Carving Graves: A Dark Mafia Romance (The KORT Series Book 2)

CHAPTER TEN

LIAM

I’ve only held a baby once, and he wasn’t a newborn. I was nine and had been moved to a temporary placement after the family I’d been with couldn’t keep me anymore. I’m not sure why. There was always some bullshit reason: job transfer, too many kids, finally got pregnant, costs too much—or my personal favorite—not a good fit.

I’m not too proud to own my part even though I was only a kid. I was a handful, pissed at the world, and found great pleasure in aggravating others. That got old quick, even for the families who were decent people. Many were far from it.

During the week I was in that temporary placement, a baby boy, two or three months old, came to them, and they let me sit on the couch to hold him. It was the strangest feeling because up until that point, I’d never experienced love, not that I could remember. There are cloudy flashes of my mom, not enough to seep in. But when I held that baby and he cooed up at me, nestling into my arms, I got it. I understood how extraordinary it would feel to have my whole world reside in another person. And maybe even more so, I felt the sting of what was missing, what I could have.

What I never got until Wells and the guys. Until Ivy. And now, this teeny doll who will get anything her heart desires from Uncle Liam.

We’ve been at the maternity hospital for eighteen hours, and I can’t stop staring at Felicity’s angelic face or miniature fingers and toes. Or fighting for a turn to hold her. But it’s been a long couple of days, and there’s another girl I’d like to shower with attention.

Of course, it isn’t lost on me that about the time I decided I wanted Celeste to be mine, she declared that I could never be her endgame. It’s a familiar wounding—albeit not one I’ve faced in well over a decade—but her wielding that machete of candor was far more gutting than I had been prepared for.

Too bad for her, I refuse to accept it. I’m not a fucking kid anymore who can be cast aside for some bullshit reason. If she walks away from me, I’ll be damn sure she’s haunted by it for the rest of her days. That I’m the face she sees, the voice she hears, and the touch she craves when she’s lying awake beside her sorry fuck of a husband. Just the thought turns my stomach.

“Time’s up, dipshit,” Gage snarls. “You’ve hogged her for the last thirty minutes.”

I curl Felicity closer to me even though I was prepared to pass her on. “Nah. It was an even trade. You got to feed her.”

“One fucking bottle,” he growls.

Seeing Gage like this is sure as hell one of the pinnacles of my existence. His metamorphosis after Ivy was nothing short of miraculous, but the man is absolutely smitten with the pint-sized princess. I plan to capitalize on that any chance I get.

“Language, Big Guy,” I scold, brows furrowed and head shaking in disapproval. Moving Felicity’s itty-bitty fist to her ear, I extend my empathy. “Did the mean bald man scare you with his horrifying potty mouth? Earmuffs, sweet girl.”

Gage throws a soiled burp cloth at my face, Ty cackles, Ivy beams with her eyeballs following the exchange like a tennis match, and Wells grumbles a string of expletives, all amounting to the fact that he’s surrounded by morons—his Little Storm excluded, of course.

This family was well worth the wait.

Ty swoops in, arms curling under the baby, and snatches her from me. “It’s actually my turn with Fliss.” He’s been trying out nicknames all day. Apparently, none of them feel quite right.

“Only until after we eat, Ty,” Wells says, glancing at his phone. “Food’s here, and then I’m taking a nap with my girls.”

On cue, Celeste breezes through the door with takeout bags, a bright smile illuminating her face. Although her eyes are red-rimmed from either lack of sleep or crying. I hope it’s not the latter. Hard to know because she’s kept her distance from me today, which is for the best. We don’t need everyone else’s input before we’ve even started.

After our early dinner, she announces that Rex is driving her back to the house for the night, so I use work as an excuse to join them. We extend our sappy goodbyes, and something catches in my throat when I witness the guys each embrace Celeste—all of them with some inside joke or connection. Her hug with Wells wrecks me the most though—a palm on her head, some whispered encouragement in her ear. Mentor mode.

