YEAR SEVEN (You didn't think we were done, did you?)
2013

AN: Here there be slight M delicate readers.

Carlton lay propped on an elbow, watching Karen sleep and occasionally granting himself permission to touch—to lightly trace the perfect arches of her brows, the full, relaxed curve of her mouth, the delicate jut of her collarbones where the collar of her shirt fell open. It was the latter that gave him pause. Sure, Karen was a naturally slender woman, but he didn't recall her collarbones or even the proud, strong lines of her jaw or cheekbones ever being quite so prominent before.

She'd lost weight. Weight she really didn't need to lose, he fretted, as he lightly stroked her forearm down to her wrist, circling it between thumb and forefinger with too much room to spare—even taking the length of his own fingers into account. She'd done a good job of masking it on the job—her well-cut suits in dark colors giving the illusion of substance—but she hadn't fooled him. With each day her cheeks had hollowed further and the elegant column of her neck had taken on a new fragility and he had grown increasingly furious.

With Richard, because by God, didn't the man see that the mother of his child—the woman he allegedly wanted to reestablish a life with—was literally wasting away?

With Karen, because by God, regardless of what her choice was, did it matter if cost her health? And if the cost was her health, was it really worth it? Was it the right choice?

Furious, above all, at himself, because by God, he should have fought for them. For her.

She stirred, as if in response to his internal turmoil and he stilled immediately. She needed to rest—something else that had become painfully evident as the weeks had passed and the shadows beneath her eyes had deepened. As with her weight loss, she'd done an admirable job hiding the dark circles with makeup and sunglasses. Once upon a time he would never have noticed. Or cared… much. But God, it was Karen—how could he not notice?

More importantly, how could he not care? It was Karen.

Hell yeah, he'd been angry—he may have known there was no way they'd be the quote/unquote friends with which she'd tried to appease him, both of them knowing it the whole time for utter BS—but there was no way he wasn't going to look out for her.

Someone had to, especially since she resolutely refused to do it herself.

Carlton understood, especially after all the therapy, that he maybe took the caretaker role a little too seriously, but what else was he supposed to do? Where women were concerned, it was what he knew. What he'd grown up doing.

The primary difference here was, unlike Lulu and his mother and Victoria and even Marlowe, Karen hadn't ever expected it of him.

Which was maybe why it made it all the more important.

She stirred again, the motion turning her into him and causing her shirt to ride up, exposing a sliver of skin.

Crap. He really shouldn't—he really, really shouldn't. He knew that. And hadn't he just been berating himself over how much she needed her rest? But she was in his arms, head finding a perfect niche against his shoulder, her breathing steady and warm against his neck, and dammit, he was only human and she was so very alive and with him.

By choice.

Very carefully, and cursing himself for weakness the entire time, he placed his hand on her waist, his palm covering the exposed skin while his fingers came to rest on the hem of her shirt. An instant later, more skin met his touch as she stretched slightly, her breasts pressing into his side with a delicious pressure that made his breath catch.

"You feel nice," she mumbled, her lips brushing his neck.

"I'm sorry." He tried to draw back but found himself held firmly in place by her arm snaking around his waist and lower down, her foot hooking over his ankle.

She gazed up at him, dark eyes glowing in the early evening light bathing the room. "Generally 'nice' doesn't mean 'stop.'"

He shook his head. "I didn't mean to wake you up." Once again he tried to pull away and once again, found himself firmly held in place.

"And I didn't mean to fall asleep."

Her voice was wry, which perversely brought his protective instincts surging to the surface once again.

"You've had a hell of a day—you needed the rest."

In response, she looked around the room, intent and narrow-eyed, assessing her surroundings. As her gaze returned to his face, she appeared to study him as intently—assessing him. Already knowing it for a lost cause, he nevertheless tried for nonchalant as he repeated, "You needed your rest."

After a long, sinuous stretch that brought her body even more fully in contact with his and left Carlton's vision slightly blurred, Karen relaxed, settling herself more comfortably—more… intimately against him. Good God, for as little space as they were taking up they could have easily stayed on his sofa, but the bed had seemed to make so much more sense.

In theory.

Nice sheets—blankets, even. Fluffy comforter. Air that was gently scented with some artsy-fartsy glass jar oil diffuser thingie to which Marlowe had introduced him and that he had found he liked, though he pooh-poohed it at the time. After his bride-to-be's ignominious departure he'd dumped the original diffuser thingie as was right and proper only to find himself, weeks later, replacing it. Different shape to the jar and definitely a different scent—no sultry jasmine or gardenia, no sir. Far too frilly and girly. He'd instead opted for a cleaner cedar. Strong. Masculine. Softened just a bit with a smoky undertone of amber because hell, it was his bedroom and making it more relaxing and inviting and less in-your-face was perfectly acceptable, dammit.

The day after his purchase of said diffuser thingie he'd caught a whiff of Karen's perfume.

A soft feminine vanilla—with a smoky undertone of… amber.

Couldn't even bring himself to be embarrassed. He was too happy to have something of her close by. Especially after their kiss and their relationship's subsequent screeching halt.

Which probably made him a masochist of some stupidly high order, but then again, what else was new?

But he digressed. Gently scented air, yes. Guaranteed relaxation. And his primary reason for carrying her to his bed with no—or at least, not many—ulterior motives: far more room for her to stretch out.

Yes.

In theory.

The reality had had her refusing to let him go far, even in sleep, stirring restlessly when he tried to ease back after having gently placed her on the bed. In an effort to make certain she remained asleep, he'd perched on the edge of the mattress, stroking her hair until she appeared to settle down. But when he'd tried once again to slip away, her brows had drawn together, one hand flailing until it latched onto his arm. Helpless, Carlton had heeded her silent demands and eased himself down alongside her. Only then had she settled fully, her breathing evening out into a steady, hypnotic rhythm that had drawn him under for a short sleep of his own. But the feel of her in his arms , his instinct to keep watch and protect, had served to keep him on the razor's edge of awareness until he finally found himself propped on an elbow and studying her lovely features in a rare state of repose.

