Page 93 of Red Zone
“Hmm, I think you said the same thing ear?—”
His mouth crashes into mine, hard enough to make me stumble back slightly. He follows, hands sliding up under my jacket, his fingers splaying wide over my waist as he deepens the kiss.
It’s messy, desperate almost.
I gasp when his hands dip lower, gripping my hips and dragging me even closer. His thigh wedges between mine, and before I know it, I’m pressing down, chasing the friction that makes my knees weak.
He groans into my mouth, and the sound shoots straight through me. My fingers fist into the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, even though we’re already flush.
“You’re crazy, Hayes,” I mutter against his lips, breathless.
His grin is quick and crooked. “Look who’s talking.”
One of his hands slides up, tugging at the edge of my scarf just enough to brush his thumb against the hollow of my throat. The touch makes me shiver.
“You do that on purpose,” I breathe.
“Do what?” he says, all false innocence.
“Make it impossible to think.”
He chuckles, but it’s low and rough, and he presses his forehead to mine.
“Have to make sure we’re on a level playing field somehow.”
When we finally break apart, my hair’s a mess, my lips are swollen, and his hoodie is wrinkled from where I was holding onto him like my life depended on it.
I take a shaky breath, stepping back just enough to get my bearings.
“You are dangerous,” I tell him, but my voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
He smirks, still leaning against the Jeep.
“So are you,” he says simply.
He straightens, rubbing the back of his neck, and blows out a breath like he’s forcing himself to put more distance between us.
“All right,” he says finally, the corner of his mouth tugging into a crooked grin. “Come on. Let me be the opposite of what I want to be and get you home at a semi-respectable hour.”
I watch the lights blur past outside the window while Carter fiddles with the radio, landing on some mellow indie station and leaving it there.
Finally, he glances at me, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
“So,” he says casually. “How’s the term treating you outside of the athletic department? You’re probably destroying your GPA just babysitting all of us, huh?”
I snort. “My GPA is fine, thank you very much. I mainly just have my internship left, outside of project management, which right now they kind of tie into one another for the most part.”
He glances over again, brow quirking like he wasn’t expecting me to admit that.
“It’s just…more than I thought it’d be,” I continue, surprised at myself for saying it out loud.
“The workload. The expectations. Everyone needing something from you all the time.”
He hums. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”
And then, quieter, “You’ve been killing it, though. Just so you know.”
I glance at him, wary.
