Page 267 of Remy

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OLIVIA

Bursting into tears isn’t the most opportune way to show appreciation for the mind-blowing orgasm. But there’s no restraint to hold back like there previously was. The nausea option is no longer available. There’s only painfully blinding tears. And given the trauma surrounding Remy’s first sexual experience and his fear about causing issues with mine, it only makes me cry harder.

I apologize over and over.

He holds me tighter, stroking my waist, slowly coaxing me back from the darkness with his words of affirmation until I fall into an exhausted sleep.

When I wake it’s to an empty stomach, my need for food so painful I have to figure out if I’m willing to do a midnight walk of shame or raid Remy’s kitchen.

Given I don’t have my phone, which means no money and no way of calling a ride share, I opt to creep from his bed and help myself to his heavily stocked fridge.

It doesn’t take long for him to find me.

A few minutes later he’s back between my thighs, spoiling me with more bliss.

I swear I didn’t think history would repeat itself with a renewed bout of post-coital blubbering—it’s definitely not a routine I want to encourage—but as soon as the orgasmic high is over, I’m back, digging in the trenches of my sorrow. Sobbing. Sniffling.

It can’t be healthy for any man’s ego to have a woman bawling uncontrollably after sex, but Remy takes it in stride. Always supportive. Forever my savior.

I think my downfall is caused from guilt.

I want so badly to be distracted from my grief that I seek out his affection. Then once the euphoria is gone, the weight of sadness returns ten times heavier than it was before.

But as I blink awake to the morning sun creeping around the edge of the curtains, Remy isn’t beside me, and the sheets where he once laid are now cold.

“Don’t go snooping down that hall,” his whisper-shout carries in the distance from the other side of the closed bedroom door.

The patter of little feet scurrying along the hall makes me stiffen.

“Tilly,” he coos.

Tilly? Does he have a dog?

I sit up, carefully holding the covers to my naked chest, the pile of folded clothes on my bedside table catching my eye. There’s fresh underwear, a white lace bra, my favorite Too peopley outside T-shirt, and my loose grey yoga pants.

He went to my house to get clothes?

I wait for the irk of apprehension to take over. It doesn’t come. I don’t care if he’s been in my home without me. I can’t even summon the will to care if his men did.

All I feel is gooey gratitude.

I trust him. More than logic and commonsense should allow.

I pull on the underwear while still beneath the covers.

“Little miss Tilly,” Remy warns. “Get your butt back here now.”

A tiny girl giggle sounds from the other side of the bedroom door, followed by the quick scurry of retreating feet.

Not a dog. A child.

I hustle into the clothes then sit on the side of the bed, taking stock of my senses. My head is heavy, all the tears having left my face a little swollen and sore. And apart from attributing those same sensations to much more intimate parts of my body for much more enjoyable reasons, I feel okay. Not great. Not perfect. But a small step closer to stable.

I freshen up in the bathroom… finger-brush my teeth… re-braid my hair. Then I pad into the hall, nervous over the indecipherable murmurings of adult conversation between Remy and a woman coming from down the hall.

Facing unfamiliar people isn’t my preference on a good day, but this morning my introverted nature is heightened at the thought of seeing anyone other than Remy.

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