Fuck.Does she see it? She’s not just Ivy’s anymore. She fits.

Celeste disappeared as soon as we walked into the house. I hadn’t pressed her to talk in the car because we always have someone around us. But tonight is different. Rex and the guys are in the guardhouse. And everyone else, including Natasha, is staying another night at the hospital. So, I’m on a mission—to break through that fucking armor she wears. Among other things. But I have to find her first.

At the moment, I’m flying blind. A strategic plan of action would be best. The problem is, I never know which version of Celeste is showing up to joust with me. Not that I’m the most even-keeled person. She’s certainly had me acting insane on more than one occasion, but it’s her approach and demeanor that baffle me. Most people who wear a mask choose the same one. Not Ace. She switches them out with her designer shoes.

I’ve covered every goddamn square inch of this massive house, Modelo in hand, attempting to tame my eagerness. But I’m growing agitated as I head outside to the grounds. The sun just set, the amethyst sky a warning that the clock is ticking. Thankfully, I spot her in under a minute.

My chest tightens as I pause to drink in the scene before me. She’s by the pool, silky maroon shorts hiked up, feet dangling in the heated water, wineglass in hand. The strap on her matching camisole has fallen to her bicep, dangerously close to revealing the whole of her full, perky tits. And her thick, lustrous hair cascades down her back in soft espresso waves.

Sexy as fuck. Like always.

But something about her feels different here. Different in the way of what she revealed last night when she paced and ranted in that restaurant. Cracking into a gorgeous mess before my eyes, until she straightened her posture and plastered the fractured mask back together.

I loved it and hated it, all at the same time. Hated that she seemed so distraught—that she wouldn’t let me hold her through it. Loved that she lost herself enough to show me. It was a piece of that treasure trove she hides. And I’m on the hunt for more.

Once I make my way toward her, neither of us speaks a greeting. Instead, I quietly slip into a chaise lounge behind her, kicking out my feet to wait. The fire bowls are blazing into the twilight, water spilling from the fountains to plunge into the pool with a gurgling splash. Twinkling lights on a timer kick on to bathe the tables, lounge chairs, and daybeds in the entertainment area with the ambience of speckled fireflies. Peaceful and serene.

But Celeste looks lost. That’s a feeling I recognize. Witnessing it on her is a bit distressing though. She’s a little like Wells, how she always seems to be in charge of the navigation of a moment. She owns a room, whether it be with her sex appeal, her snappy comebacks, her smooth confidence, or her premeditated maneuvers. She’s a natural commander, but none of that shows now. Tonight, I recognize her weariness.

She looks abandoned.

I whip out my Zippo and casually flick the flame on and off. “It’s dark and chilly, Carver. We have a whole big house to occupy.”

This winter has been mild. For Louisiana, that amounts to spring-like weather. We kept the pool open for exercise purposes, but it isn’t an obvious place to be lounging in January.

She doesn’t turn around to acknowledge me, just sips her wine and starts talking. “My favorite time of day is when the sun finally dips beneath the horizon. Not such a win for a photographer, but it’s a reminder that goodbyes are inevitable. That nothing is permanent.”

Her voice is flat and detached as she stares vacantly into the distance. “The only person I’ve actively tried not to part with is Ivy. Separating from my parents is expected. Healthy. But Ivy … I’ve only ever wanted to be someone she needed while secretly knowing that I needed her more. She steadies me.”

I asked her what her real color was yesterday, and while I’m certain there’s a spectrum of shades, she seems to be showing me. Silence is my best bet here. The burbling fountains and the clink-clank of my Zippo fill the quiet as I wait.

Snick. Flick. Flame.

Give me more, Ace.

She doesn’t disappoint. “We have this saying between us. If you’re going nowhere, then I’m coming with you. It’s funny when you think about it. Ivy feared her life would amount to nothing, and now, she’s achieved more at twenty-four than most people do in a lifetime—in every area. Most of it without me.”

