Page 113 of Red Zone
I gasp when his tongue sweeps against mine, my hands tightening in the fabric of his hoodie as he presses me harder into the carpet.
Every inch of him is heat and muscle, impossible to ignore, and the sound he makes—low and rough when I arch up into him—goes straight to my core.
His hand moves to my waist, fingers flexing as he drags my hips up against his. The friction steals what little breath I have left, and I feel my legs shift automatically, parting just enough for him to settle more fully between them.
The kiss turns messier, hungrier, his teeth catching my bottom lip as my nails rake across his shoulders.
I can feel his chest rising and falling against mine, his heartbeat pounding just as fast as mine, and the weight of him on top of me has my thoughts scattering into nothing but heat.
But then reality cuts through the haze just enough for me to remember where we are.
Madison.
The possibility of her walking in at any second.
I tear my mouth away from his, my chest heaving as I whisper, “Carter…”
He freezes instantly, his eyes searching mine, concern flashing there.
But instead of telling him to stop, I tug at his hoodie again, my lips still barely brushing his as I murmur, “We…we should go to my room. In case Madison decides to come home.”
For a beat, he just stares at me, his pupils blown, his breathing ragged.
Then he grins—slow, dangerous—and pushes himself up just enough to help me to my feet.
“Lead the way, Princess,” he murmurs, his voice so dark and low it makes my knees weak.
And when I turn to head down the hall, I can already feel his hand on my hip, following close behind.
31
CARTER
It’s the night before the last game of the regular season, and I should be at home resting.
I should definitely not be following my coach’s daughter down the hallway to her bedroom, but here we are.
She’s nervous, even though she’s trying to play it cool. I can tell by the way her fingers tighten on mine that she feels this just as much as I do.
The sound of my footsteps behind her is loud in the quiet apartment, and for a second, I wonder if she can hear how fast my heart’s beating too.
She pushes her bedroom door open and steps inside, glancing over her shoulder at me.
“Are you coming in or just going to stand there looking guilty?” she murmurs.
I huff out a quiet laugh, shaking my head as I follow her in. “Maybe a little of both.”
Her room is once again in perfect condition—organized, soft colors, not a single thing out of place. And yet, right now, she looks anything but put together. Her cheeks are still flushed, herlips are still kiss-bruised from the living room, and her messy bun has started to fall apart completely.
Stopping at the foot of her bed, she turns to face me, crossing her arms over her chest.
For a second, I just stand still, taking her in. The way the soft lamplight catches in her hair. The way she’s biting her lip like she doesn’t know what to say or do next.
Then I close the distance between us.
Her arms fall as I step into her space, my hands finding her hips and pulling her flush against me.
“You make it really hard to behave myself, ya know,” I murmur, leaning down just enough to brush my lips against hers.
