Until Tomorrow: A Flirting With Trouble Novel (11 page)

But Wyatt doesn’t answer the phone on Saturday night.

He doesn’t answer it on Sunday, either.

I give him a break on Monday, considering I’m starting to feel a little lame and a lot desperate, but on Tuesday, I have to call to see if we’re meeting for our tutoring session or not.

He doesn’t answer his phone when I call in the afternoon, so I send a text.

Are we meeting tonight or not?

After a few minutes, my phone pings with his answer.

7 pm. My apartment.

I’m irritated at his response for the simple fact that I feel like he should say something in reference to blowing me off. Still, at least half of me is relieved I haven’t lost my only regular tutoring client, so I’m not going to rock the boat any more than I need to. I need to keep the paycheck, at least. Instead, I decide that looking hot as fuck and acting completely aloof and unaffected is the best potential game plan.

So, yeah, basically I’m playing fucking games. And I know it. It’s goddamned annoying.

But when I get to Wyatt’s, my armor of a sexy, cleavage-bearing button-up shirt and tight-in-the-ass jean skirt is forgotten at the sound of shouting from within the apartment.

“I’m telling you that I’m doing the best I can,” I hear Wyatt say firmly.

“And I’m telling you that that is bullshit, Wyatt. You just said that you stood up—that you tried to walk on your own just the other night.”

The second voice is Wanda, his physical therapist, I think. I press my ear to the door just as Wyatt responds.

“I didn’t try to walk. I stood up, unsupported, and fell right back down. I’m not asking for crutches or any other resource. I’m saying I’m not ready to move forward without the wheelchair.”

“I think you’re underestimating yourself,” a third voice says. This one is softer, more gentle. A woman who clearly cares about Wyatt. I can feel myself bristle in irritation. My body is tense and cocked, like I’m ready to throw a punch. I’m not entirely sure why my body is reacting this way, but it’s very clearly displeased by the presence of another woman in Wyatt’s life.

And I’m preoccupied enough to not realize that someone is approaching the door, so when it flies open, I’m basically caught with my face pressed up against it like some kind of weird creeper. I jump back to see a woman wearing a doctor’s coat standing in front of me. She’s older, white-haired, and serious-looking. The frown of disapproval on her face is unmistakable.

“Can I help you?”

I clear my throat. “I’m here for Wyatt . . . I’m his—”

“Dr. York,” Wyatt says, wheeling over to the door, “this is Carson Tucker. She’s helping me with my college courses.”

“Oh, well, hello there.”

Dr. York’s expression softens as she reaches out a hand and shakes mine.

“Wyatt has said you’ve been instrumental in his refocusing on his studies, Ms. Tucker. I appreciate the commitment you’ve made to him.”

“Oh.” I blink at her, unsure of what to say to that. “Well, thank you.”

“Dr. York and Wanda were just leaving,” Wyatt says. His tone isn’t angry or rude, but it’s very clear and leaves no room for misinterpretation. Both women give me tight smiles as they exit, murmuring their good-byes.

“Sorry about that,” Wyatt says, closing the door firmly behind me. “I didn’t expect them to stay this long.”

I swallow, then shake my head. “No. It’s fine.”

I walk further into the room, trying to get my bearings. I had a plan of what I was going to say to Wyatt and how I was going to say it. Now I feel completely thrown.

I turn and sit on the edge of the couch, taking a deep breath. Then I meet Wyatt’s gaze, which is a mixture of wary and uncomfortable.

“Do your doctors often pay you house-call visits?” I ask him. He shrugs.

“Not usually. But Dr. York is a neurologist and I’ve skipped my last two appointments, so she roped Wanda into turning my PT into a psych session today.”

I frown. “Why have you skipped your appointments?”

“Because, Carson,” he says, giving me an exasperated sigh, “there’s nothing they can tell me that I don’t already know.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Well, considering you’re not a neurologist, something tells me you’re wrong.”

Wyatt scrubs a hand over his face. For the first time since we’ve been spending time together on a regular basis, I can see cracks in his carefully constructed façade. So often, he’s seemed calm and cool. Like he’s managed to roll with the punches. Now I can see chinks in that armor. We’re both completely used to covering ourselves with protective gear of a metaphorical sort. Maybe it just takes one to know one. Or see through one.

