Page 126 of Nash

Speaking of…

Jace and Grant bound downstairs. They give us an amused “Have fun with that” nod while Jace takes his post by the door, and Grant excuses himself.

He says he’s going for sushi, aka—another raw beating of our captive.

We still don’t know where Turner’s base is, but it must be in a remote location where prying eyes won’t ask questions, and those places are rare in the South. If we can find Turner soon, we can scoop up his crew and their phones and laptops with contact names for his buyers.

But the guy we caught yesterday is a tough nut to crack—literally. We’re still working on him while I focus on the desktop screen, making sure the second quarter reconciles for the third time as Stacey and her husbands, Ford and Mateo, appear downstairs.

Stacey stands in the parlor, studying me as I sit beside Vale at her desk. She smiles warmly, as if I have her approval, while she rubs her swelling baby bump. “Mr. Allen,” she coos, “do take your time with that audit. It appears my staff appreciates your expertise.”

Vale blushes, and if I could, I would, too, while Mateo winks at me, but Ford glares. He didn’t appreciate having to patch the plaster ceiling.

“Apologies.” I raise my palms. “Seems I got carried away. I’ll pay whatever price you think is fair.”

Stacey shrugs. “Just make a generous donation to the women’s shelter, and all is forgiven.”

“And stay off our swing,” Ford seethes.

Vale twirls her braid. “But it’s an adult playground we can’t resist.”

Ford opens his mouth to bark something back, but Blair steals all the oxygen from the room. She shuffles her slippered feet, trudging down the stairs before flopping into her chair with a loud huff. “Beau’s here … and he’s ghosting me.”

The entire afternoon, Blair pouts about it, and we avoid her. Finally, I get my work reconciled before I gently rub Vale’s thigh under the desk.

“Tonight,” I murmur, “let’s go shopping.”

“For what?” she whispers. “We’ve got room service and sex toys in a luxurious Mercier suite. What else could we need?”

Yes, I booked the suite for as long as it takes to initiate Vale. Even though Sire and Wren welcome us at their place, I want a place that’s our own.

I take her hand. “Let’s shop for our home.”

I spoil her with quarterpounders with cheese, and Dr. Peppers before I drive her past beach homes for sale on Sullivan’s Island.

After a proud burp, she asks, “But what about your Isle of Palms house?”

“It’s burned. Besides, I want to start over. I want a place that’s ours.”

“Can we get something that screams ‘gothic chic meets air-conditioning’?”

I laugh, parking in front of a property my agent told me about. “Gothic chic means dangerous streets. I can’t secure a home in the historic district. Too many eyes are there. But out here,” I point to the house nestled behind groves of palms and oaks, “I can give you security, a library, a nursery, a pool,andair conditioning.”

She tilts her head, considering the home. “Can we paint it black?”

“Can you sell your soul to the devil to pay the electric bill if we do?”

“I’ve already sold you my pussy.” She turns to me, winking. “Now you want my soul?”

I lean over the console, yanking her greasy, sassy lips into a kiss. “You can paint the interior black. Even Wednesday’s room.”

She beams. “Gomez’s, too?”

“Vaallee…” Should I seethe or smile? “Woman, I give you an inch, and you take a million miles.”

“No, my king.” She hikes her black miniskirt to crawl over the console and straddle me. It’s awkward and cute. I turn off the engine, kill the headlights, and let her unzip my tenting pants as she pulls her white cotton panties aside, arguing, “You give me these thick eight inches and make me moan for a million years.”

And I do.

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