Page 73 of Keller

She tugs at my arm, pulling me down on top of her. My come spreads and congeals between us as we both lie there together, coming down from quite possibly the most explosive sex I've had in a long time.

Perhaps ever.

EIGHTEEN

Quinn

Corporate Sponsorship vs Traditional Krewes:While many historic krewes remain privately funded through member dues, newer “super krewes” often rely on corporate sponsorships to finance large-scale parades and celebrity appearances. This shift reflects an ongoing tension between preserving tradition and expanding Carnival’s commercial reach.

I stay where I am.

That's the thing I notice first. My body hasn't tensed. My mind hasn't started running through exit strategies or morning-after logistics. I'm just here, my cheek against his chest, my palm resting over his heartbeat.

The ceiling fan clicks in its slow rotation. A car passes somewhere outside of my window. Keller's breathing has steadied, but his hand moves in absent strokes along my spine.

"You're quiet," he says, breaking the silence. "You okay?"

His voice rumbles through his chest and into my cheek. I smile against his skin.

"I'm amazing, actually."

"You are that, indeed."

Heat rises to my cheeks. Luckily he can't see them. There's something about him that makes me loosen my grip on myself, making it easier to set the rules down for a while.

He huffs a small laugh. His fingers pause at the small of my back, then resume their lazy pattern.

I lift my head enough to look at him. His glasses are on the nightstand. Without them, his face looks younger. Less guarded. The sharp edges of the man who runs high-stakes poker tables soften into something more private.

He doesn't push for more. That's part of what got me here.

In the weeks since I pulled back, Keller hasn't asked about my work or fished for information about what I do or who I'm looking at. He's been present without being invasive. Interested without being strategic.

I've spent enough time around people who turn every conversation into leverage. Keller never does that with me.

As far as I'm concerned, he is officially separate from my investigation of Stone Intermodal and possible links to his father's death. Tonight proves it. Allowing things to bring us here, in my bed, is the culmination of that.

My finger traces a slow line across his collarbone and then around his shoulder. He watches me do it, his expression unreadable but not closed off.

He has a short sleeve of tattoos on his right shoulder, ending halfway to the crook of his elbow. I usually sort people into tattoo people and non-tattoo people. A half sleeve is a commitment. One arm seems like restraint.

Keller falls somewhere in the middle, as usual. The more I get to know him, the more I realize he doesn't fit into any kind of box.

I think that's what draws me to him so much.

"What do these mean to you?" I ask him about the tattoos, tracing their lines, appreciating the symmetry.

He looks down like he hasn’t thought about them in a while.

"My brothers and I all got tattoos the first time our brother, Reeves, went away for SEAL training."

"I love that. Are you and your brothers really close?"

"We are but we aren't. Our family is tight, but we are all so different and we've all managed this crazy life we were born into differently."

"Crazy life, huh?"

He doesn't say anything at first. I don't expect him to, but I do want to know more about what makes Keller who he is. Undoubtedly, that comment carries a lot of weight that the investigator in me wants to desperately dig into.