Page 120 of The Killer Card

“Oh, I still fully intend to be fantastic at what I do,” I grin slyly. “It just won’t be anything in politics.”

“So….” He raises a brow. “What are you going to do?”

Smiling I glance toward my brother where he’s talking to Gavin and Clara. “Let’s just say, I found employment that better suits my skillset.” Graham follows my gaze and his eyes widen when they return to mine. “We really need to discuss the terms of your membership when we return, Gray.”

Something dark glitters in his eyes at the use of his Cellar nickname- I haven’t used it in too long- his hands travelling down, thumbs brushing the sides of my breasts through my dress until I shiver.

“I fucking love you, Naomi Mychal,” he growls.

“I fucking love you too, Graham Rosales. Now, are you going to kiss me or just tease me all night? Because the latter is going to earn you several excruciating punishments—”

He cuts me off with an abrupt but no less passionate kiss, lifting me clear off my feet again. I melt into him, losing myself to the breadth of his hands at my back and the taste of champagne on his tongue. But it’s not the wine I crave, not tonight. All I want to lose myself in for the rest of forever is the desire for his touch, my new obsession, my forever addiction. Incurable and a little dangerous, but survivable so long as we’re together.

Epilogue

Naomi, Five Months Later

“Grab me another water, Graham Cracker!” I call, flopping back onto the couch next to Clara. I look over at Cristian settled deep into the armchair in the De La Torre living room texting with a stupid grin on his face. “Who the fuck is on the other end of that phone that has you smirking like that?”

He glances up with a frown and a shrug. “No one,” he scoffs, glancing back down as it pings again. His lips tilt up in another small grin.

“It’s a girl,” Clara and I say at once exchanging a look.

“It’s not a girl,” Cristian protests as Graham sneaks up behind his chair, reading over his shoulder.

“Who’s Saige?”

“Mierda!” Cristian jumps, glaring up at his pseudo uncle. “You know, it’s actually really important I don’t have a heart attack between now and the next qualifier. Would kind of be career ending.”

“You’ll live.” Graham pats his shoulder as he comes around to drop onto the cushion next to me. He holds out a water bottle my way. “So,” he asks, cracking his own beer open. “Who’s Saige?”

Cristian shrugs, opening the beer Graham set on the coffee table for him. “No one. She works the team’s social media. She was just sharing some idea for a new video.”

“Uh huh,” Graham smirks, placing a foot against the coffee table as he sips his beer. “Sure.”

Cristian rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t really help his argument that he turns red as a fucking cherry before tucking his phone back into his pocket. “Todo el mundo es bien jodón, puñeta…”

“Shh!” Clara slaps my arm six times exactly, reaching for the remote to turn up the volume on the tv. “There they are!”

All of us turn to watch the red carpet leading up to the Latin Music Awards, the entire reason we’re crowded into Clara’s living room in the first place. Elias and Nelly flew out a few days ago so they could pick up her dress, do a final fitting, and he could get some work done in Los Angeles leading up to the event. Elias has been nominated for Top Latin Album of the Year, Top Latin Albums Artist, Hot Latin Song of the Year, AND Hot Latin Song – Vocal Event. Having heard the album on repeat thanks to Graham’s overachieving level of support, I have no doubt Elias will win at least two out of the three categories.

Nelly was so excited when he got the nominations, she immediately put in a call to her favorite designer for a dress to the event. The original Oscar de la Renta pictures she sent were a dream, but neither Clara nor I have actually seen the dress on her yet.

It is phenomenal.

They both look amazing, Elias dressed head to toe in a powder blue suit, the jacket embroidered with flowers. His collared shirt is white, the top button undone casually, no tie in sight and he wears Cartier sunglasses despite the setting sun. But Nelly’s dress is the real star of the show.

It’s also powder blue, the bust snug, lifting the swells of her breasts impressively, the skirts thick, almost floral in their volume as they spill from around her middle. The back is just slightly longer, revealing her Rene Caovilla heels beneath.

“Fuck her and her wardrobe,” I mutter lovingly.

“She looks amazing!” Clara squeals. “Look at her makeup!” It too is perfect, blue and gold eye shadow framed by winged eyeliner there is no way she did herself. Her hair is pinned in an elegant chignon decorated with little blue and white lace butterflies.

Somewhere off to the side I spot the outline of Rowan’s arm, the ever-present bodyguard, especially at events like this one. “God, I love that man in a suit,” Clara mutters under her breath.

No one needs to tell Nelly how to pose for a picture. Her arm is banded through Elias’ one minute, the next curved around his back, his own settled around her hip. She never smiles fully, nor does he, keeping their expressions neutral, elegant, sensual. It’s only when they look at each other that their gazes soften and their lips tilt just a little as if in a silent secret only they share.

Which is exactly when it happens.