CHAPTER SIX
LIAM
Every now and then, Wells gets a wild hair up his ass and throws us into full-on SEALs training. The man is a machine, always has been—fast, agile, matchless stamina. Unbeatable. On mornings like this, I generally assume his goal is twofold: Remind us how age hasn’t touched him—he’s still the best. And get one of us to puke.
Won’t be me, asshole.
My smoking years bite me on days like this, but I manage fine—with the feel of a boulder strapped to my chest. No one knows that shit but me though. Gage is at the biggest disadvantage. While Wells, Ty, and I are all taller than the average SEALs member, that’s nothing new. But Gage has bulked up to twice the muscle mass he had back then. He’s a big motherfucker. That slows a guy down and makes every damn hanging exercise twice as taxing. If anyone’s puking today, it’s the Big Guy.
After our usual morning routine of running, swimming, push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups, Chief had us endure two hours of log PT in our sopping clothes, followed by combative shooting drills. While it’s nothing compared to Hell Week, he’s determined to stretch us. Particularly grueling after being up into the wee hours of the night, drinking. He awoke us at dawn, after three hours of sleep.
Always testing.
Always preparing.
Now, we’re on the obstacle course. This one has twenty-one obstacles—about twice the size of the Ohio course. I’m currently on the second set of tires, alternating feet, heading toward the final three stations—the incline wall, spider wall, and vaults.
Heart pounding in my chest. Blood flow swishing in my ears. Muscles burning.
The best part about this a.m. slaughtering is that I can’t focus on Celeste and the way she pulverized me in that goddamn elevator. My cock was so hard that it ached. Worst case of blue balls in my life. I’ve never craved anyone that way. I wanted to throw her down and fuck her until she writhed beneath me, my name an erotic prayer on those luscious lips, loud enough for all of La Lune Noire to hear.
Christ, the feel of her heavy tits pressed against me—other-fucking-worldly. I was drunk on her cashmere smell, her silky skin, her sultry voice. And it seemed like she was right there with me. Not just with the sexual tension either.
There’s more to her—more than her beauty, her etiquette, her self-indulgent plight to land a position as First Lady, and her holier-than-thou bullshit. I saw it. That girl has skills, hidden talents, and is fucking smart—a trait I find sexy as hell. Not to mention how light and fun she was, volleying every damn line Cash threw at her with ease.
She’s so much edgier with me. The air she had about her the entire night was refreshing. Entrancing. I even noticed the brief pain she hid for Ivy’s sake when the wedding was brought up. She smiled through it, like she’s probably done for her best friend this whole past year, even though her whiskey eyes went hollow.
There’s no denying that I’m curious.
But it was a fucking grand gesture to admit that to her, so I’m pissed off that she shut me down like that. Right when I thought we were getting somewhere. Proving every impression I’d previously had. I’m caught between respecting her brazen stratagem and the desire to make her pay for playing me. If anyone’s going to pull that shit, it’s me.
Once we’re all through the course, Wells orders us to stand in the yard for our morning meeting, which is currently hours later than we normally conduct it. The sun is blazing, but the breeze is enough to bend the withering trees, so I’m not complaining. Better January than July.
He hammers us each with questions about our individual projects before moving on to security concerns. Only so much depth can be accomplished out here without our data in front of us, but he likes to evaluate our knowledge, see if we’re as invested as he expects. It’s a lot easier to answer questions when all the information is staring back at us. Thankfully, my mind is a vault of data. He’ll be hard-pressed to stump me, but he knows that.
Finally, his surly green eyes narrow on us, and I catch his telltale worry divot. “Thoughts on that motherfucker, Pruitt Lancaster?”
So, it wasn’t just me.“He was hiding something.”
“Agreed,” Gage says as sweat pours off his head like a dripping faucet. “At first, his lack of fear came off as a moron, unaware of who he was facing. But I don’t think that was it.”
“Like he expected us,” I finish. “Knew who he was facing.”
“Yep,” Gage agrees. “It’s a rare fucking day when a normal civilian isn’t pissing their pants as I’m staring them down. We all had our guns visible too.”
Wells paces in front of us, cussing under his breath. “Same thoughts I had.”
“You think he knows what Ivy’s position is?” Ty asks, chewing a hole in his cheek. “Or Wells’s? Knew we were going to be there? The only way that leaked would be through the Noires.”
I shake my head, humming in disagreement as I chug from my water bottle. “They only have a faint idea of what Ivy and Wells do, other than the erasing side of things, not enough to leak. Certainly not about KORT.”