Ahh. Is that what’s bugging her? I get that. It made me jealous as fuck when Wells hung out with Tom even though I knew he needed him. Seeing how happy andwell-adjusted Ivy is with her husband is one thing, but witnessing it with the rest of us probably hurts like hell.

“None of it was without you,” I interject, entranced by the beauty beyond my billowing flame. “Evenlast year, she texted all the time. I know we kept that from you, but she never stopped needing you. She talked about you to us and Rena and her mom. She missed you so much. And during her trial, we were all so grateful you were with her because you made her stronger. What she has with us can’t ever replace that.”

She glances over her shoulder at me, brown eyes brimming with tears as she utters a quick, “Thanks.”

“What’s with the album?” I ask, noticing a leather-bound book resting on a chair.

“Portfolio.” Her chattiness has apparently ceased.

“Of?” I press, swigging my beer.

“My favorite shots. Like the greatest hits of my photographs.”

Jumping up, I shove my Zippo into my pocket, amble over to the chair, swipe the album, and return to the chaise behind her. It’s clear as soon as I flip it open that she’s talented. More obvious with every picture. And on deeper inspection, my pulse picks up pace, thumping away in my throat and chest and stomach.

This is Celeste.

I’d tell her that, but I don’t want to risk her shutting down when she realizes all she’s unveiling. So, I try another route. “Why do you have so many pictures of clocks?”

The night air is graced with the first melodies of her whimsical laughter—fucking glorious.

“Lots of reasons. They’re beautiful. A whisper of history. Timeless.” She swishes her cabernet with a sigh. “And they remind me of Ivy. It started as something silly when I first got my camera. She loses time, so I gave it back to her. Then, I got hooked on the intricacies and architecture.”

“I can see that. They’re captivating, not that I’ve ever thought that before tonight.” It’s the way she depicts them that’s fascinating, but that can be said about all the images in my lap. “Your other pictures are all a little sad.” Like she’s memorizing the darkest, most hidden parts of life—the parts most can’t bear to look at.

She shrugs. “That’s how most people see them.”

“And you don’t?” I gesture to the one before me even though she’s still leering at the sky. “This one is of dirty, hungry kids. Something out of National Geographic.”

She peeks, so I hold it up to her. “I took that this past fall, shadowing a photojournalist in a little village in Albania. And, of course, I see the sadness. It’s just not all I see. People view brokenness as the ending, but they’re wrong. It’s the beginning. The root. The reason.”

She’s deeper than I expected, even with the glimpses she’s revealed before. But like last night, as she cracks herself open for me, one commonality shines through. Pain. And respect for it.

“You think most of who we are is rooted in pain?” I probe, desperate for every goddamn outlook she holds.

She wiggles her head back and forth like she’s considering but keeps her beautiful face from view. “I’m not saying good things don’t shape us. They do. But devastation is far more formative. Metal can only be bent and molded when immersed in a fire. People are similar.”

Her feet kick in the water, and she leans back on one hand. Slightly less detached than before. “Like with Ivy, it took losing everything she thought she was to get her to rise. She’d been raised by the two most amazing humans, afforded luxuries and love and experiences, but it was Tom’s stroke, the wedge with her mom, the trauma of believing you’d died and that she’d lost Wells and the guys that truly forced her to become who she was always meant to be.”

Makes sense. The guys and I have all been fueled by the cruelty and hardships of our beginnings.

“So, what was yours?” I ask, still sifting through the fragments of Celeste in her portfolio. “If you had a photo of it, what would be in it?”

No hesitation. “Dusty evening air. A humid blanket, tempered by an early summer breeze. The smell of exhaust and stale caramel corn. Bright white lights, spotting your vision with halos. Fast cars and the roar of a beer-drinking crowd. A whirlwind of excitement for a sixteen-year-old girl.” She sucks in a sharp inhale, her hand tapping against her quivering lips. “My heart and innocence packed into a Dodge Viper, painted in a shimmery adrenaline-red with wide black stripes, racing for another win.” She refills her glass from the wine bottle, the crimson liquid sloshing up the sides of the goblet. “And exploding into flames before the finish line.”

