Page 173 of Remy

I glower as I’m pulled back upright, my eyes pinning his in fury.

“Don’t look at me like that, Pyro.” He growls under his breath. “I assure you your anger doesn’t have the wanted effect.”

“And what effect does it have, Reaper?”

He strengthens his grip on my hip and drags me tighter against him, the hard length of his cock pressing into my pubic bone. “Does that answer your question?”

My feet flounder against his until he loosens his hold, allowing me the freedom not to be edged by his dick.

“I’d apologize for being crass if I didn’t know that you love what you do to me.” His fingers entwine with mine, making the hand contact more intimate.

“You’re wrong.” I lean into his shoulder, hiding my face from view. “I could never love knowing we both want something you won’t allow us to have.”

His shoulders tighten. It’s the only sign I’ve hit a sensitive target.

I quickly flounder to change the subject. “I can’t believe you booked an entire restaurant.”

“We needed to lay low.”

“Yeah, but an entire restaurant?”

I can sense his self-satisfied smile without having to see it. “Why not?”

“It must be nice to be able to hemorrhage money on a whim.” I huff.

“I guess it is. I’ve never done it before.”

“Remy, you’re constantly in designer suits.”

“They were gifts from Lorenzo.”

“What about the cars?”

“Rentals.”

I push back from his shoulders to stare at his earnest expression. “The penthouse?”

“Is owned by Matthew.”

My dance movements slow. “You’re telling me you’ve never splurged like this before? Not ever? Not even when you were making stacks of cash with your fashion label and walking red carpet events?”

“There were no stacks of cash. We weren’t paid for our work. Instead, me and my siblings were manipulated into believing our parents were investing in our future by withholding funds when what they were really doing was denying our ability to escape.”

“Remy, I’m so sorry. I assumed?—”

“It’s okay.” He tugs me back into him, making it seem so natural for me to rest my head between his jaw and shoulder. “I’m well aware you know very little about me.”

“I don’t know your stories, but I know what type of man you are.”

A low rumble of disagreement emanates from his chest. “At least you think you do.”

I’m not going to ruin the moment by arguing. It’s clear neither of us will be swayed on our opinion.

“I’ve thought about you all week,” he admits quietly into my hair. “I didn’t know if you were all right.”

“I was.”

His thumb strokes my hip, lazy and smooth. “You didn’t cry. Not when I told you the news. And not at work all week.”

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