“Maybe it’s simpler than that.” Wells halts his pace to take us in. “We’re so close to the issues of protecting Ivy regarding KORT business. That’s always our go-to concern. Maybe it wasn’t that.”
“Could’ve been about the Noires, knowing the girls had a connection to them.” Ty flips his water bottle end over end, catching it and casting his gaze to Wells. “Pruitt only mentioned Rena and Jax to Ryker. There’s something there.”
“I caught that too,” I say, recalling how it made my arm hairs stand up. It was right before he turned back to Celeste and called her Cee, his predatory leer devouring her figure, making my skin itch. “We need Axel and Ryker to fill in the gaps. Then, maybe we’ll understand if or what the connection is to the girls. Could be this mess with Frank. Maybe that Lancaster prick is tied up with the Skulls. He went right for Celeste.”
“With a genuine relationship,” Gage argues. “He doesn’t fit the profile of a Skull. Too preppy. But he could owe them. And he’s related to the Noires, holding sensitive information.” He wipes his forehead with his shirt. “Convenient.”
“Too convenient,” Wells grants. “Something doesn’t add up.”
My gut churns with a restless disquiet, which only complicates the puzzlement I’m battling over the sexy victor from last night. Ace. “I’ll dig into him today, although I also need to get a handle on Jensen for Ivy. Not as time sensitive, but I was hoping to ease her mind before the baby arrives.”
“Do both,” Wells orders. “And we’ll call Axel, see what we can get from him.”
Gage cracks his knuckles, features twisting in that bloodthirsty craze he wears sometimes. “If necessary, I can pay Pruitt a visit.”
Ty chuckles. He lives vicariously through Gage, admiring the way he can feed his demons without disappearing into them. A feat Ty can’t master.
Wells holds up a stand-down hand. “Let’s wait on that until we know more. Now, on to another pressing issue.”
He sets his piercing gaze on me.
What the hell did I do now?
“You and Celeste. What are we dealing with?”
“Meaning?” I shrug. “Didn’t we cover this yesterday morning? I was on my best behavior last night.”
“Until you locked yourself in the elevator with her,” Ty retorts with a devious smirk.
Great, I didn’t think anyone had noticed that.
If Ty starts his shit today, I will not hesitate to pummel his ass right in this field.
I laugh like it’s the most inconceivable conclusion to draw. “How do you know she didn’t lock me in the elevator with her? You saw how feisty she was last night.”
Like a feisty feline.
Their eye rolls, scoffs, and peeved grimaces suggest they’re not buying it. Not that I expected them to, but it bought me a minute to think … of nothing. I’ve got nothing if they launch an inquisition on me.Fucking Christ.
“Where is your goddamn head at, Graves?” Wells grits out his growling demand as he swipes his hand through his hair.
“My head is where it’s always been when it concerns Celeste.” I scrub my hand over my sweat-soaked stubble, too exhausted and stressed for this. “She’s impossible. A complete pain in the ass, grating on my every last nerve.”
He says nothing, but his boisterous roar rips through our hundred sixty acres to slice me like a knife.
“What the hell is that for, Chief?” I scan the other two jackasses to see them biting back laughter too. Motherfuckers.
Wells sighs, hands moving to his hips, head tilting with a patronizing slant. “Your description.”
“Fuck this.” I start walking toward the house, my hand flinging into the air. “No idea what the hell you’re getting at.”
The three plod after me, staying in step. Wells reaches for the back of my neck—a move reserved for mentor mode, which always parks right on my chest, suffocating me with uncomfortable emotion.
“Stop.” He waits until I forgo my trek and meet his eyes to continue. “The women who captivate men like us aren’t the pieces of ass you generally convince to drop their panties. They’re the pains in the ass—independent, doing-fine-without-you, crawl-under-your-skin women who fuck with your head.”
“Yeah,” Ty interjects with a chuckle. “You’re so fucked, man.”
“Shut the hell up,” I spit at all of them. “I’m nowhere near fucked. I’d like to fuck her. Is that what you want to hear? Because while she’s a pretentious bitch, she’s hot as sin. My dick is raging. That’s it.”
Jesus, that tastes like bile on my tongue.
“I’m just spitballing here,” Gage says with an uncharacteristic benevolent glint, ordinarily reserved for Ivy.
My throat dries. Regarding me, it’s not a good look on the Big Guy.
