Cookie Cutter (18 page)

Here it comes.

“Saturday night was---”

“A mistake.” I finish for him. Feeling a tinge of regret. But mostly for the fact that he feels this way.

Carter’s brow furrows. “Not where I was going with that, but okay.”

“I don’t mean
you
were a mistake. I mean this.” I gesture between us. “I mean I’ve got Ally and you’re . . . very temporary, although extremely nice actually, and a . . . great kisser, and I won’t deny I would love to explore more of that, but . . .”

“Iris?”

My mouth shuts of its own accord. “Hmmm?”

“Would you mind if I kissed you again?”

His voice is low. His tone is full of longing.  He holds my stare and won’t let go. Every part of my brain tells me I should go; that I shouldn’t let whatever is going on between us go any further.

But the rest of me.

The rest of me has a very good argument, otherwise. I shake my head and can barely speak. “No, not really.”

His hands slide up my arms and around my neck. Goosebumps spread like wildfire as I close my eyes and I let him kiss me.

Chapter 14. Carter

Kissing is good.

I consider kissing one of my fortes, actually. We go way back. I was kissing girls in the third grade. I still remember getting Jenny Stokes in trouble with her mom after playtime because I had convinced Jenny to kiss me on the cheek to make my boo boo feel better. I sucked at it of course, back then, but by the time I landed my first real girlfriend in seventh grade, I was practically a pro. And when I started seeing Cheryl in college, well, it became one of my favorite pastimes.

For me, it represents the beginning of something. That first part of getting to know someone.  The precursor of things to come, and it means more than sex ever has for me, funny as that might sound. It’s much more intimate. Much more telling. I’ve kissed a lot of women. And that’s not to say too many, but a good number. In hindsight, they were all . . . nice.

When I kiss Iris Alden, however, it’s erotic. And highly unexpected. Her lips fit with mine. They’re warm and soft – inviting. But it’s more than that, her kisses tell me things. Like she’s craving this intimacy. And not simply craving it because it’s been who knows how long since she’s had decent sex, but with me, specifically.

Kissing Iris is something I could easily get used to.

I don’t lie to myself. I know what happened the last time I stuck around for someone. I made sacrifices. I changed who I was for the sake of the relationship and in the end it cost me. But with Iris, it’s difficult to explain. I don’t feel that need with her. She already knows who I am and she’s still here. That’s saying something.

Still . . .

It’s too soon. Isn’t it?

Her hands slip under my shirt and her fingernails graze my skin and it’s not too soon. My libido jumps into gear and I press forward, essentially trapping Iris between me and my kitchen counter. I let the kiss evolve into something much deeper. My hands can’t get enough of her and I’m suddenly aware that any number of neighbors are probably getting a nice peep show right now.  People spying on me doesn’t bother me so much, but the thought of people in this town gossiping about Iris does bug the shit out of me. So I cut the lights, and now only the glow of the moon is illuminating the house. When I think about how my actions might affect her long term, I get a twinge of guilt inside my gut, so I end the kiss. We’re both breathless and I rest my head against her, thinking carefully about my words before I say them.

“You should probably go home, Iris,” I only half mean it.

And yeah, I’m kind of hoping she says no, for her sake, but I’m also kind of hoping she says yes for mine. Mostly, I’m hoping she says no. I think.
Schmuck.

“I don’t want to.” She presses her lips against mine repeatedly.

Her hands get braver as they wrap around me and her fingers move, barely dipping inside my jeans. I’m torn between celebrating and insisting she go but I can tell, celebratory Carter is winning. Slowly but surely. She’s stirring things up that haven’t been stirred in a while - and she’s doing a damn good job of it.

“Iris—” I start to beg her not to do this to me.

“Carter, I want to . . .” She shakes her head. “I need
to connect with someone.” She plants another kiss at the base of my throat. Her hands move to my chest. She’s got one leg in between mine.

God help me.

“I need to connect with you.” Her big brown eyes find mine. “Say yes.”