That’s a vividly gut-wrenching image. Her whole vibe is loose, solemn, and poetic tonight. I’m not sure if that’s the wine or the wallowing.

Either way, it’s hard to know how to respond, but it comes to me when I stumble onto the next picture—two guys, mid-twenties, in front of the car she described. The scene she depicted blooms to life before my eyes. “Looks a lot like this photo right here.”

She lifts her glass into the air. “What do you know?”

And the resolute disconnection returns.

I’ve never been so invested in any conversation in my life. If this album is the excavation of Celeste’s hidden gems, from what she’s said, this is the first bloodstained jewel she scavenged. “Who are they?”

“My brother and his best friend.”

Her heart and her innocence.

There’s far more to decode in the way she’s categorized them, but I’m stuck on something else. The one guy resembles Celeste. I’m assuming that’s her brother. But this other guy, I feel like I know him. He’s familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t place him.

A beer-drinking, drag-racing crowd doesn’t seem like Celeste’s scene, but she was there.

“That’s a far different world from the one you’re a part of now.”

She swirls her wine and shrugs one shoulder. “It was the wild underbelly of this waxy life—an escape from a life I never wanted. But I don’t belong there anymore. Like I said, brokenness is the beginning. And for me, it was the catalyst to my acceptance. Knowing my place.”

“And what place is that, Ace?”

Her voice falls hollow again, like she’s somewhere else. “To be the one who smothers the flames and stops the bleeding.”

Christ, I’m such an asshole. She’s no less fucked than the rest of us. Wading through the wreckage. Only she does it with a proper flare, like how Ty wears a smile.

As if that realization wasn’t enough, bits and pieces of the last twenty-four hours start slamming into me. She told her mother she’d call for Ben’s birthday today.

“Ben was your brother’s name.” I think I probably knew that, saw it at some point in the Carver files, but it didn’t register until now.

“Benjamin Caden Carver,” she confirms. “The Carver darling who was expected to be president someday. Charisma. Charm. A genius. A rising law associate. Driven. And real. That’s what made him better than all the rest. He was so damn real.”

I examine the picture with a swill of my beer, the anguish laced in her tone so sharp that it pierces through me. If she was sixteen when he died, he was a lot older than her. They have the same eyes.

“It’s his birthday,” I say.

And she celebrated with Ivy all day, showering her with nothing but joy.

She glares over her shoulder, jaw instantly rigid. “Did Ivy tell you? Is that why you’re out here, being nice to me? Pity?”

“Fuck no,” I answer immediately, trying to squash her impending lash. “Do I come off as the type to be kind out of pity?” I hurt for her, but that’s not the same.

A derisive bellow springs from her mouth. “You got me there.” She settles her breathing and drinks her wine, her voice softening. “Then, what’s this about, Graves?”

What’s this about? I want to know you. To fix this. To show you why we make sense.

Keeping it mellow, I go with, “I thought we could call a truce.”

“A truce?”

“Yeah.”

She twists to see me, her eyes teeming with questions, the reflected moonlight beaming inside them like an invitation to explore. “I’m not sure why we need a truce in the first place.”

She doesn’t phrase it like a question, but it’s a good one. I’m notsure why we need one either. Except that she makes me feel so goddamn crazy—has since that day I saw her in the Paris hotel room and she accused me of faking my own death. Her face held so much disdain. And it pissed me off because she was makingwrong assumptions—looking down on me. I wouldnever hurt Ivy. But also because Celeste was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen—classy in a spellbinding Old Hollywood kind of way—so her dismissal stung.

“I can be a dick,” I say. No sense in denying it.

