Page 137 of Carved Obsession

I don’t want to ask him about it. I think I prefer holding on to my theories.

An angry vibration startles me fully awake from the nap I fell into after yet another orgasm that left me spent. Technically, I regained consciousness a few minutes ago, but the slumber felt so good that I refused to open my eyes or move.

Deep burnt-orange hues litter the sky, slipping through one of the few windows that isn’t stained glass.

How long did I nap for?

I turn around in bed to search for Carter, the question sitting on the tip of my tongue, but I almost choke on it when I see the man. He’s sitting up, bare torso leaned against the headboard as he reads a weathered book, a pair of rounded square-framed glasses perched on his nose.

Goddamn those retro-looking glasses!

Goddamn this man!

And goddamn that stray strand of hair brushing against the frames!

I didn’t think it was possible for him to get any fucking hotter. The tattoos were enough. The perfectly carved features were already too much. But the fucking glasses? That’s just excessive.

He’s oblivious to my inner turmoil as he quirks the corner of his lip, throwing a soft “good evening” at me as he leans over his nightstand to pick up his phone.

After a few moments of reading, he taps his thumbs on the screen, replying to the message. The conversation carries on until he pauses, waiting for the other person to reply.

His expression is unchanged and I’m not sure if it’s my curiosity or my jealousy gnawing at me, but I’m fucking itching to know what the message is about.

Finally, he puts down the phone and places the book next to it, but when he’s about to slide those glasses off, I jump up and slide right onto his lap.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” I catch his wrist, bringing it down to my bare behind.

He gives it a tight squeeze before he wraps both hands around my hips, sliding them under the soft shirt he gave me to wear. His hands glide over my waist, but he stops on my ribs, thumbs brushing against the sensitive undersides of my breasts.

He graces me with a lopsided grin and one sinfully quirked eyebrow as I brace myself against his chest.

“Do you like my reading glasses, love?”

“Hate them,” I whisper as I lean in to press a kiss to his lips.

“Do you, now?”

“So much. I hate that they make me even wetter for you.”

“Is that so?” He brings one hand down, sliding it over my sex, an approving groan rippling through his chest. “Too bad we have to go.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Please, Carter . . . one more time.”

He squeezes my core, pulling a moan right out of my throat as I throw my head back.

“Trust me, kitten.” His lips press against my throat. “We have to go.”

I take in a slow breath, then pull back, rational thoughts finally drizzling through. “Did something happen?”

“Not yet, but I think it’s coming to that. Martin Duval is dead.”

“Wait.” I recoil. “Did you guys kill him?”

He shakes his head. “Suspicious circumstances have been ruled out, and accidental overdose was cited.”