Page 197 of Remy

I turn cold.

“It’s not that big a deal.” His demeanor says otherwise. “Dear ol’ dad wanted to make a man out of me, and given his lacking parenting skills he thought making his fifteen-year-old sleep with a stripper was a great idea.”

My hand climbs to my throat. “He forced you?”

“I was a teenage boy. It’s not like I wasn’t itching to get laid, but?—”

“But he forced you.”

His fingers squeak against the steering wheel. “It wouldn’t have been so bad if it were at night when all the young, pretty college students are out working the clubs, but I’d cut school because I didn’t study for an English exam, and the only women taking stage during those hours were middle-aged and strung out.”

I cover my mouth with my hand, fighting to keep my horror contained.

“Your first time sticks with you. You’ll look back on it. You’ll remember it for the rest of your life. And sharing that moment with someone like me, in my line of work—” He shakes his head with adamance. “I won’t do that to you.”

Air hits my lungs with a bite of pain.

Why didn’t I already assume his restraint was for my benefit?

It’s always been for me.

When he threatened to leave Lorenzo’s employ. When he broke my father’s trust. When he arranged this weekend away with the impressive house, the beautiful dress, and a fully booked restaurant.

All. For. Me.

“I’m sorry I pushed for that information.” My voice is brittle. “I can’t imagine?—”

“Christ, don’t fucking imagine it. It’s bad enough that the memory won’t fade.” He stares at me, my pulse faltering as the darkness stretches out the window. “The only reason I’m telling you this is because I don’t want you to think I’m holding back because you’re lacking in any way. It’s the opposite. You’ve got no idea how hard it is not to surrender to you.”

I force a pained smile. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

“Then make it easier on both of us and quit tempting me. I’ll hate myself if I succumb.”

I wince as he returns his focus to the highway, the miles between us and the intimacy we shared growing wide.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I won’t tempt you to sleep with me again.”

His chin raises in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t respond.

“I mean it, Remy. I won’t.”

“Good. Then we’re done discussing it.” He continues driving toward the vacation home, the silence dragging.

I sit there mulling over the conversation—what his parents put him through, what I promised, and how we can work around it.

I’m not giving up.

Sex or not, I refuse to believe we can’t have something. Anything.

He’s grown to mean too much to me to simply let go.

The car slows as we approach the familiar drive. He turns onto the property, the tires grating against the coarse path until he stops before the shadowed home with the lone entry light shining from behind the front door.

He cuts the engine, his gaze remaining out the windshield. “Are you all right after what happened with the Irish?”

I nod. “I think so.”

“Do you need me to do anything for you?”

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