Chapter 432
“`
– For each row, replace every instance of “Chapter 432” with “Chapter N” (where N is that row’s chapter number). Do not alter any other text, HTML attributes, or formatting.
Chapter 432:
He lowered his head and brought his mouth to hers.
The kiss was consuming — tasting of rum, sea salt, and pure, unrestrained possession. Jocelyn arched against the cool tiles, her fingers digging into the wet, heavy muscles of his shoulders. The warm water lapped at their skin as the blazing colors of the Caribbean sunset burned across the horizon.
Hours later, the moon hung high over the dark ocean.
Gaston carried an exhausted Jocelyn out of the water, wrapped her tightly in a massive, fluffy white towel, and laid her down on the enormous king-sized bed in the master suite.
𝗧𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗻
Jocelyn curled into his side, her head resting on his chest, and fell into the deepest, most peaceful sleep of her entire life.
Back in Manhattan, the sky was a miserable, freezing gray.
Inside a corner office of a top-tier Wall Street investment bank, Carter sat behind his massive mahogany desk, pressing the heels of his hands hard into his temples, trying to crush the violent, throbbing headache splitting his skull.
It had been three days since Gaston’s wedding.
Three days since Carter had gotten blackout drunk at the reception. Three days since he had stumbled into a guest bedroom and engaged in a chaotic, completely unhinged encounter with a man whose identity was a total mystery to him.
Carter was a playboy. He dated supermodels. The memory of that dark bedroom was causing a full psychological collapse.
The intercom on his desk buzzed.
“Mr. Carter,” his assistant Chen announced. “The external M&A legal team is here for the initial merger briefing. They are waiting in Conference Room A p>
Carter groaned. He grabbed a lukewarm cup of black coffee, downed half of it, and stood. He straightened his Armani tie, slapped his cheeks, and marched out of the office.
He pushed open the heavy glass doors of the conference room.
Five lawyers in dark suits sat around the long table. At the head sat the senior partner, head down, reading a brief.
“Good morning,” Carter said, projecting his loud, arrogant Wall Street voice. “Let’s get this over with p>
The senior partner slowly lifted his head.
Carter stopped dead. The ceramic cup tilted in his hand, spilling hot black coffee onto the carpet.
It was him.
Preston Pierce wore a bespoke charcoal-gray three-piece suit that fit him like armor. His gold-rimmed glasses caught the harsh fluorescent light. His sharp, aristocratic features were completely unreadable, but his dark eyes locked onto Carter with the precision of a sniper.
Pierce stood and extended a large, impeccably manicured hand across the table.
“A pleasure to finally work with you, Mr. Carter,” Pierce said, his voice a deep, smooth baritone that sent a shiver straight down Carter’s spine.
Carter forced his shaking hand forward. The handshake was firm. But as Pierce withdrew, his thumb slowly, deliberately dragged across the center of Carter’s palm.
Carter yanked his hand back as if burned. His face flushed a dark, furious red.