Page 120 of Remy

Winter turns to spring, and I convince myself it’d be a good idea to meet with Carlo once a week to keep updated on his cancer status when what I’m really attempting to orchestrate is a dose of pretty little Pyro proximity.

Some weeks I’m successful because Ollie often works late.

One night I catch sight of her locking up as I drive around the back of the building to chat with her dad.

Weeks later, our cars pass in the drive, but when I hit the brakes and attempt to meet her gaze she speeds away.

Even when I do get to see her it’s never enough.

But the visits aren’t a hardship.

I appreciate Carlo.

He’s a realist who holds a moral compass I admire. He’s also the only father figure I’ve known who hasn’t had homicidal tendencies. We chat about everything. Sometimes it’s only for a few minutes. Other times it’s for hours over coffee in his living room, the conversation flowing like we’re old friends instead of mafia criminal and innocent business partner.

I tell Salvo the meetings are a necessity. That keeping an eye on Carlo’s health means I’m keeping an eye on the stability of our contract, and my brother agrees with the logic.

But I’m yet to get what I really want. Time with her.

Everyone I come in contact with becomes a potential candidate to facilitate a pretty Pyro rendezvous. I think about killing twenty-four/seven just for the sake of being around her.

I end up getting lucky in the early days of March when I find two enemies tailing me around the city. Russo and Valenti torture them for info. Apparently the cartel aren’t laying as low as they want us to believe, and my head is in their sights.

I’d probably give a shit if I wasn’t so fucking pumped to have an excuse to message Ollie.

Me

I can’t stop thinking about that night at the dive bar. How you shuddered under my touch.

It wasn’t the best message to send in the early morning hours after months of radio silence, but fuck, those thighs of hers have been playing on my mind to no end.

I even go to the extent of storing one of the dead cartel in our van overnight, risking life in prison, just so I have an excuse to go back to the funeral home two nights in a row.

Me

Do you remember how wet you got for me?

Again, it’s not the most practical text, but I can’t help it.

She’s in my fucking head, constantly tinkering with my libido.

She doesn’t message back. Those three dots of potential conversation don’t appear. All I get is the update that the text has been read, and it’s enough to get my blood pumping. To make my dick hard as I wait just inside the funeral home as she arrives to watch the building until she finally drives away.

The remainder of the month is slow. Carlo gets weaker with each visit, his jovial demeanor becoming tainted from the chemo. Then April hits, another cartel member takes a bullet, and I sit like a giddy schoolgirl behind the wheel of my Bentley, trying to think of the perfect line to text my obsession.

I dream about fucking you. About how gorgeous your face would look when I make you come.

No. Sex isn’t an option, so texting it into existence is a monumental mistake.

I delete the message and try again.

I fantasize about tasting you. About gliding my tongue between your pussy?—

Fuck. What is wrong with me?

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Would your panties get wet if my hand slid back between your thighs?

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