I roll my eyes at him as I shrug my jacket off. "None of your business," I retort.
"Busy night at the library?" he guesses sarcastically. "Or maybe another Humphrey Bogart marathon at the local theater? My ears still hurt from listening to you yap about the last one.”
I shoot him a withering glare. “Humphrey Bogart is an icon. I’m going to do you a favor and pretend you didn’t say that, or else I might have to take scissors to all your hand wraps again. Do you remember the Jane Austen incident?”
I think I see him swallow roughly before saying, “Don’t remind me. I had to use Jax’s smelly wraps for a week because of it.”
A self-satisfied grin stretches across my face at the memory. “Serves you right for insulting the mother of all romance by implying her literature is irrelevant,” I chuckle as I hang my jacket on the coat rack.
“That still doesn’t explain where you were tonight,” he pushes again. “You’re supposed to be at the gym on Tuesdays.Naughty.”
I roll my eyes at his overbearing attitude. I’m sure he’s assuming that I was trying to avoid him, and he’s trying to call me out on it.
"Maybe I was getting dicked down," I mutter.
I manage to catch his horrified look for a split second before he covers it up. I hadn't meant for that to slip out, but his reaction was more than worth it. I grin and turn toward him with my hands on my hips, waiting patiently to see what he’s going to respond with.
His face hardens but he still looks at me skeptically. "Not a chance," he decides. "Or if that's true, the poor sap did a piss poor job."
I scowl and drop my hands to my sides. "How on earth would you be able to tell that?"
There is nothing sarcastic about his tone as he answers. "Because if you had been pleasured right, you'd have sexy, freshly fucked hair and the most incredible pink, flushed skin. Not to mention, a sated smile."
My breath hitches. Suddenly, I'm flooded with memories of desperate hands and hungry moans and wet kisses. I squeeze my legs together to try to tamp down on the ache that's already started to build between them, but it doesn’t help—I can't stop thinking about the last time I had freshly fucked hair and pink skin. And more importantly, about the person that made me that way.
"That's ridiculous," I choke out. "Sex doesn't always have to be like that. Plus, that's cheesy as shit, you sound like you're trying to quote a movie." I head toward the kitchen, wanting to get away from this conversation and those memories.
But I don't get far because he blocks my path, leaving only inches between us. I glare up at him.
"That's what you looked like the other night," he murmurs in a gravelly voice. A current of electricity shoots through me at the sound.
"Do you remember?" he says in that same quiet, deep voice. His expression is smug, but there's also a fire burning in his eyes. He twirls a strand of my hair between his fingers as he studies my face. "Do you remember when I ran my fingers through your hair? When I pulled it? Or when you came so hard that your skin got hot? Because I haven't stopped thinking about it since."
My breath catches at his admission.He’s been thinking about me?
His eyes bore deep into mine. I can see the heat behind them, and I can't seem to tear myself away. I'm frozen in place, even as I see his face dip down.
He's smiling as he brushes his lips over my cheek. He's barely touching me—and it's infuriating. He continues down my chin, along my neck, until he reaches my ear. I feel his tongue dart out against my earlobe right before he nips it lightly.
I can't stop a hiss from leaving my lips. I was so dead set on never letting him get close to me again but now that he's this close, it feels like I've been drugged by his aura. Like the second I get too close to him, I'm enveloped in a strange trance that I can't break away from. I can't speak or move; all I can do is try not to hyperventilate.
"Remy…" he purrs, right before his lips touch mine.
I can't help my lips opening for him any more than I can stop my heart from beating. With a groan, he slips his tongue inside, and I shiver as it slides across my own. I wrap my arms around his neck and lean further into the kiss.
With a growl, he grips my ass and lifts me up. He spins and walks us to the kitchen island, then sets me on the edge. He pushes my thighs apart and slips in to stand between my legs. I whimper at the feel of his very big—veryhard—length. I pull him closer so I can grind against him.
He groans and digs his fingers harder into my hips. In the back of my mind, I realize I'm most likely going to bruise—and with my next thought I realize that I don't care. In fact, I wish he would mark me in a better spot.
Without thinking about what I'm doing, I grab one of his hands and guide his fingers to wrap around my throat.
His eyes widen—and then darken with lust. The heat in his eyes blazes, just like it had the last time he wanted to fuck me into the nearest surface.
"Filthy fucking girl," he growls, squeezing the sides of my neck. I can't help the moan that slips from my lips any more than I can help the wetness that I now feel between my legs. He kisses along my jaw, nipping and sucking. "I should've known you like it rough. Do you like it when I manhandle you? If I reached into your panties right now, would you be drenched?"
"God, yes," I moan, unashamed. I don't care about how it makes me look, or what we're even doing right now, all I can think about is how badly I want him to throw me around and fuck me seven which ways. I need his talented cock to douse this fire that feels like it's burning up every inch of my skin.
He reaches down to fumble with the buttons on my dress pants. When he finally gets them open, he squeezes my neck one final time before letting go to tug my pants down my legs. He leaves me in my thong, running a thoughtful glance along my body before stepping close again and ripping my blouse open. I gasp as my buttons fly everywhere.