“Can we just focus on my project?” he asks, his voice low. He sounds tired, so I just nod and dig his folder out of my bag.

“That’s fine.”

But once I’ve opened the folder and spread the paperwork out on the table, I slam both palms down on the table.

“No, you know what?” I glare at him. “It’s not fine.”

“Carson . . .” he says, his voice exhausted. But I shake my head.

“I know that this weekend sucked royally—and I’m sorry. Really, I am. My brother is an asshole of epic proportions.”

“We don’t need to rehash this—I swear, I’m fine with Friday night.”

“Well, maybe you are, but I’m not.” I spread my fingers wide and take a deep breath. “Going to The Factory was hard for me. Really hard. I faced my fears—and so did you. Actually, you did more than that, Wyatt—you stood up. You are relying on your wheelchair and you might not even need to do that. You’re using all that as a crutch to justify you not moving forward.”

He gives me a warning look.

“Carson . . .”

“Tell me about Hopkins, Wyatt.”

He blinks at me, frowning. Then the realization hits his eyes.

“Fucking Evans, man. When did he talk to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I shake my head. “You have an amazing opportunity—your life seems to be filled with amazing opportunities that you just keep ignoring. Or pretending don’t exist. Or both.”

I watch Wyatt swallow, his throat working through the motion with some kind of torturous slowness. When he looks at me again, his expression is unreadable.

“I could say the same for you, you know.”

I narrow my gaze. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means”—he clears his throat—“that you’re avoiding finishing school. You should be teaching, Carson. You are talented—you are an amazing instructor who could do great things for her students, but you’re hiding. You’re fucking hiding here with me. You know that teaching isn’t supposed to be like this.”

“What is it supposed to be like then?” I practically hiss. I push my chair back from the table and cross my arms. “If I’m not helping you, we’re wasting everyone’s time.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t helping me,” Wyatt says, his tone almost gentle. It’s infuriating.

“Then what are you saying?”

Wyatt wheels around the table and comes closer to me. Slowly, he reaches up and pushes a lock of hair behind my ear.

“All I’m saying, gorgeous, is that you and I are both hiding in our own way. And, yeah, I have opportunities waiting for me. But I’m getting to them in my own time. Just like you.”

“So you’re not avoiding them?” I ask, one brow raised.

“Nope.”

“And you weren’t avoiding me?” I ask slowly. “When you didn’t call me back?”

Wyatt licks his lips, then leans forward and presses his mouth to mine.

“I wasn’t avoiding you. Friday was intense. I had a shit day on Saturday with PT and I slept most of Sunday and Monday. But you’re here now and I don’t want to fight with you. I just want to move forward.”

“You could have at least texted me,” I counter. He looks apologetic as he leans closer.

“I know. I really am sorry.”

He kisses me again and his tongue flicks out against my mouth, questing for entrance. I allow it and for a moment, our mouths explore each other. After a long minute, Wyatt pulls back and looks into my eyes.

“What do you want, Carson?”

I chew on my bottom lip. “Right now?”

He nods almost imperceptibly. “Right fucking now.”

“All I want right now,” I say slowly, “is to feel your hands on me. I just want to feel alive.”

Wyatt freezes for a moment, our gazes locked, and then, before I can even breathe, he dips his head and captures my mouth, this time with more vigor and less gentleness. He deepens the kiss and wraps his arms tightly around me. I relish his tongue sweeping into my mouth, the soft scrape of his teeth on my inner lower lip. He groans as I suck on his tongue.

“Fuck, Carson. God, I want you so fucking bad.”

I moan in response, running my hands up over the muscles of his back and shoulders, then up into his hair. I pull lightly as the strands slide between my fingers and he begins kissing me even more ravenously. Like he’s starving for me. Like he’ll never be full.

Slowly, he pulls back. He motions for me to follow him from the living room into the kitchen, then through the small hallway to his bedroom. Once inside, he closes the door behind us, then begins to move toward me. I back up, then I sit down on the edge of the bed when the back of my legs hit the edge.

“Is this okay?” Wyatt asks. “Being in here . . . right now . . . with me?”

I blink rapidly, then nod.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Absolutely yes.”

