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I couldn’t harm this girl if my life depended on it, which will be a problem when Julio learns I’ve been keeping her stashed away on my boat.

I sit at my desk, laptop flipped open on the list of names on the chip. I managed to link one to some politician in Arizona who was indicted two years ago, on charges of violent child pornography found stashed on a computer in his home office. Another was a youth minister, arrested in California and facing felony charges for kidnapping a girl he arranged to meet up with in a motel room.

The glaring common thread between them is one that continues to stoke my curiosity. A cult, of some sort. The cop I handed over must’ve been closing in on something, otherwise why would Julio have me retrieve him? What role does my employer play?

Or Céleste, for that matter?

In the time that I’ve worked with the cartel, I’ve seen some pretty nasty shit go down, but not this. While I’m not stupid enough to think Matamoros isn’t somehow involved in human trafficking, I’ve never personally played a hand in it. Drugs, money laundering, running hits, sure. But not this. Perhaps what my father was trying to protect Céleste from, but why? The only thing Russ James ever went out of his way to protect was his personal stash of liquor.

My whole life, I always considered him weak and pathetic, only to find out that he fled to protect some stranger’s daughter. Brings to mind the question of whether I would’ve forgiven him for that. Were the men who raped my mother the same ones who broke into Céleste’s home? Were they looking for her?

If nothing changed, and the events all remained the same, would I have kept my mouth shut, had I been privy to the fact that my father left to protect her?

It’s a question I have to ask myself now.

Would I protect her, too?

A soft moan pulls me out of those thoughts, and I abandon my research, following after the source of it to the bedroom door, beyond which I hear the rustle of sheets and more moaning. Cracking open the door sends a sliver of light crawling over the room and illuminates the bed, where I catch movement. I checked on her hours ago and found her sleeping, so it must be after two in the morning now.

Stalking through the room, I approach where she lies on her stomach. Legs straddling a pillow, she grinds herself into it, grunting and moaning. My shirt sits hiked up to her hips, her cherry printed panties clinging tight to her ass, circling and taunting me, as she humps the pillow.

Cherries. Are you fucking kidding me?

A tremble vibrates beneath my skin, a thrum of excitement pulsing through my blood, urging me to touch her right now.

Is she awake? Asleep?

“Céleste,” I say quietly.

Only an unintelligible mumble answers back, followed by, “Thierry.” Perhaps another sleep-talking episode, like the night I found her wandering the woods.

I want to touch her so badly, my fingertips burn.

Our brief escapade earlier, when I had her laid out and tied up against that tree branch, was enough to make me throw in the towel on this little dick-numbing exercise in self-control. But this? This is too much.

Mesmerized by cherries, I reach down and run my fingers over the cheek of her ass.

She arches her back, like a kitten begging for more, and grunts again as she grinds back down into the pillow.

Licking my lips, I push her panties aside, exposing where her pretty pink chatte practically begs to be filled. The shine of her arousal sends a rush of blood straight to my dick, and I grip myself to choke back the urge to shove it deep inside that inviting little opening.

Running my finger up and down her slit spreads the juices and coats my skin. I pause just enough to suck the taste of her. Sweet as a ripened peach. When I touch her again, she stills against the pillow, letting out a breathy exhale on the cusp of another moan. Dipping my finger inside of her brings her tight walls clamping over it, and I watch her hands curl into the sheets, as I move in and out of her, finger-fucking her in a slow and lazy pace.

“Do you want more, chère?”

She turns her head to the side, and her bottom lip slides beneath her teeth as she nods.

“How badly?”

Instead of answering, she backs herself into my finger, and my stomach tightens at the sight of her getting herself off. The way my skin shimmers after each plunge.

Muscles steeled, I have to curl my other hand into a tight fist, to keep from gnawing my fingers while watching her.

I can’t take this anymore. I need to be inside her.

As she goes to town on my palm, I unclasp my belt, slide it one-handedly through the loops, and toss it aside. Next, I unbutton my slacks and spring my aching dick free. As I line my tip to her entrance, she pushes up on all fours, and with hooded eyes, looks over her shoulder at me.

Awake.