So, so pretty.

His breath caught again as Karen slipped the hand resting on his back beneath the hem of his t-shirt.

"You kind of had a hell of a day, too," she said softly, her fingers rubbing slow, methodical circles on his skin that sent little electrical charges skittering along his spine. In spite of the overload of sensation, he nevertheless managed a decent approximation of a dismissive snort. He thought.

"I didn't lose my job."

She was silent, not that it mattered. Because damn her, that steady brown gaze said it all. And in the most perfect way possible.

No pity. Not a drop of sympathy from which he would naturally recoil. Just… empathy. Understanding. And deep within the dark depths, an undeniable spark of anger. Unmistakable if only because if there was anything with which he was intimately familiar, it was Karen Vick's Anger—quiet, deadly, and oh, so effective.

He couldn't help but smile, thinking that Harris Trout had no idea who he was messing with.

Still, though—she needed to save her anger. It was wasted on his behalf.

"It's not the same, Karen."

"The hell it's not," she all but growled, her nails digging into his skin and causing the electrical charges to wind around from his spine to his gut and points south. Lord, there had to be something twisted about him at some fundamental level that a fierce, angry Karen turned him on to such an unbearable degree.

"It's not." When her mouth firmed into the stubborn, you-will-not-argue-with-me-Carlton-Lassiter line he knew so well, he added, "We can talk about it later."

The fingers of one hand toyed with her hair while the other remained still on her waist, despite an intense desire to move, to soothe, to accept the invitation she offered with the subtle arching of her body against his and the gentle motion of her foot against his ankle. Coupled with the way the hand on his back had relaxed and resumed tracing lazy circles, it was a miracle he hadn't dissolved into a puddle of fried synapses and hormones. But he held still, knowing once he started, there would be no stopping and he needed to be sure.

"Can we?"

Carlton looked down into her face, easily reading her unspoken question of would there actually be a later? But he'd warned her—if she was coming into his home, it had best be with the forethought and knowledge she wasn't leaving any time soon.

Guess she needed to be sure too.

"We can," he assured her, finally allowing the hand on her waist to move, sliding over her stomach and smoothly undoing the lowest button.. "We can talk about anything." He allowed himself a brief caress of the smooth skin his action had revealed. "We can talk about everything."

"We do have to talk though, Carlton," she said somewhat breathlessly as her hand twitched against his back and the motion of her foot turned jerky and irregular, as if she'd lost momentary control over her muscles, which sent Carlton's alpha male tendencies into hyperdrive.

He undid another button. "Yes, we do." Then another. "And we will."

He continued slipping buttons free while gently pushing her to her back to allow him greater access. He studied the play of his hand against the smooth as silk skin of her abdomen, marked with a handful of faint, almost imperceptible scars that gave him the briefest of pauses until he realized what must have caused them. Lowering his head, he pressed reverent kisses to the few visible above the waistband of her slacks, knowing there were likely more and planning in his head exactly how he would pay homage to them. Repeatedly. Because, damn.

With a final kiss, his gut clenching at the subtle fluttering of her muscles beneath his lips, he pushed himself up. Face to face, his hands propped on the mattress either side of her head, his gaze ranged up her body: the smooth, flat abdomen, the gentle slopes of her breasts encased in white satin and lace that was surprisingly erotic despite the innocent shade. The long column of her neck, her pulse visibly beating at the base, her strong stubborn jaw and the delicate line of her nose. Her silky, honey blonde hair tumbled across his pillow, eyes wide and turned even darker with an intoxicating combination of stunned anticipation and sultry knowing, skin flushed a deep rose, and that lovely, sensual wide mouth parted—waiting—for him.

As he watched, the tip of her tongue emerged, whether by accident or design he neither knew nor cared—all he knew was that it dragged across her lower lip in a slow, devastating caress, leaving behind a damp sheen that he longed to taste. That he knew he would be tasting.

Soon.

Very, very soon.

But he had to make one thing exceedingly clear to her.

"We will talk, Karen," he repeated. Slowly, he lowered his hips, adjusting as she parted her thighs and allowed him room to lower himself further. He ground himself against her, relishing how perfectly her body cradled his and how the friction of their clothes between them somehow added to the charged eroticism of the moment, acting as an aphrodisiac of sorts. Her body warmed beneath his, the arousal rolling off her in waves as he circled his hips, letting her feel how hard he was for her—how much he wanted her.

She shifted beneath him, bending one leg to allow him more room between her thighs, her hands curling into his shoulders as she sighed. A sound that conveyed that she was ready for whatever he'd say next.

"But right now, talking's the last thing I want to do."

One brow rose in challenge as the corner of her mouth curved up in a smile that was so sultry and so inviting—so damned sure she was ready for whatever he'd say next.

But her voice remained deceptively mild as she drawled, "Oh?"

A smile of his own crossed his face as he leaned down, slowly enough for him to catch the slight shift in her expression—the surprise and the sudden uncertainty that maybe, just maybe, no matter what the hell gossip she might have heard, she wasn't ready. With another purposeful grind—increasing the pressure until he heard her gasp and felt her shudder lightly beneath him—he brought his face alongside hers and with his lips brushing her ear whispered exactly what he wanted to do. In the bluntest, most explicit language in his arsenal.

And gathered her close as she shuddered and fell apart beneath him.

Oh yeah, they'd talk.

But given the promise in this beginning, it wouldn't be for a long while yet.

A very long while.