“Your whole Graves mantra is that you take whatever you fucking want—seize your pot of gold, right? So, maybe,” he drawls, “you like thinking of her as a pretentious bitch because then if she rejects you, it’s about her character flaw, not about yours.”
And I’m out. Again. “Get the fuck outta here, Dr. Phil. You want me to psychoanalyze your ass-backward way of viewing women? Got a year to set aside, Porter?”
I rarely snap his last name. It’s reminiscent of who he isn’t anymore, which triggers scathing memories of who screwed him over, but desperate times.
“Been throwing me under the damn bus a lot lately, Graves,” Gage snarls. “My views aren’t the ones disrupting the household.”
Disrupting the household?What the hell is wrong with everyone? I’ve been putting up with their crotchety dicks for years, keeping everything easygoing. One thorny week from me, and they mount their goddamn high horses.
“Makes sense,” Ty says, tromping alongside me. “You’ve never fucked anyone twice—that you know of—because you hate getting involved. Never chased anyone before, certainly not anyone with long-term potential. Even that shit with Ivy didn’t start until she was on Wells’s arm, essentially taking anything serious off the table. You’d never really looked at her before. That’s not true about Celeste, is it? But she’s got these politicians, except she doesn’t really want them … or maybe she does. Terrifying, huh? It’s got you acting like a damn lunatic.”
I break into a jog, ever thankful that I know this pain I’m feeling is weakness leaving my body. Pushing through. Unfortunately, the three men I’m trying to avoid have the same perseverance.
“Question is, which are you more terrified of?” Ty goes on, the other two content to observe this absurd assessment. “From where I’m standing, it sure looks different than it ever has before. But be sure before you make a move. You can’t fuck and forget Ivy’s best friend. That’s off-limits shit.”
That serves as well as a brick wall terminating my steps. As if he’s some goddamn saint who only seeks relationships—not one, mind you.
“Are you fucking serious right now?” I snipe. “You and your off-limits code of conduct, Ty. I wouldn’t do that.”
I totally would’ve done that last night. No question. The fucking part. Not the forgetting part because it isn’t forgetting in the sense of casting aside, if both parties know a night of mind-blowing orgasms is the only expectation. Plus, she’ll always be around in some regard because of Ivy. And she’s got plans, so … but that final prove it challenge she dished out confuses me. That wasn’t about sex. That was about proving I’m more.
Why does that matter to her? Why did it matter to me?
“Fucking hell,” I mutter.
Wells saunters closer, waving the guys off. “You know what Frank wants for her.” Not me. “And if things went poorly between you two, it would break Ivy. She’s already on edge with the way you interact, but it’s salvageable.”
“Roger that, Chief. Loud and fucking clear. I’ll give the princess a wide-ass berth.”
“Jesus Christ. I wasn’t done, Liam.” He grips the back of my neck again, his gaze as gentle as it gets. “We’ve always got you. If there’s more to this, you need to tell me, so I can get out ahead of it.”
“We can barely stand to be in the same room,” I say, exasperated, steeling my features. “What more could there be?”
It’s true, and yet, even when she was irritating, I felt drawn to whatever space she occupied. And now? After seeing how smooth and victorious she was last night, I’m more enamored than ever. But none of that is worth mentioning because it’s not what they’re making it out to be.
Celeste Carver and I would be a disaster.
Explosive.
In every imaginable way.
Images of her detonating assail me—her whimpers and moans and bellows of ecstasy, the feel of her trembling in my arms, both of us accelerating until we crash in a unified shattering.
Sweaty. Spent. Wrecked.
Her begging for more.
My cock twitches. Fuck.
“Fine,” he says, tone leery. “Make sure she keeps her date this week then.”
That is a prime example of how the Chief is a royal asshole sometimes. My molars grind at the thought of sending her out with another man. At least it will be that name-not-worth-screaming loser this time. Dustin.
“Will do,” I manage, fingers diving into my damp hair as we resume our trudge to the house.
When we close in on the final stretch, Ty smacks me on the back. “By the way, speaking of Lettie, I need you to take her to the stables on Monday. I’ve got a conference call with Ivy that interferes.”
“Done,” I say, ignoring his use of Lettie because aside from that grating on me, I’m torn between elation and torment. I’m not sure I can keep my word to not fuck her if I spend time alone with her. No need to share that though.