It’s all I really need to hear. I press my mouth to hers again. More urgent, this time. And our tongues tangle, telling secrets about ourselves that we’ll never speak. I bend down to sweep her up. I head for the hallway, to carry her to the . . .

“Shit.” I stop half way through a step and curse against her mouth.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t have a goddamn bed.” My head falls back and I curse the ceiling. “Why don’t I have a fucking bed, Iris?”

She laughs and her whole body shakes. “Well, what do
you have?”

I look at her with an apology behind my expression. “A futon?”

She tries not laugh any harder than she already is. “Sexy.”

But fails, and now I’m laughing too.

“Shit.”

“How about right here?” She kisses me. I set her down to finish it, but . . .  

“No, this isn’t a countertop sex kind of moment, Iris.”

“It’s not?” I almost think she sounds disappointed.

Next time.

I shake my head, smiling.

“What kind of moment is it then?”

And I tell her, point blank, “It’s a showing you how beautiful you are moment.”

I caress her face and Iris’s expression becomes more serious as she lets my words float over the wall she’s built around herself for too long now.

“Well you,” she blushes slightly and takes a breath, “really know what to say to a woman, don’t you?”

Iris blinks and tries to look away. She thinks I do this a lot but she’s wrong. Now it’s
my
expression that changes.

“Not really.”

I take her face between my hands. I kiss her forehead, I kiss her nose, I kiss her eyes. And when our lips meet, I kiss her soul. It speaks to me through her hands, her tongue, her breathing. When the kiss ends, I see it in her tears.

“Iris?” I wipe one away that’s decided to sit there, under her lashes.

She shakes her head but won’t look at me.

“Open your eyes, Iris.”

When she does, my chest aches from the sadness lingering in them. It makes me want to find James and teach him a thing or two about how to treat a woman because I’m damned sure this is his doing. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m such a mess, I don’t even know why I am.” She tries to laugh as she explains but a soft sob escapes her. She doesn’t have to explain this. Not to me.

“I do.”

It’s a whispered thought but she hears me and her hands move to fist the sides of my shirt tightly. She pulls it up and I raise my hands to let her take it off of me. She has to struggle because she’s so damn short and the mood lightens again for us. She pushes it up over my head and I let it fall to the floor, then I return the favor, easily sliding her top off.  She wants to cover herself up with her hands but I won’t let her.

“You’re gorgeous, Iris, don’t hide from me. Not now.”

She lets me take her hands in mine but now she won’t look up. I make it my goal for the evening to get her to understand that she has nothing to be afraid of with me. I walk her backwards, slowly, into the living room, where the infamous futon lives and when the back of her knees hit the side of it, she falls backwards into the thing.

I bend down and meet her lips with mine, leaning in so she has no choice but to lay back. When she’s comfortable there, I trap her hands above her head so she can’t hide herself for a while. I create a path of kisses along the nape of her neck, between her breasts, down to her belly where I hear the sharp intake of air, telling me . . . she’s ticklish.

I smile against her skin and let go of her hands. One moves through my hair. I unbutton her jeans and her other hand flies to mine, stopping me.

“I’m no spring chicken,” she says. “You sure you want to do this?”

I look up at her, laying there, looking so self-conscious. And I grin. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re one of the fittest moms I know.”

She raises an eyebrow, questioningly.

“Okay you’re the only mom I know, but come on, Iris, you’re in better shape than half the country.”

She props herself up onto her elbows. “I have stretch marks,” she says. Is she thinking, maybe even hoping it scares me off? “From labor,” she adds. “It’s not pretty.”

“I doubt that.” I unzip her jeans.

She tenses beneath me and I tug a little on her jeans, bringing them down around as far as I can. At this point, she either has to lift her hips for me, or I need to get aggressive. I don’t want to get aggressive with her. Not yet, anyway.

“If you’re not sure you wanna do this, just say the word,” I say. “The last thing I want to do is make you regret something.”

She stares me down for a minute or two. I don’t know what she’s going to do but I’m good either way. This thing between us is confusing at times, disarming even, but mostly, it’s just us.

Whatever happens, happens.