She swivels herself out of the pool, flattening her feet on the travertine patio and wiggling to balance with her drinking tools in hand as she stands. The water drips off her sexylegs as a soft chuckle flows from her lips. “I can’t argue with that. But in spite of your introspective revelation, I don’t want a truce.”

Fuck, this girl can knock me down in a single sentence. I’m not going to make this easy on her, but she’s in pain, so it doesn’t need to happen now.

“Got it. So, for tonight, I’ll let you be.” I’m about to expand on that so she knows without a doubt that this isn’t over, but she beats me.

“I don’t want that either.” She stares at me, all soft and supple with her luscious lips parted, as if I know what the hell she’s saying, but my head is spinning. Heart pounding with a zeal that is dropping straight to my cock.

I will myself to keep my movements slow, setting my beer down, pushing her album aside, rising to meet her toe-to-toe, and tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. “Better spell it out for me then, Ace.”

She nods, teeth scraping over her bottom lip. “No truce. Sometimes, it all hurts so much that I turn everything off, but then I’m numb, which is the equivalent of death. I don’t want to be a ghost in my own life.”

She focuses on the wine bottle and glass clattering in her shaking hands, so I take them from her, placing them beside my beer. The space between us affords her a breath to collect herself and carry on.

“I like that you make me feel something, Liam. It doesn’t matter what the emotion is. It’s more than I ever feel.”

Jesus, that fucks with my head. On one hand, I want to throw her down and ravage her right here so she can feel a whole lot more than what she’s ever felt. She is absolutely giving off fuck-me vibes—nipples pebbled through the thin silk fabric, chest heaving, tongue licking her lips—and I am so goddamn hungry for a taste of her sweet cunt. Have been for too damn long. On the other hand, I don’t want to screw this up. But I told her I was always me, so that’s who she’ll get.

“You make me feel something too,” I confess, prowling about her, those coffee-colored eyes cataloging my every move. Stepping behind her, I slip my arms around her waist, and my fingers splay over her stomach, grazing the underside of her heavy tits. A chill showers over her when my lips graze her cheek. “A lot of something.”

“Rage?” she asks, her tone far more buoyant now.

I chuckle, breathing in her honeysuckle scent and reveling in her shivering against me. “Sometimes.”

“Irritation?”

Accurate.

“Often,” I admit, and her chest rises so slowly that I know she’s drinking in courage.

She spins in my arms, hands resting on my pecs. “Turned on?”

Her face is so uncharacteristically vulnerable with that question that it catches me off guard. She’s usually so confident and unapologetically flirty.

As I weave my fingers through her hair, my other hand journeys beneath her shorts, cupping her plump ass. No fucking panties.

“Always,” I tell her.

“Good,” she whispers, releasing a small puff of air, more of that vulnerability showing through. “That’s good.”

I brush my lips against hers, lightly tickling, withholding what she’s so clearly craving. My tongue sweeps the seam, and she moans.

“How much wine have you had?” I demand.

“Enough that you’re killing it in the charm department, but not so much that I’ll lose mine.” Her doe eyes widen in the cutest fucking act of convincing. No charm lost there.

Biting away my laugh, I prod a little more. “Drunk on grief?”

“Yes,” she allows, “but what better way to sober it?”

“I’ll accept that.” My nose skims across her jaw, and a soft purr emanates from her as my fingers inch further until I’m rewarded with her arousal. “So fucking wet, baby. Is your pussy weeping like this for me?”

She coils her arms behind my neck, pressing into my embrace and granting me better access everywhere. “For you.”

My slow, restrained approach is withering. “Tell me what you want, Ace,” I growl, yanking on her hair so she winces as her chin tilts up to me. “Say it, goddammit.”

“Fuck me, Liam.”

I swing her up into my arms, curling her legs around my waist, and crash my lips to hers in a single swoop. I need them on every inch of her.

Now.

Yester-fucking-day.

