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Interpreting data, analyzing behavior, and unveiling answers—it’s like my form of crack. It always leads to crucial revelations. So, now that I’m cognizant of her core-level approach to life, I have a greater understanding.
And a sound action plan.
She needs to be fucked—good and hard—obvious from her uninhibited climbing of me yesterday. And I’m the man for the job.
I shudder to imagine the douchebags she’s been in bed with. She lit up like a firecracker, and I’d barely touched her. The poor girl has probably never had a proper orgasm. And I want nothing more than to spread her open, sink my cock so deep inside her that she feels it in her throat, and watch her quake into oblivion beneath me. To take her to a place where no coherent thoughts remain. Where she can’t remember her own goddamn name. Where her only utterance is moaning mine.
But at the moment, I just struck a juicy tidbit in the plight to unmask Oliver Jensen for Ivy. It may also relate to the shit with Pruitt Lancaster since it was a family-tree discovery. I’m not sure how any of it intersects, but I’m confident I’m clicking in another piece of the puzzle with each of these findings.
Ivy is going to flip over this little detail, but she’s otherwise occupied for the next half hour, so I’m off to fuel myself with coffee and carbs. Lack of sleep and Wells’s need to take his about-to-become-a-father stress out on us in our morning routine is kicking my ass.
As I round the corner, I hear Celeste and Gage chatting. My chest tightens when she comes into full view.
Fuck, she’s pretty.
She’s sitting at the breakfast bar, occupying two stools—her sexy legs perched on one, socks bunched above her ankles, calves flexed to show a beautiful cut, shorts riding high on her toned thighs. Gage leans on the other side of the island with a bowl of cereal. Both are eating casually and sound as though they’ve been comfortably chatting for a while.
I slink silently over to the percolating coffeepot to refresh my cup while they carry on.
“Sorry I had to reschedule our workout for later,” Gage says.
“No worries.” Celeste’s satiny voice encircles me with flashing visions of our hot-and-heavy barnyard soiree. “I have a ton of images to edit from yesterday, so I’ll get started on those.”
That’s the baffling aspect of our time that I was burying. The pictures. The outreach.
At first, I’d assumed that whole arrangement was some kind of ploy to gain favor with her political suitors. Maybe it is. That conclusion is certainly befitting of the Carver princess I’d pegged her to be. But even if that’s the case, she was magical out there. Her with those kids—the way she paid attention, helped them engage, lit up around them—was awe-inspiring.
Almost too much.
Grabbing a blueberry muffin, a cherry-cheese Danish, and my black coffee, I turn to make my way to the table when Celeste’s big brown eyes land on me—they’ve got swirls of caramel in them today. Never quite the same. Fitting.
“Are you feeling better?” Her gaze blatantly drops to my cock with that question.
Getting right to it, Carver?
I waggle my eyebrows, making it clear I caught her focal point, and continue my trek to the table, settling into a chair and kicking my feet out. “Feeling better?”
She twists to improve her view of me. “Yeah. I mean, I know your ego”—she cups her mouth like she’s sharing a secret, even though her volume never lowers—“among other things, was … deflated last night.”
Gage drops his spoon and breaks into maniacal laughter, so I lob my muffin at him. I knew she was pissed. She’s probably been stewing about it all night—cold showers and her vibrator unable to relieve the itch. Her attempt at appearing cool and unaffected was a valiant effort. She laughed and smiled brighter than the sun all through dinner. I vacillated between admiration and indignation. She’s gorgeous when she’s riled up. My sacrificial blue balls deserved at least a smidgen of a tantrum.
I lean back, considering, hands clasped with my index fingers steepled against my lips, and release a heavy sigh. Ready and willing to deliver the hard truth. My arms swing out in emphasis of the evidence I’m prepared to cite.
“Listen up, Ace. Don’t be a spoilsport. It was for your own safety. You were all wobbly and weak-kneed. If I had given you what you were digging for, it would’ve been hazardous. You weren’t ready.” I plop a piece of the Danish in my mouth, my gaze never parting from hers.
Her jaw locks—vibrates actually. Eyes shooting daggers. A goddamn vision. Fuck, it’s fun to get under her skin. That carefully curated mask cracks so I can glimpse the version of Celeste very few are privy to.
Give me all your secrets, Ace.
Things tightly held are generally those with the greatest value. A principle most easily represented in gold and riches. Antiques. The mint-condition baseball card. The restored classic convertible. A low-mintage coin.
None of which would be carelessly flaunted out in the open. No. Those are fortunes kept under lock and key, reserved for only an elite few.
Based on how Celeste clutches the deepest parts of herself, I’m fairly certain there’s a treasure trove inside her. And I’m determined to be the fortune hunter who unearths it.
Her calm-and-collected veneer returns, and she hums. A sweet little warble. Up to something. She scoots the stool back, stands, and saunters over to the garbage can, discarding her trash. “Interesting. Is that how you deal with it?”
I can’t help but smile. She’s baiting me, but, Jesus, caught on Carver’s hook could be one hell of a destination. “Deal with what?”
