Page 65 of Remy

“I walked away, Ollie. Even though I wanted you. To feel more than just the material of those slick fucking panties. To kiss you. Consume you.”

Surprise flares in her eyes. Or maybe it’s increased disgust.

“The ways in which I wanted to ruin you grew like a rampant fucking virus while we sat in that booth.” The admission spews from me. “I’d ached to fuck you. To drag you onto my lap and slide my cock so deep inside your virginal pussy that your dad would’ve heard you scream from the pleasured pain of it.”

Her breathing labors, her chest rising and falling in quick succession.

She’s scared.

Good.

“And we both know I could’ve had you,” I snarl.

Her delicate throat works over a heavy swallow. “Too bad you don’t mess with virgins.”

Anger slams into my temples. Why doesn’t she know when to shut the fuck up? “Careful or I might just change my mind.”

She gasps.

Great. Just fucking great.

As if our temperamental relationship wasn’t bad enough, I had to threaten sexual assault.

“Are you done?” she rasps.

No.

I want to grab her. Shake her. Fucking kiss the goddamn sass out of her until she learns to keep that pretty mouth shut.

God-fucking-damnit.

I step back and shove a hand through my hair. “Get out of my sight.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. She slides along the wall until she’s out of reach then storms down the hall and enters what I assume is her bedroom.

“And keep your fucking door open,” I seethe.

She complies even though her animosity consumes the house.

It takes a good thirty seconds to get my feet moving and return to the living room before I do something else I’ll regret… like fucking apologize.

I force myself to crash on the relatively comfortable, oversized sofa, the hours passing with slowly waning bitterness. I spend the night trying to figure out how the hell to fix this mess while also keeping Ollie’s freedom and heartbeat intact.

Problem is, every achievable outcome hinges on my trust and her respect—neither of which seem attainable.

Morning arrives with little rest for the wicked. It’s barely light out when I message Flynn to bring me a change of clothes, along with a folder of information I requested during the midnight hours from a source within the Baltimore PD, then help myself to a mug of instant coffee while I wait for the kid to arrive.

I’m on Ollie’s porch, making more calls, when the testosterone-filled teen pulls up in the Chevy Impala I bought him a few months ago.

“Howdy, boss.” He walks along the garden path toward me, a garment bag draped over one arm with a take-out food bag balanced on top, while his other hand is clamped around a manila folder.

“Hey.” I jerk my chin at his haul. “Did you get everything?”

“You know I did.” He hands over the folder. “What happened to you? You look like shit.”

“Watch it.” I snatch the offering with a fake glower and flick through the pages to make sure the contents are what I asked for.

He snickers. “Are you angry because of the party I threw last night?”

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