I tear off her flimsy camisole, dump her onto the cushioned daybed, and rip her shorts down her legs. Dragging my hand over my mouth, I halt for a brief beat to soak her in.

She’s a goddamn dream—round in all the right places, flawless skin, cinched waist flowing into the lush arc of her hips, plump and perky tits. And the most perfect fucking pussy—dark pink and glistening with a finely trimmed layer of espresso hair. All woman.

“Jesus,” I hiss. “You’re so fucking perfect. So beautiful, Celeste.” That’s all I manage before descending upon her to devour one breast and massage the other.

Her nails scrape into my scalp, her back bowed in pleasure, but that doesn’t prevent her from dropping a bomb. “This doesn’t change my plans. You know I still have to date those other guys, right?”

Not even debatable.

I sink my teeth into her nipple, my clipped, “Yep,” met with her sultry moan.

“With the intent of marriage,” she tacks on, breathless.

Never gonna happen.“Uh-huh.”

“Okay.” She pants. “Maybe that’s the explanation.”

Oh fuck, she needs to shut the hell up. I move up her body, clamp her wrists above her head, and capture her lips, but curiosity gets the best of me, so I free her mouth to explore her neck. Cashmere and wildflowers leaking out of her skin.

“Explanation?”

She nods and groans when I nip under her ear. “Yeah, there. Fuck. I love your mouth on me.” Writhing beneath me, she’s lost whatever bullshit she was about to spew, but I can’t let it go.

“Explanation,” I order as my fingers slide to her soaking cunt, plunging inside before swirling over her clit.

“Oh yeah.” She swallows a moan, pushing into my touch. “You appeal to the broken girl inside me, not the woman I’m meant to be.”

That’s a sentence I’ll be unpacking tomorrow, but now, I wantto stay in the moment, so I banish it. But she doesn’t fucking stop there.

“It’s best to remember what this is.”

Christ Almighty.I remove my hand from her clit, perching on my elbows to bracket her head with both arms. Body pinning hers to the cushion, I cease our frantic kisses, our ragged breaths mixing in a haze of wine and beer between us.

“What’s that, Carver?”

She laughs. Fuck, her laugh is sexy, especially now, airy between gasps. “A last hurrah.”

A last hurrah.I should love that answer. No strings. One night of sex with the vixen I’ve been dreaming about for seven fucking months.

“You came to the right guy then, Ace,” I tell her, and she sighs in relief, lips parting for us to resume. “Except one thing.” I grind my jean-clad steel cock against her naked pussy, her whimpers harmonizing with the babbling water beside us. “By the end of the night, I’ll be the taste on your lips, the beating in your chest, the goddamn breath in your lungs. The goodbye you can’t bear.”

She squirms beneath me, anger rushing to the surface of her skin, eyes fiery but unwilling to meet mine. “One night, Liam. A Sunday-brunch secret. That’s all I have.”

I snare her lower lip in my teeth, my hips moving ever so slightly to deliver torturous friction that will never suffice. “I wasn’t turning you down. I’ll take whatever you have to offer, baby. I just wanted you to know what you were in for.”

She quirks a professionally sculpted brow. “So cocky. You think you’ll accomplish all that in one night?”

“I know I will, Ace.”

“Fine,” she snipes with her irresistible game-on face. “Ready to have your cock ruined for all future women?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” My cheeks split so wide that the smile hurts. “Do your worst.”

She taps her index finger against her lips. “I’m not sure if you’ve earned it, Graves.”

I deserve that, so in lieu of a verbal response, I slink down her frame, paying homage to every voluptuous curve with a slow sprinkling of kisses. She can barely take it, hips lifting off the daybed, fingers threading into my hair to guide me. Desperate and wanton. She’ll be spending much of the night that way, on the brink, until the most phenomenal splattering of ecstasy detonates inside her.

Again and again.