The second half of yesterday was spent nursing my foul mood and appeasing Ivy. We researched Jensen for hours—family tree, past deals, cabinet members, shopping habits. An exhaustive deep dive. She was right. She is obsessing. Unfortunately, I haven’t dug up anything of use—harder to gather on a guy in his mid-fifties. A lot of life was lived before the onslaught of accessible internet documentation. Paper trails are far more challenging to locate. But I trust Ivy’s gut. He’s not a good presidential pick for KORT, so that’s reason enough to oust him, but she also believes there’s something ominous to uncover.
We could simply manufacture a scandal to tank the polls—a tactic the O’Reillys, the family Ivy heads, and KORT have used in the past. But High Society is too pure for that. She won’t risk taking down a good man regardless of the benefit to her business endeavors. And she’s concerned the pregnancy has her instincts faltering, so she’s extra cautious. The other KORT chairs are mixed with how they view her honorable maneuvers. Balzano, the hospitality mogul, has a negative opinion on every move she makes. That only causes Ivy to dig her heels in more though, which is damn fun to watch.
Today, the housekeeping staff is here. On Sundays, Wells barricades Ivy in a room with one of us while the rest of us keep a diligent eye on the maids, chefs, and groundskeepers. None of them speak English or have US citizenship. We pay them an exorbitant amount of money and compile a hefty file on them and everyone they know and love. Wells doesn’t mess around with safety and security.
That means I’ll have limited interaction with Celeste since she’s holed up with Ivy, Ty, and Natasha, which is for the best. My head is pounding from the endless loop of confusion berating me over that fucking girl.
I barely slept last night, replaying everything the guys threw at me. So what if I like to seize the gold? I’ve earned that. No one’s ever handed me a damn thing. Until Wells, everyone I ever knew used me, stole from me, threw me away. Treated me like I was nothing. So, yes, I have a penchant for the out-of-reach prizes, especially with women. It serves a dual purpose. I entice a girl who shouldn’t be interested—winning—and she can’t get attached because of it—freedom.
While I haven’t partaken in any enticing for quite a while, the accusations weren’t out of left field. But Ty’s question about which terrified me more—Celeste wanting or not wanting the politicians courting her—was a shock to my system. Her anchoring to another future is the situation I’ve always sought—an easy one-and-done, in-and-out scenario—but the thought makes my stomach sour. And I fucking hate it.
So, I’m immersing myself in all things Pruitt Lancaster instead. He’s your typical coddled, rich-kid douchebag. Not much out of the ordinary there. He’s a junior associate at a cocksucker law firm, he still parties like he’s in college, and he enjoys extravagance. Looks like Pruitt has a proclivity for attending parties with blow. I doubt that’s a Skulls connection though. They tend to specialize in arms dealing over drugs, although there’s often some crossing of worlds. And while the recreational use fits, he didn’t exhibit signs of an addict. Could be a dealer. Had the confident swagger of one, and that would certainly give him false confidence.
That sends me scurrying down a labyrinth of rabbit holes that turn up nothing regarding the Skulls. Before I call Axel to see what he can offer, I decide to get a handle on the family tree, so whatever the Noires share makes more sense. Nothing points directly to the Noire family from what I can tell. Pruitt’s parents, Mark and Tilly Lancaster, have been married for thirty-five years. He has a deceased older brother. Mother’s maiden name is Welch. That freezes me because I did an in-depth ancestry on Welches yesterday. Couldn’t be the same ones.
I pull up that comprehensive inspection of the Jensen family tree, my spine tingling with anticipation. I’m onto something here. I can feel it. Once I set both family trees up on my side-by-side screens, it takes only seconds to see the connection.
Tilly Lancaster is the daughter of Sean and Glenda Welch. Sean has a sister, Maeve Welch, and guess who she birthed. Oliver Jensen, presidential candidate. That boils down to Pruitt’s mother and Oliver Jensen being first cousins. I can’t ascertain why it matters that these fuckers intersect, but this is too coincidental to ignore.
Oddly, I can find absolutely no relation to the Noires. Axel said Pruitt was a distant relative. Must be very distant.
After calling Wells in to see what I’ve uncovered, which is essentially nothing more than a stale breadcrumb, we decide to call Axel.
Wells sets his phone on my desk, the trilling ring reverberating in the room.
“Miss me already?” Axel chimes.
“Don’t go getting your dick hard,” Wells quips. “Liam is on with us. We need more info on the interaction with Pruitt.”
Axel balks. “No can do, brother. Certainly not over the phone. What’s your interest with it anyway?”