I feel my nipples hardening against my sheer bra and I shiver as Wyatt slides his hands up into my hair. He pulls the strands in a delicious way and the pain is almost intoxicating. The lust rushes up and through me like a freight train.

“I want to see you,” he says gruffly.

His voice is slightly strained but his hands turn gentle as he begins to unbutton my blouse. But that tenderness disappears when the little pearl buttons refuse to cooperate. With one sexy eyebrow lifted, he takes both sides of my shirt and tugs. The buttons give way and I watch his gaze slide down to my breasts and belly. My skin is milky white and my dusky nipples are visible beneath the pale silk of my bra.

Wyatt doesn’t waste any time. He ducks his head and captures a nipple in his mouth, tonguing it through the fabric. I grip his biceps with both hands.

“Oh, god,” I moan.

I let my hand migrate up into his hair, feeling the short silky strands against my palm. I thread my fingers through it as his mouth moves along the valley between my breasts, giving the skin lush, open mouth kisses until he reaches my other nipple and nibbles at it. Losing patience with the fabric, he dips his thumb beneath and bares it, then devours my breast with his teeth and tongue.

“Fuck, Carson,” he says against my skin. He slides his free hand up the inside of my bare thigh.

Thank god I didn’t wear stockings.

Thank god my panties are anything but substantial.

As he pushes himself up out of the wheelchair and begins to lay me back all at the same time, I attempt to steady my breathing and my spinning head by beginning to be less of a bystander. I run my hands down the front of Wyatt’s well-worn flannel, then begin to unbutton it, revealing an expanse of taut tan skin that male models would envy. I drag my nails down over his abdomen and watch the muscles there flex into a six-pack. When my hand reaches his belt, he sort of growls. His eyes never leave mine as he reaches down and begins to remove my shoes, one at a time.

“Still okay?” he asks as he tosses my heels aside. I swallow hard, but nod, unable to speak.

He slides both hands up the sides of my thighs and I begin to squirm with my need. When his fingers reach my waist, he lets them travel to the button and zipper of my skirt. He makes quick work of those, then motions for me to elevate my hips as he slides the denim from my body.

I sit before him in nothing but my panties, a tiny black lacey pair that I’m really happy I chose to wear considering someone is actually seeing them. Wyatt sucks in a breath as his palms coast along my skin, from thighs to knees to calves, then back up. He slides both hands between my legs then pulls them apart. I force myself not to whimper as he lowers his mouth to my left thigh, giving a wet, sucking kiss that travels from one thigh to the other.

“Your skin is like a miracle,” he says, his voice dark with passion. He lets a finger travel up farther until it hits the embarrassingly wet gusset of my panties. He slides the finger beyond the elastic and into the wetness beneath and I fall back, my eyes closing, as that single finger breaches my slick opening and slides deep inside me.

“God, yes.”

I moan the words, which must spur Wyatt on. He surges up, presses his mouth to the top of my mound, then just below—dead center on my clit. I can feel my eyes rolling back in my head, my lids fluttering, but I couldn’t possibly focus on anything of any importance right now. Because right now my entire being—heart, soul, and certainly libido—is completely absorbed by the sensations at my very core.

“You taste as good as you look, gorgeous.” Wyatt’s words—the way he speaks to me—well, dirty talk, especially by a clearly practiced talker can be as hot as touch itself.

But, of course, there’s a lot to be said for touch, too.

Wyatt’s tongue flicks out, curling around my clit before pulling it into the warmth of his mouth. He surrounds my wetness with wetness of his own, lapping and sucking at me as though I’m a dessert he wants to savor—a treat he was dying to indulge in.

Using one hand to hold the cloth of my panties away from my body, he uses the other to spread me open for him. I know he’s staring at my flesh, examining and admiring just how wet he’s managed to get me. I manage to prop myself up on my elbows just in time to see him dive back into my wetness. His eyes meet mine as his tongue enters me and I almost swoon with the delicious sensation of having his tongue fill me again and again.

Moments later, he replaces his tongue with a finger, then two as he moves back to my clit, sucking hard until it presses against his teeth while he fucks me hard with his fingers. I’m so close to begging for him to fuck me that I consider bribery or some other method of convincing him. But when he flicks his tongue over my clit, then grazes it again with his teeth, I’m propelled up and over a peak I’m not entirely positive I knew existed.