Squeezing her ass to elevate her, I flatten my tongue over her clit with long, languid strokes before dipping inside her. “Damn, baby. You taste so fucking good, like candied apples.”

I’m not sure those words are even discernible because I can’t be bothered to unlatch my mouth from this delectable feast.

She bucks her hips against me, feral purrs floating in the air as she wriggles, her hands shoving my face deeper into her cunt. “Holy. Hell.”

“That’s it, Ace. Fuck my face like a good girl.”

She springs up suddenly, knocking me from her heat, bending forward, and clutching my jaw to kiss her juices off me with an ardent thirst.

Christ, that’s hot.

“I want to be your good girl tonight. I’m rapt simply from being stark naked beneath your fully clothed physique. But as much as you are nailing it down there—and, dammit, you are—I need to even the playing field. Cock ruining first.”

This fucking girl has to be the most extraordinary creature in existence. On the verge of ecstasy, and she stops to even the goddamn playing field.

A laugh bursts from me as I whisk her tousled hair off her forehead. “Jesus, you’re fun. Whatever you want, Carver. Ruin me.”

She won’t be in charge for long, but I’ll let her grapple for control since that seems to feed her. I have plenty of plans for the night ahead. Her begging and pleading will warm me long into the morning. But right now, she gets to wreck me.

Sacrifices.

She flicks an impatient hand at me. “Strip, Graves. And sit on the edge of the pool.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I quip, catapulting off the daybed.

I’ve never disrobed so fast in my life. My clothes disintegrate into a pile of ash while she slips into the heated water, tits bouncing along the surface like two alluring, globed buoys, her hard, peaked nipples guiding me home.

Her eyes skim over my form with a gasp that is every man’s hope. “You’re so fucking pretty,” she says.

I wink, cock bobbing in salutation. “You think I’m pretty, Ace?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, patting the travertine in front of her. “On the very edge.” Once I comply, a naughty grin coasts up her flushed cheeks. “You’re gonna want to grip something. Hold on.”

That fucking confidence is invigorating. I don’t need to be told twice. My fingers grasp at her hair, twirling it around my hand so I can hold her just so. But it’s all a false sense of control on my part because when she takes me into her mouth—tongue swirling over my length; sloppy, wet, and wild; the most ravenous, delighted, enraptured groans I’ve ever heard vibrating over my swelling cock; nipples tickling my legs, and the sight of her bare beneath the water—I’m completely at her mercy.

“That’s it, Carver. So gorgeous with my cock in your mouth.” My balls draw up with a zing. “Such a good fucking girl.”

One hand works the base as her mouth retreats; the other kneads my balls, a finger sweeping out to stroke my taint with a pressure that zips up my spine. After a few featherlight, teasing swipes that carry the full weight of promises to come, she bobs up and down in the most rhythmic cadence, never faltering, opening her throat and sucking me so deep. It’s a wonder she’s still breathing.

Still, I can’t resist driving my hips forward to fuck her throat as I grip on to the side of the pool with my free hand and my heels. She nods and groans in encouragement.

“Look at you. So hungry and desperate. Choke on me, baby.”

Tears stream down from those big brown eyes, soaking her long lashes, as she sets them on me. The fact that she’s so turned on from sucking me off is etched onto every one of her features.

And my fucking bones.

Emblazoned on my memory for all eternity.

“Fucking Christ, Ace. How the hell …” I shit you not, my legs start spasming. Convulsing. I never could have stood for this voodoo magic.

This isn’t giving head.

This is cock worship.

And as my orgasm strikes me like a bolt of lightning, stars marring my vision, spine tingling with a paralyzing jolt to my limbs, she never takes her eyes off me.

So radiant.

“Swallow for me, baby girl.”

It’s an order I don’t think she needs, but she blinks in agreement and inhales every damn drop, lids heavy.

Fuck me. Game on.

I dive into the pool, scooping her into my arms as she squeals. I have to give it to her. “Goddamn, baby. Round one: Celeste.”