Just when I think she’s going to sit up and go, she lets out a sigh of decisiveness.

And lifts.

A hidden smirk emerges from me as I kiss her belly one more time. I like it here. She’s soft and smooth and everything Iris. Then I guide her jeans the rest of the way off of her.

I slide my hands up her legs and spread them. I move my hands along her thighs and let my thumb dip inside the hem of her jet black boy short undies where I stop to give her a pointed look. “These are hot, Iris.”

She giggles and falls back down into the futon. She covers her face because she thinks I’m teasing but I’m not. The shorts alone have me harder than I can handle right now. I look at her laying there and I shake my head because I see none of the scars that she refers to. Or any imperfections. All I see is Iris. With all her curves and dips and smooth skin and nervous excitement.

And she’s, “Perfect.”

Her hands move away from her eyes and she lets me see the rest of her face. I pull the boy shorts down and off of her, then I stand and help her up. I look her into her eyes while I reach around her. She seems a tad confused until she feels my fingers at the hook of her bra. I slide the straps down her shoulders and she lets me this time without any second thoughts.

“Here,” she says, and she takes my hand in hers and moves it to her breast.

I cradle and tease, and run a finger over its peak. Iris’s eyes close and her lips fall apart slightly, so I pinch. But only a little bit. She lets out a hum that makes me want to roll her over, pull that long brown hair of hers and make her forget what the term stay at home mom even means.

Fuck. I don’t know how much more foreplay I can take but I’m determined to make this good for her. Iris has other plans, though, as she turns us around and unbuttons my jeans. She slides the zipper and grabs ahold of my boxers, pulling everything down in one fell swoop. She takes a moment to see what she’s set free before standing up again.

She eyes me carefully. Then she jumps me.

“Holy . . .”

We both fall down onto the futon. Miraculously it doesn’t break. We’re now laughing our asses off and I’m just glad I didn’t hurt something when I fell.  As I’m looking up at Iris, pushing the hair behind her ears, she’s looking down at me and I see something there.

“You look happy.”

“Um, thanks?” She blushes that perfect shade of pink that only Iris can pull off.

“You’re glowing.”

I haven’t seen her like this since I met her.
Another thing I could get used to.

“It’s because of you.” She licks her lips and the laughing dies. “You make me . . . glowy.”

We chuckle in unison, then Iris dips down and puts her mouth to mine. She’s got to feel what she’s doing to me now. It’s not just the fact that she’s beautiful, and smart, and funny . . . it’s this light inside her. The way, when, she turns it on, it’s brighter than anything or anyone I’ve ever known. I want to be a part of that light.

When making out isn’t enough anymore, she straddles me and sits upright. The moon shines against her skin and she’s smiling at me with this look on her face that says she doesn’t have a care in the world; only what’s happening right here, right now . . . I know it’s me who’s making her feel that way.

And when her hand snakes down to appreciate how much she affects me in every way, I pull her down into a kiss while my fingers find out what I do to
her
.

“Jesus, Iris.”

She hums in response as she caresses and strokes.

“Do we need something?” I ask her, just to make sure. “A condom?”

She shakes her head. “I’m on birth control.”

I give her a sly look.

“It’s for regulating purposes,” she explains and I smile, but only because she’s so damn cute when she’s overly cautious.

She allows me to take some control of the situation with a lift of her hips. And when I push into her, it’s slow and torturous but in such a good fucking way. I want to make it happen now, but I want it to last a lifetime, too.

With a small croon, Iris lets me know how good I feel inside of her and I know right then, when she’s looking into my eyes, that I want the job of making her sound this blissful for a long time to come.

* * *

I can’t say I would have ever thought of laying naked on a futon in the middle of a construction zone as sexy, but right now, with Iris, it totally is.

She fell asleep for a little while after round two of . . .
getting to know each other.
I keep thinking about the first time I saw her, when I borrowed that damn hammer. I could have borrowed one from anyone on this block but I chose Iris’s house. She hated me that day for making her late. I could see it in her eyes. In everything she did, really.