Page 16 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant (Shared by the Carter Brothers #1)
My gaze catches on an acoustic guitar leaning against the wall near a window seat.
The sight triggers a flood of memories—Cole at high school bonfires, at graduation parties, always with that guitar, always drawing a crowd.
Girls would request songs just to watch his fingers move across the strings, to see the way his eyes half-closed when he hit the chorus.
"You still play," I say, nodding toward the instrument.
"When I have the time." Cole follows my gaze to the guitar. "Can I get you something to drink? Water? Beer?"
"Water's fine."
He disappears into the kitchen, and I hear the sound of a cabinet opening, water running. I take the opportunity to move around the room, examining the space more closely.
There’s a worn paperback on the coffee table— a history of rock guitar legends —and a pair of work gloves tossed on a side chair. The house feels lived in, comfortable in its masculinity, but with a hint of something else. Something restless.
I glance at the book again and remember—Cole used to talk about leaving town, chasing music. He wanted to tour with a band once, maybe even record something real. That was before their dad got sick. Before everything changed.
Now he fixes things. Runs maintenance. Stays.
Cole returns with two glasses of water, handing one to me. "You should sit down, relax," he says, his voice softer than before. "I don't want you to do anything you'll regret."
I roll my eyes at him as I accept the glass. "It looks more like you don't want to regret anything."
He laughs, the sound rich and warm. "I have nothing to regret about," he says, his voice dropping lower. "I'll be the luckiest guy on earth if you don't change your mind."
The sincerity in his tone surprises me. I take a seat on the couch, glass in hand, watching him over the rim as I drink. Despite his reputation, Cole isn't rushing things. There's no pressure, no expectation in his posture as he sits in the armchair across from me, just a patient warmth.
I set my empty glass on a coaster and look at the guitar again. "Will you play something for me?"
His eyebrows lift. "Really? Now?"
"Consider it part of the foreplay," I say with a smile.
Cole's laugh is genuine as he rises to retrieve the guitar. "I can work with that."
He settles back into the chair, positioning the instrument across his lap with familiar ease. His fingers move across the strings in a quick tune-up, and I'm struck by how naturally he holds it, like it's an extension of himself.
When he begins to play, the melody is something soft and familiar that I can't quite place.
His fingers move deftly across the strings, and when he starts to sing, his voice is lower and rougher than I expected.
The song is about wanting something you can't have, about stolen moments and hidden glances.
His eyes meet mine over the guitar as he sings the chorus, and something electric passes between us.
As I watch him, I try to reconcile this version of Cole with the one my mother warned me about.
The playboy. The heartbreaker. The man who leaves a trail of disappointed women in his wake.
It doesn't match the person before me—this man who plays with such feeling, who made sure I had water, who offered to take me home if I'd changed my mind.
Maybe people change. Or maybe Cole Carter was never quite what everyone said he was.
He finishes the song with a final strum, the note hanging in the air between us.
"Want another one?" he asks, his fingers already moving into position for a new song.
I set my glass down and stand. "No. That's enough foreplay."
Cole laughs, a deep, throaty sound as he carefully places the guitar back against the wall. He crosses to me in three long strides, pulling me to him until our noses almost touch.
"You've really grown up, Ivy Walker," he murmurs, his breath warm against my lips.
"Yes, I have," I say, meeting his gaze directly. "And I haven't changed my mind."
He groans softly before capturing my mouth with his. The kiss is different from the ones in the Jeep—less urgent but somehow deeper, more deliberate. Without breaking contact, Cole pulls me up and walks me backward toward the hallway, his hands steady on my waist.
I know we're heading to his bedroom, and despite the brief uncertainty I felt earlier, I have no doubts now. I want this. I want him.
Tonight is about satisfying a need—about taking something for myself without worrying about right or wrong.
Cole's amber eyes gleam in the dim hallway light as he guides me through a doorway, his mouth still moving against mine, his intentions unmistakable.
As soon as we cross the threshold into his bedroom, Cole's hands find my sash again.
This time, his movements are deliberate and unhurried.
He tugs it loose, letting it slide through his fingers—his knuckles grazing the small of my back as the fabric parts.
