Page 4 of The Carver

“That worries me.”

Unsure what that meant, I waited for him to say more.

“You don’t know him, Fleur. You don’t know him the way the rest of the city does.”

“I’m fully aware of who he is and what he does for a living. Because, unlike you, he gives it to me straight. He tells the truth and doesn’t care whether you like it. And it’s fucking refreshing.” No sugarcoating. No gaslighting.

“But you don’t understand the ramifications of his position. A lot of people want him dead—so they want you dead. If you’re looking to move on and settle down with a husband and a couple kids, he’s the worst person you can pick.”

“I’m not looking for anything serious right now. The idea of going down that path makes me sick to my stomach.”

“You should steer clear of him, regardless. Fleur, this isn’t me being jealous. This is me trying to protect you.” His jealousy and anger seemed to have faded away, and all that was left was that sincere desperation in his eyes, like he really meant these words. “He’s a dangerous guy.”

“Bastien would never hurt me.”

“But a lot of people want to hurt him. He’s got a lot of enemies. A lot of eyes on his back. I stick to petty crime, so I’m not fullyimmersed in his world, but I know shit gets fucking serious. It’s not safe for you.”

“It’s funny that you say that—because you hurt me far more than he ever could.”

Adrien wore the most defeated look I’d ever seen, like my words had struck him harder than a closed fist to his nose. “They call him the Butcher for a reason, Fleur. You’re a smart girl, but you don’t even need to be smart to know that it’s dangerous to live in his world. If you were killed because of it, I’d have to take my own life because I couldn’t live with myself, knowing my stupidity directly led to that outcome.” His voice had lowered with pained sincerity, like he was begging me. “There are a million guys out there, and you’re a fucking bombshell who can have anyone you want. If it’s not going to be me, then please, choose someone else. Someone with a normal, boring, safe life.”

All the anger I felt for him died, just for a moment, hanging on to the desperation in his voice. The way he spoke to me as a friend, as a confidant, not as the ex who wanted me to take him back.

“I just want you to be safe, Fleur.”

I’ll be there in a couple minutes, sweetheart.

I sat at the dining table, still in the same pencil skirt and blouse because I’d gone back to work after finishing up at the courthouse. My job at the investment company was posh and sterile, the office renovated on the inside for a modern look, even though it was inside an old building. The adviser I worked for was married with two kids and an overall nice guy. I hadn’tspoken to Bastien all day, so when he texted me, it was without preamble. He just said what he wanted without caring if I wanted the same thing.

I did want the same thing, but now there was a weight on my heart.

It was heavy with the warning I shouldn’t heed—that I’d left one bad relationship and stepped into a worse one. Worse but for different reasons.

But even if Adrien were right, I wasn’t sure if I would ever have the strength to leave. Bastien was one of a kind, and every man who came after him would just be a disappointment. His memory would haunt me into old age.

He let himself into my apartment a moment later, in a long-sleeved black shirt that his muscles stretched out nicely. He wore black jeans and boots, his blond hair a little ruffled from the wind outside. His blue eyes were on me when he walked inside, a giant in my little loft, his subtle smile pulling at my heartstrings.

My mind and heart were at odds with each other, but my heart won the match, lifting me to my feet and stepping into his chest, five inches taller in my heels so my arms could circle his neck.

His hands went straight for my ass and squeezed as he kissed me, giving me a hot kiss with breath and tongue, his hands yanking up my skirt so he could feel my cheeks in his bare hands.

He guided me backward toward the couch in the corner, not breaking his stride as he kissed me, and he lowered me to the couch as he moved on top of me. My skirt was already hiked up, so he pulled down my thong, left the heels on, and then unbuttoned his jeans and tugged them down so he could sink inside me.

I gasped like I’d never felt him before. Never felt a dick so big.

With his jeans just over his ass, he fucked me into the corner of the couch, leaving my blouse on like he wanted me too much to take the time to fully undress. The sight of me alone got him that hard.

“I’ve been thinking about this pussy all fucking day.” No one did dirty talk like he did. I’d never been with a man who talked during sex and pulled it off so effortlessly. It was the depth of his voice, his confidence, the way he said it like he’d done it a hundred times. Even if he did the same with all the others, it still turned me on like fucking crazy.

My ankles locked together around his waist, and I grabbed on to his shoulders, buried under the mountain of his chest, lying there and taking the best dick of my life while he happily gave it. I’d had a long and depressing day, but he turned me on faster than a car accelerated to full speed. I dug my nails into his back as my face moved into his shoulder. The edge of my teeth pressed against his skin as I came.

He gave a masculine moan as his pumps slowed down, the two of us coming together, my ankles pressing into his back while my nails clawed at his shoulders. My makeup was destroyed by the tears I shed, moistening my mascara and making it smear underneath my eyes when I closed them.

He pulled out of me and left the couch before he buttoned his jeans like he had somewhere to be.

“Are you leaving?” I pulled down my skirt and sat upright, composing myself as best I could, as if I hadn’t just gotten screwed in the corner of the couch.

“Got shit to do.” He fixed his shirt before he looked at me. “Just wanted to make a pit stop. When I said I’d been thinking about that pussy all day, I meant it.” He looked at me the same way he had when he’d first walked into the apartment—like he could fuck me again.

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