“Something was off with that motherfucker,” Wells hisses.
He wouldn’t characterize himself like Ivy as far as gut feelings, but enough years in our line of work, and sensing a reprobate is second nature. And with Pruitt, we all felt it.
“That’s fair, but again, what’s it to you?” Axel harps over the bells and pings of the casino floor.
I pull out my Zippo, snicking it open and closed. This could take a hot minute. The Noires hold everything close to the vest. Can’t fault them for it. Defending their house and giving little away are occupational hazards.
Wells yanks a fun-size bag of Sour Skittles out of his pocket, tearing it open as his jaw pulsates. “He took a keen interest in Ivy and Celeste. We’d like to rule out a security issue.”
Axel hums, which gradually builds to a chuckle. “Wells, I think you’re about to combust because your wife is two weeks out from having a baby. Take some breaths, man. He was here regarding a family matter, like I said. Nothing to do with your girls other than catching up.”
“Except there’s zero relation between you and Pruitt Lancaster,” I counter, letting the clink-clank of the lighter soothe my nerves. Snick. Flick. Flame. “I’ve researched extensively and turned up no common lineage.”
The line stays silent for a good minute following that little bomb—aside from the din of La Lune Noire activity. This is where the rule of silence wins—a time-tested method used by therapists, interrogators, and enforcers. The average person can’t stay quiet. It’s why most people fail to observe their right to remain silent. It’s fucking hard. There’s solace in the sound of their own familiar voice breaking through their wild thoughts. Slicing the guilt or whatever the hell they’re hiding.
So, if you let them squirm in the deafening quietude, they often hang themselves. Axel’s too smart for that, but he’s sweating this moment all the same.
“Sounds about right,” Axel grits out.
That admission to no common lineage unhinges Wells. “So, what the hell was the distant relative bullshit, Axel?”
“It’s complicated. I’m not discussing it any further right now. It’s my family’s matter. Not yours.” Axel’s agitation rises at the mention of his family, so I poke the bear.
“Specifically Jax and Rena, right?”
Again. Nothing.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Clink-clank. Clink-clank.
Snick. Flick. Flame.
Wells’s eyes meet mine with confidence as he inhales a handful of his candy. We’ve hit a nerve, but won’t likely know which one during this conversation. Soon, Axel will come to the conclusion that we can either rip into whatever mess they’ve found themselves in, concerning Jax and Rena, or he can bring us in. The Noires are extremely protective of their family, which we understand and respect. But it seems some aspect of this extends to our family too. So, one way or another, we’ll be involved. Like it or not.
“Give me a week. We’ll come to you.”
And there’s our deal.
“Great,” Wells says, much calmer. “We’ll expect you by Friday.”
“Fine,” Axel snarls before disconnecting.
“Good work.” Wells taps my desk and casts me a loaded stare, but I’m not interested in anymore heart-to-hearts at this juncture, so I keep on snicking my flame while staring him down. He finally sighs. “Ivy has a stomachache, so I’m keeping her upstairs with me tonight. The staff cleared out a half hour ago. Gage is getting pizza, so no need to worry about anything formal with Natasha or Celeste.”
“Thanks, Chief. Text me when Ivy falls asleep. Let me know she’s all right.”
“Will do,” he says on his way out.
After shutting everything down, I mosey out to the kitchen for a beer while I’m waiting on the pizza. When I round the corner, my jaw goes slack, as it’s prone to do when I’m faced with the vision of Celeste. More specifically, her perfectly plump ass. She’s casual tonight—jeans and a lightweight, fitted, cropped sweater. The girl knows how to accentuate her best features. That’s for sure. And always in the classiest way—nothing about her ever screams trying too hard. It’s a poise that says take it or leave it, but you’ll regret leaving. Maybe that’s just my head. See? Fucked. Up.
When I open the fridge to snag a beer, she peers over her shoulder, and for a beat, our gazes collide. Her burnt-orange sweater highlights some amber speckling in her brown eyes. Gorgeous.
“Hey,” she says. The delivery is hesitant, almost shy. Atypical.
Pulling the bottle opener out of the drawer, I parrot her greeting while running the tool along the foil and popping the top. She keeps her back to me, scanning her phone and waiting on the Keurig. I should walk away and not come back until the pizza is here and we’re surrounded by everyone else.
