Suddenly, he exhales slowly and shakes his head, and the tension drains from my neck as he backs away, giving me a little more space.
“Sorry,” he grunts, flashing a quick grin. “Like you said, it’s a hot button. Cunt or not, she’s still my mom…unfortunately. Wantto sit?” Carson gestures to a small outdoor couch covered in cushions.
I smile a little and nod as relief floods through me. “Sure.”
When we sit, that same freaky feeling zings through me, even more pronounced as I sink into the cushions.
God,they’reheavenly. It's the most magical, amazing, maybe even sensual sensation I’ve ever felt on my skin. I smile widely as I snuggle back into the cushions with a low moan.
Carson frowns. “You okay?”
“What? Yeah,” I smile. “Sorry, I guess I justreallyneeded to sit.”
He nods and takes a sip of what looks like whiskey in his glass. “I apologize for before,” he grunts. “My mom is just a sore subject.”
“And your dad?”
It tumbles out before I can stop it. I’m too busy noticing howamazingthe cushions feel under my thighs and palms to have any control over my mouth.
I wince.
“Sorry, that’s none of my?—”
“So youwereeavesdropping on Wick and me at the bar.”
I nod nervously. “A little, maybe. Sorry, I really wasn’t trying to.” I frown. “So, wow, your dad might not be your dad?”
Shut. The. Hell. Up. Self.
Carson smirks. “Holy shit, you must be keeping him on his toes.”
My brow knits. “Your dad?”
“Vaughn,” he growls. “And…yeah… My dad probably isn’t my dad.”
Holy crap.
My pulse quickens, feeling like pure, hot joy as it flows through my veins.
Am I seriously about to solve the mystery for Diego? Is Carson possibly his bastard heir? My palms slide from the cushions up over my bare thighs, and I bite back a gasp at the orgasmic sensation that ripples through my body.
I take another big sip of my champagne. The little mineral thing at the bottom has mostly dissolved by now, so the glass isn’t bubbling like it was before. But it still tastesdelicious. And the bubbles feelso goodon my tongue.
“Anyway.” Carson makes like he’s about to stand. “My regards to Vaughn.”
“Wait!”
My hand shoots out to grab his sleeve. I can’t let him leave yet. I need to dig a little deeper and see if this crazy theory has legs. Does he know the Torvallés family? Does hismother?
But when I dart my hand out, it’s his whole, muscled forearm that I grab, not just fabric. Carson arches a brow, glancing to where I’m grabbing his arm. His eyes lift to mine, a spark flickering in them.
“And why should I wait?”
I squirm against the cushions, feeling warm and tingly and breathless. I know somewhere in the back of my mind that I should let go of his arm because I’m being super weird. But I justcan’t. The fabric of his jacket sleeve feels too good. The muscles of his forearm under it ripple again, making my arm tingle.
Warmth pools in my core as I grip his arm a little tighter.
What thehellis wrong with me?
