over my chest, pressing into my shoulders, testing, exploring, like she’s still figuring me out, like she’s trying to learn exactly how I react to her.

And, God, my body is betraying me in ways I can’t even pretend to control anymore. Pressure building so fast I feel like I can’t breathe, every single muscle in my body locked up as I try to keep my composure. But it’s not working. It’s so not fucking working. I shift under her, gritting my teeth, barely swallowing down a groan as I feel the way she settles against me, the way she presses down just a little more. Yeah. She definitely notices what’s happening to me right now.

I’m so hard it hurts. Every part of me is screaming for more. More weight, more friction, more of her. The fabric between us is the only thing saving either of us from seeing just how far gone I am.

Fuck. I should be embarrassed, maybe? I think? Fuck, I don’t know.

Haven moves again, shifts just enough to drag over me, and I realize with absolute, undeniable clarity I’m so fucking screwed. I drop my head back against the couch, sucking in a sharp breath, my hands clenching and unclenching where they rest against her waist, because I know if I touch her right now, I’m not going to be able to stop. I am so far past the point of being okay, so far past the point of rational thought, so far past the point of pretending that my body isn’t already reacting to every single move she’s making. And just when I think it cannot possibly get any worse…

A mocking bitter laugh rings from the other side of the room. Fucking kill me.

My entire body goes rigid, every muscle locking up as I squeeze my eyes shut, already knowing exactly who the hell that is before I even look.

No. No, no, no, not right now. I feel Haven stiffen against me, her body going tight, her breath catching, her fingers digging into my shoulders.

And then, because my life is actually a goddamn joke— “Well, well, well,” Tate smirks from the doorway, sounding way too fucking pleased with himself. “Look at you, little brother.”

I am going to commit murder. Right after I figure out how the fuck to make this entire moment erase itself from existence. I can’t fucking move. Because if I so much as breathe wrong right now, Tate is going to see exactly how hard I already am, and I will never hear the end of it.

Haven is still sitting in my lap, still pressed against me, if I thought I was losing it before, I am completely done for now.

Tate takes a slow, easy step further into the room, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, expression unreadable except for the sharp gleam of amusement in his eyes. I swear to God, I can already feel him planning every single way he’s going to ruin my life after this. He leans against the doorway, tilting his head, taking his time looking between me and Haven like we’re an interesting puzzle he’s trying to figure out. Then, with a slow smirk, he lets his gaze settle on me and says the one thing that almost makes my soul leave my body. “Didn’t realize you had it in you.”

Heat punches through my chest, up my throat, straight into my face so fast I might actually be on fire, because he knows. He fucking knows. I feel Haven stiffen in my lap, her fingers tightening on my shoulders, and I already know she’s about to say something reckless, something that’s going to make this situation ten times worse, because she never lets Tate get the last word.

But I cannot handle that right now. I cannot handle any of this right now.

I swallow hard, dragging in a sharp breath, gritting my teeth so tight my jaw might actually snap. “Tate.”

I say his name like a warning, like a threat, like I am one second away from absolutely losing my shit if he doesn’t leave. But he just grins wider, like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week.

“Relax, little brother,” he murmurs, pushing off the doorway, stepping closer. “I’m just here to grab something.”

Haven’s head snaps toward him, her expression unreadable, her body still tense against mine. “Then grab it and go.”

Tate lifts a brow, clearly amused by the way she’s trying to act like she’s in control of this situation, like she’s not currently sitting in my lap, like she doesn’t already know exactly how much I am struggling right now.

But then, instead of making it worse, which I know for a fact he absolutely could—he just shrugs, and heads toward the kitchen.

I think, for one brief, fleeting moment, maybe I am going to survive this night. Until, from the kitchen, Tate’s voice drifts back through the room, casual and lazy, like he’s barely even paying attention. “Try not to break him too fast, Haven. Poor guy’s already halfway gone.”

The second Tate’s words hit the air, something inside me snaps.

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