But I can’t. Every logical, coherent thought evaporates in her presence. Maybe Ty is right. She’s turning me into a lunatic. Case in point, I’d kill someone for a whiff of cashmere right now, which is a pussy thing to think. And maybe a little psychotic. I swig the Modelo, considering.
Fuck it.
It takes all of three seconds to close the space between us. Fast enough that she doesn’t even notice my prowling. I press myself into her back, letting my hands rest on the counter—my beer still clutched in one—and my arms bracket her in.
Her breath hitches. Fuck, I love the effect I have on her. She probably loathes it as much as I do, but at least we’re both powerless in that regard.
Using my free hand, I sweep her hair off her shoulder, granting me access to the elegant slope of her neck. She tilts her chin slightly, a subtle offering. Interesting. Played it cool the other night, but I did not misread the eagerness. My nose traces the line of her jaw, drinking in her scent. The motion has my breath cascading over her, producing a beautiful flourishing of goose bumps on that shimmery olive skin.
“It’s late for coffee, Ace,” I rasp into her ear, relishing the rise and fall of her chest.
She’s quiet for a long beat, but it’s a pacing kind of silence. Like she wants to hold the moment rather than hide from it. “I like an evening cup,” she confesses. “Caffeine doesn’t bother me.”
That little tidbit feels like a gift because I’m losing my damn mind. But I like knowing things about her. I want more. My hand moves to her stomach as we watch the coffee trickle out of the Keurig, mixing in with the cream she already put in her cup. Her sweater provides an opening, so I let my fingers crawl across her exposed skin, my palm splaying over the flat plane. She shivers from the touch, which only has me pulling her closer, showing her what she does to me.
You’re not alone, Carver.
My cock jerks against her lower back. She’s so small here in her bare feet. How could I not hold her? I bury my nose in her hair, basking in, what I now know to be, her honeysuckle scent. It complements her wildflower and cashmere skin beautifully. I may have peeked at her shampoo when she was locked in the room with Ivy earlier, in an effort to put a name to that honeysuckle aroma.
It was a perfectly logical thing to investigate. I’m a researcher. Finding answers is in my blood. It’s what I do.
Lunatic.
“Pizza’s coming,” I say, simply because I don’t want her to move. Her coffee’s done, but neither of us is budging.
“Yeah.” Her voice is so wispy right now. I wonder what she’d sound like coming apart.
Christ, I need to hear that more than I need my next breath.
“Movie night too,” she adds.
I’ll need to keep my distance during the movie, so that news isn’t so enticing. Although anyone could walk in on us here. I don’t mind that. It makes this whole encounter sexier.
Let them see.
Mine.
Bypassing the movie conversation, I switch gears to something else I’ve been thinking about. “You were counting cards the other night.”
She smiles, bright and fucking beaming. I can’t see her eyes, but her lashes bat in the most tantalizing flutter. “That’s an impossible accusation to prove.”
“Maybe so,” I concede. She’d get kicked out of a casino whether they could prove it or not. It turned me the fuck on though. “But I knew, Ace. I see you.”
Show me everything.
A whistle leaks out of her lungs, another caught breath.
Is that all she wants? To be seen?
She’s so much softer tonight—not gearing up to bite my head off. Letting me in. Her body relaxes into mine, my cock growing more zealous with the increased friction.
Fuck me, I can’t resist this girl. I don’t give a shit what anyone says. Off-limits. I’ve never considered anything to be off-limits to me. I’ll be damned if I start now. I should stretch her out on this counter and feast on her cunt until the whole goddamn house knows where I stand. I bet she tastes sweet. A delicacy.
That thought is halted by the security system beeping, followed by the faint rumble of the garage door. “Pizza’s here. Better drink your coffee.”
She reaches for it with a nod. “Right. Gage probably needs your help.”
I take a swig of my beer as I step away, turning back to face her once I make it to the door. “You’re mine tomorrow, Carver.”
Her throat grapples with a laborious swallow, but she says nothing in response. Only holds her coffee mug with both hands, blinking at me like an innocent, wide-eyed doe over the steam. Jesus, she’s got a good poker face. I’d love to know what she’s thinking. Something tells me she senses that, and I’m the one being manipulated by the silence this round.
Impressive.
But her body told me all I needed to know. She’s just as helpless to this as I am. I meant what I said. I might not fuck her yet, but she’s mine—at least for tomorrow.
Mine to crack open. Mine to have some fun with.
While I’m enchanted by this softer side of her, there’s still that matter of her playing me in the elevator to resolve.
Payback’s a bitch, Ace.