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“I need more conclusive evidence Craig Paulsen or Pierce Quaid are tied to what’s going on. Now if you’ll pardon my language,” the President said while standing, pointing at the table, “fuck the ifs, and get me concrete proof of who I can or cannot trust in my own damn house.”
“Craig’s behind all of this one way or another,” Carter began steadily, “and his head is mine.”
“To question, you mean?” POTUS asked him, drawing his hands to his hips, his patience as worn thin as all of ours.
Carter huffed out a laugh, but his voice turned grave and his next words rocked me to my core. “You asked me to be the man I once was for the sake of this mission. No sense in turning back now, is there?”
44
DIANA
The second the call ended with the White House, the floor rumbled beneath my feet, sending me straight into a brick wall of muscles.
Carter slammed one hand to the top of the nearby seat and looped his other arm around me, pinning me to his chest, keeping us both from going down.
“Buckle up, buttercup,” I overheard Oliver say somewhere in the background, but I couldn’t pull my attention from the man staring down at me.
“It’ll stop soon,” Carter said steadily, eyes still riveted to me as his hand slid a bit lower to the small of my back.
The man had control of both my body and the sky, so it would seem. We stopped shaking, but he didn’t let me go, and I had to wonder if he realized how close his palm was to my ass. Was it gravity pulling it lower and lower? Or something much more powerful.
“A word, please,” I whispered. “In the bedroom.”
His eyes darkened and his arm tightened around me. Is that a yes or no? “Get Gwen back on the phone,” he ordered a beat later, still not taking his eyes off me.
“On it,” Jack answered him.
“See where Gwen’s at on decrypting the text you pulled from the phone in Poland.” He finally let me go and turned to Gray, gesturing toward the cockpit. “In the meantime, tell the pilot to head east until we choose where the hell we’re landing. We can’t stay in the air much longer.”
“And what are you planning to do?” Gray asked him.
“Apparently,” Carter ground out, “I’m off to the bedroom to have a word.” He gently secured a hold of my arm as we walked. Was he worried the sky wouldn’t heed his command to behave, and I might tumble into someone else’s lap?
Once in the bedroom, with the door closed and locked, he turned and pinned me against the wall. Hands over my shoulders, he caged me there, eyes on eyes.
“Worried about turbulence again?”
A dark smile came and went. “Maybe.” Hooded eyes and doubling down on the brood? Check and check. “You finally come to your senses about me?” One hand shifted to my face, and he dragged his thumb along my lip to my cheek.
Distracted by the intense energy between us, it took me a minute to internalize and translate what he was saying. “Because of what you said to the President at the end of the call?” Talk about a mic drop moment.
Met with only silence, he threaded his fingers through my hair, the pad of his thumb gently catching my temple in the process.
“I understand you’re upset that your justice might be . . . incomplete?” That didn’t feel like the right word.
He leaned in closer, arching into me, letting me feel his arousal. There appeared to be a fine line between anger and desire when it came to this man. Confirmation he used sex to help ease the burden of his wrath.
“You think that’s why I’m in a murderous mood right now?” He cocked his head, gripping my hair a bit tighter.
“Isn’t it?” I whispered, my body mirroring his energy. Responsive. Ignited.
“No, angel.” That “angel” felt rich and indulgent, like dark chocolate icing on top of my favorite kind of cake. My guilty pleasure was Devil’s Food—the freaking irony.
“Then what is it?” My hands slipped beneath his shirt, taking a sweet and decadent journey over his rippling abs that flexed beneath my touch.
The tug of my hair had my chin tipping up, and I swallowed back a moan. He wasn’t hurting me. Just creating some primal urge I didn’t know was inside me. A craving to be dominated.
His forehead tightened as he hissed, “If I killed Craig Paulsen, would you forgive me?” His hips rotated ever so slightly, his sweatpants a weak barrier between us.