The dress loosens around me, and he helps it slip from my shoulders, down my body, until it pools around my feet like water.
I stand before him in nothing but my black lace bra and matching underwear. Cole takes a step back, his eyes traveling slowly from my face down to my toes and back up again. The heat in his gaze makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"You're gorgeous," he says, his voice rough with want. "Even more beautiful than I imagined."
"You've imagined this?" I ask, surprised by the confession.
A half-smile curls his lips. "More times than I should admit."
Before I can respond, he's kissing me again, hands cupping my face with unexpected tenderness. I melt into him, feeling the rough fabric of his shirt against my bare skin. His mouth leaves mine to trail down my neck, and I feel myself being guided backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed.
Cole eases me down onto the mattress, then straightens to look at me.
I prop myself up on my elbows, watching as he begins to undress.
He doesn't rush, doesn't try to make a show of it.
There's a quiet confidence in the way he pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the taut muscles of his abdomen, the defined lines of his chest. His eyes never leave mine as he unfastens his belt, the soft clink of metal the only sound in the room besides our breathing.
He pushes his jeans down his legs and steps out of them, standing before me in nothing but tight black briefs that do little to hide his arousal.
My breath catches in my throat. Cole is perfect—tall and athletic, with broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips.
The light from the bedside lamp carves shadows beneath his muscles, highlighting every ridge and plane.
A small sound escapes me, something between a whimper and a sigh. My body responds instantly to the sight of him, a rush of heat flooding between my thighs.
Cole's amber eyes burn as he looks at me, his expression a mixture of hunger and something softer, almost reverent.
He reaches for me, hooking his fingers under the straps of my bra, sliding them down my shoulders before reaching behind to unclasp it.
The fabric falls away, and cool air brushes my breasts, making my nipples harden further.
His hands find my hips next, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my underwear. With gentle pressure, he urges me to lift up, and then he's sliding them down my legs, leaving me completely exposed. I resist the urge to cover myself, instead watching his face as he takes in every inch of me.
"Spread your legs," he says, his voice a low command that sends a shiver through me.
I comply, letting my knees fall open. Cole kneels between them, his hands warm on my inner thighs. His fingers trail upward, and when they reach the center of me, he makes a sound deep in his throat. He slides a finger through my folds, gathering the wetness there.
"You're so wet," he murmurs, bringing his finger to his nose. He inhales deeply, eyes closing briefly before opening to lock with mine. Then, never breaking eye contact, he brings his finger to his mouth and sucks it clean.
The sight of it—this intimate, erotic gesture—makes me shudder. Heat pulses between my legs, and I feel myself grow even wetter under his gaze.
"Please," I beg, my voice barely recognizable. "I need you, now."
Cole's mouth curves into a knowing smile. "Impatient girl," he says, the word more affectionate than teasing. "But you'll have to wait for a while."
He pulls me closer to the edge of the bed, positioning my legs over his shoulders as he kneels on the floor. I feel his breath against my most sensitive skin a moment before his tongue makes contact, a long, slow lick that makes me cry out.
The sound seems to encourage him. He settles in, his tongue exploring with careful precision.
He finds my entrance, circling it before moving up to my clit, where he applies just the right pressure to make my hips buck off the bed.
His hands slide up my body to cup my breasts, fingers rolling my nipples as his mouth continues its sweet torture.
I spread my legs wider, silently begging for more.
One of his hands leaves my breast to slip between my thighs, and I feel a finger push inside me as his tongue continues to work my clit.
The dual sensation is overwhelming—the wet heat of his mouth, the fullness of his finger curling to find that perfect spot inside me.
"Cole," I gasp, my hands finding his hair, gripping it as pleasure builds. "That feels so good."
He responds by adding a second finger, stretching me further as his tongue flicks faster against my clit. My body tightens, the tension building in my lower belly, along my thighs. I push my pelvis up, grinding against his face shamelessly, chasing the release I can feel building.
Cole seems to sense how close I am. His fingers curl inside me, pressing against that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids, while his tongue applies firm, steady pressure exactly where I need it.