Fascinated, Kat watched his tongue as it flicked up, down, and around. How could eating a cookie be so sensual, for God’s sake? She cleared her throat and pushed his work toward him. He put the two cookie parts back together and rested them carefully on a napkin.

Carter perused the paper in front of him. He looked up to see her staring at the remains of his Oreo. “What? You want my cookie?”

“You … um, you only eat the inside?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “I don’t really care for the rest of it. You’re free to have the side I haven’t had my tongue all over.”

Her cheeks flamed. “No. I’m good. Thank you.”

“Well, the offer’s there. And don’t worry”—he dropped his voice—“I won’t tell, either.”

Kat held her smile. Barely. “Tell me what you know about this poem.”

He glanced down. “Well, well. This is quite a change from ‘Tichborne’s Elegy.’ You make me blush.”

Kat waved her hand for him to continue.

“ ‘The Flea’ by Donne takes a usually insignificant action—killing a flea—and turns it into a sexually deviant metaphor.”

“Sexually deviant?” Kat questioned with a thick throat. His dark gaze and sexy smirk were not what she needed to stay focused and professional.

Carter dropped his chin. “Don’t get coy with me, Peaches. You know as well as I do the poem is about Donne wanting to fuck his mistress.”

The way his mouth curved around the word “fuck” made Kat’s pulse race. “Care to elaborate?”

“When Donne talks of the blood that the flea has taken from both him and his mistress, he’s talking about sex, their bodies coming together.”

“Hmm,” Kat mused, keeping her eyes on the table and away from the devastatingly long lashes that swept over Carter’s cheekbones.

Carter shifted his chair closer to her. “Is that an I agree with everything you just said, Carter hmm, or a You have no fucking clue what you’re talking about hmm?”

“No, no, you’re absolutely right,” Kat said, looking down at the table, cursing her choice of poem. What the hell had she been thinking?

Without word or hesitation, Carter pushed her hair behind her ear and lifted her face to his. The sensation of his callused fingers against her skin shot through her body like a bullet.

“Peaches,” he murmured. “Where are you? You’re miles away.”

“I was just thinking … I know there’s a critique on this poem here somewhere.” She pulled her chin from his fingers and stood up. “I’ll go and find it. Why don’t you make some notes on your copy so we can discuss them when I get back?”

She hurried toward the shelves holding all the literature and critical works of each of them. She had to get away from him.

* * *

Carter watched her go and slouched down in his seat. He picked up another Oreo and began to lick.

Had he done too much with the hair-and-chin thing? Fuck if he knew. He didn’t want her to think he was taking advantage of the no-guard, no-camera situation, although he’d thought about nothing but that since the minute he’d woken up. Dammit, recently she was all he thought about.

Three Oreos later, she still wasn’t back. He checked the time on his cell and blew out an impatient breath.

“Fuck this,” he grumbled, standing from his chair. He shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered in the direction she’d disappeared.

“Peaches?” he stage-whispered, searching each aisle.

He’d checked four of the motherfuckers before he finally found her standing on a tall ladder, reaching for a book on the highest shelf. He walked up to her, slowly and silently, his eyes level with the backs of her calves. He couldn’t help but lick his lips at the sight of the soft creamy skin. She hadn’t noticed him standing there, leaning against the shelves, tracing the curve of her leg with his gaze. His hand twitched of its own volition and, before he had any comprehension of what he was doing, he was reaching out to stroke the back of her knee.

“Carter!”

He jumped at her screech but then righted himself as she wobbled on the step and slipped back, grabbing at the books in an effort to stop her fall. He clutched at her waist, grazing the undersides of her magnificent boobs, making sure she didn’t hit the floor. She landed against him, resulting in a resounding “Oomph” when his back collided with the opposite bookshelf.

“Seriously, Carter, that’s twice today you’ve scared the hell out of me,” she grumbled, pushing away from him.

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” he muttered, rubbing the bottom of his spine. “I just saved your life.”

“You’re the one who made me fall,” she pointed out.

She’d taken a step back from him. What the hell was that about? He shifted near her, placing the flat of his palm against the spines of the books at the side of her face. He could smell her hair. Fuck. It did still smell of peaches.

“Is everything all right, Miss Lane?”

The two of them startled at Mrs. Latham’s voice. Carter blinked, realizing how close they’d been standing to each other.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Peaches replied to the old woman, who was eyeing Carter. He smirked.

“I heard a scream.” She adjusted her glasses.

“Yeah,” Carter interrupted. “That was me. I saw a spider. Fucking huge. I’m terrified of them. Kat saved me.”

He flashed her his trademark smile to seal the deal, but the small librarian didn’t look impressed.

“Well, as long as you’re okay, Miss Lane.”

“I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. Latham,” Peaches assured her.

The old lady took one more disapproving look at Carter before disappearing back toward her desk. Peaches collapsed into giggles. He laughed, too, watching her nose crease up and emit a small snort.

“Spiders,” she managed.

“What?” he asked, resting against the bookshelf next to her. “I hate them.”

She shook her head. “You’re one of a kind, Mr. Carter.”

He beamed. “You know it.”

They stared at each other for a small moment, seemingly lost in their own thoughts, before Peaches slapped the large book she’d grappled from the shelf into Carter’s stomach.

“Jesus!”

“Here,” she said with a smile. “Let’s find out more about your deviant sexual metaphors.”

Carter laughed and watched her fine ass walk away. “I thought you’d never ask,” he muttered, following quickly after her.

13

“Fuck it!”

Carter looked up from the screwed-up carburetor in his hand to see Max kicking the tire rim of the V8 Pontiac GTO he’d been cursing at for the past hour.

Carter walked over to him, wiping his grease-covered hands on a rag he pulled from his pocket. “Whoa, whoa, man, chill out. We don’t hit the ladies. What’s up?”

Max threw his hands through his hair. “This piece of crap.” He gestured toward the car.

Carter’s eyes widened in mock horror. He placed his palms against the driver’s door of the burnt-orange vehicle. “Don’t listen, baby,” he whispered to the car. “He doesn’t mean it.”

Max shook his head. “Whatever, man, I’m done.”

Carter frowned and propped his forearm on the car roof. “You’re done?” he asked in a baiting tone. “You give up so easy?”

“No,” Max snapped back defensively. “I just can’t—the fucking thing’s still idling high and— For fuck’s sake, Cam, turn that fucking shit down!”

Cam scurried to the stereo in the corner of the room and turned the Foo Fighters down to a dull roar.

Carter kept his stare on Max, knowing there was more to his bitching than the car’s high idling.

Max turned away from Carter’s meaningful look and opened a can of Coke he then proceeded to gulp. Once it was gone, he turned back to his friend, falling against the wall before sliding down. His eyes met Carter’s briefly before explaining quietly, “My blood sugar’s low, man.”

Having been diagnosed with hypoglycemia when he was a kid, Max managed to keep his blood sugar on a fairly normal level, but he was a cranky son of a bitch when it dropped. Carter reached into his back pocket and retrieved his bag of mini Oreos, throwing them at his friend.