Safety in Numbers
Yeah, we know how it goes, right? No ownership in psych, not even a grain of sand in the playground. TPTB own everything, I own nothing, no infringement intended, just having some fun playing "What if…"
So. We're actually nearing the end of this particular epic. In the meantime, go read Loafer's spectacular new Karlton: This is Not a Lassiet. Seriously magnificent stuff.
Carlton took a deep breath and softly rapped his knuckles against the door.
Chicken.
Yep. Clucking all the way. Because he could have used the doorbell. Hell, he could have used the key she'd given him weeks before. The key, though, was for emergencies and general use on weekends when Iris was with her father. It was early on a Tuesday evening, so he couldn't really be faulted for not using the key.
The doorbell, however…
Bawk, bawk, you lily-livered pansy.
Yep.
On his second knock, a face appeared in the sidelight beside the front door, smaller and much lower to the ground than expected. He shamelessly felt a small wave of relief as it swung open, allowing him a reprieve—however brief.
"Boy, is Mommy mad at you."
He sighed and dropped to a knee. Gazing into Iris' solemn face, so like her mother's, he asked, "How mad?"
"Remember when I borrowed her favorite pretty shoes to pretend I was Detective O'Hara?"
Carlton cringed. Iris had borrowed a pair of Karen's shoes—evening shoes sporting some damned Frenchy name Carlton could barely pronounce and that had cost approximately the same amount as his monthly condo fees—and had proceeded to playact O'Hara apprehending bad guys. In the back yard. After a rainstorm.
Needless to say, the shoes were trashed, Iris sprained her ankle skidding around in the mud and had ended up grounded for a week, O'Hara very nearly along with her for lacking the common sense to wear more practical shoes on the job. Carlton himself had temporarily wound up in the doghouse for being dumb enough to wonder out loud why women spent so much money on shoes they might only wear once or twice a year.
Karen had responded by stalking to his guest room closet and yanking open the door to reveal his Civil War reenactment uniforms—custom-tailored to his form and meticulously accurate down to the tiniest detail.
He'd resolved to shut up after that.
Unfortunately, he didn't think shutting up would work so well here.
"I did something pretty stupid, Iris."
Folding her arms, she cocked her head and studied him—so like her mother with that steady, assessing stare. "You didn't borrow her shoes, too, did you?"
"If he did, we're going to have bigger problems than I thought."
Carlton's stood slowly, his heart springboarding off one of his ribs and lodging itself in his throat, restricting his ability to breathe and with it, think coherently. All he could manage was—
Karen.
Just… Karen.
Barefoot, which was why he hadn't heard her approach—wearing jeans and a t-shirt, hair disheveled around her face as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel—altogether beautiful and everything he'd been dreaming of.
The expression on her face, though—
His heart sank at her closed-off expression yet even so, lovesick idiot that he was, all he could think was—
Karen…
"Baby, go wash your hands and set the table for dinner. Dishes and silverware are already on the counter."
Carlton felt a tug at one of his hands. As he glanced down, Iris asked, "Are you going to stay, Carlton?"
With his free hand he brushed a strand of hair back off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. "I'd like to, if it's okay with your mom," he replied quietly with a quick glance at Karen. That opaque, shuttered expression revealed nothing until he looked in her eyes and what he saw there sent a shaft a pain through him.
Wounded.
Those large dark eyes that couldn't hide anything from him revealed a wounded hurt that only deepened the longer their gazes held.
He sucked.
Like a pool vacuum skimming the bottom of a disgusting, slime-ridden, hadn't-been-cleaned-in-decades pool.
Yet Spencer had assured him—multiple times—that she wanted him back. Enough to threaten Spencer with grievous bodily harm if the idiot didn't bring him back.
Carlton was accustomed to inadvertently hurting people he loved.
To be wanted in spite of that? That was new. So he didn't know what to look for.
Didn't know what to believe.
"There are three plates already out, Iris."
Little black dots swam in his field of vision as he finally started breathing again.
"Guess I'm staying, then," he said to the little girl who grinned and squeezed his hand once more before running off toward the kitchen.
Finally alone with her, he steeled himself to meet Karen's gaze once more—to submit himself to whatever verbal tongue-lashing she saw fit to deliver. Frozen, he watched as she slowly and unhesitatingly approached, blinking hard, until she was pressed against him, holding him tight, breath warm against his chest.
"You ever do anything that stupid again, I swear to God, Carlton—"
Her voice caught as beneath his hands, her back shuddered.
Finally, he articulated the only thing he'd been able to think since the moment he'd left her on Sunday.
"Karen."
Lowering his head, he rested his cheek on her hair and closed his eyes, breathing her in as he tightened his hold, trying like hell to make her a part of him he'd never be without again.
"Karen."
Drawing back slightly, she cupped his face her in her hands, staring up at him with damp eyes. "You're an idiot, but you're my idiot, you got that? My job isn't worth a damn without you to come home to."
Well. What could he say to that?
Other than "Yes, ma'am?"
Except she hated being called "ma'am."
A lot.
So if he said it, it would likely earn him additional ass-kicking.
So what could he say?
She saved him from having to say anything by the simple measure of kissing him hard, her tongue demanding immediate entry that hell no, he wasn't about to deny. One hand buried in her hair, the other splayed low across her back, he held her close to where the heat was rapidly building, his tongue stroking hers insistently while a tiny voice in the back of his mind reminded him that Iris was but a room away.
Karen seemed to remember the same thing as she drew back with a quick glance over her shoulder. As she turned back, he took in her already swollen mouth, the skin around it abraded from the stubble he hadn't bothered shaving off and sue him for feeling a wave of satisfaction that she was breathing every bit as hard as he was. She looked so damned tempting, he couldn't help but lean down and soothe that soft, reddened skin with the tip of his tongue, the blood rushing through his ears at her quick intake of breath.
"You're staying tonight, you know," she whispered into his mouth.
Now it was his turn to draw back, attempting to gather his scrambled brain cells into something not utterly affected by hormones.
Yeah. Right.
"Are you sure?" he finally managed. "Iris—"
"I don't use words I don't mean," she broke in, the words harkening back to their first night together. "You're staying—" For a moment, she looked uncertain. "If you want."
"I want." He stroked from her shoulders down to her hands, taking them in his and lifting them to his mouth. "I want everything, Karen," he whispered against her fingers, some of his fear bleeding through the words.
"Oh, Carlton," she said softly as she freed one hand and stroked it through his hair, her touch soothing and arousing all at once. "Oh, Carlton," she repeated, her tone also equal parts soothing and arousing, "you'd better get used to getting it."