Page 75 of A Smooth Operator

"I don't want y'all arguing because of me, Remi."

"If we argue, it's cause Mama is being a racist snob."

A part of me wondered if it was a good idea to even be in a relationship with Remi with all this drama. I'd be better off with someone whose family wasn't quite so upper echelon and didn't mind a half-black girl dating their son. But the heart wanted what it wanted; and mine was madly attached to Remington Drake.

"Okay, if I'm doing this, then we will have sex tonight."

He refused to have sex; the penetrating kind. He made me come with his mouth but wouldn't let me take care of him.

"You said you sometimes felt like I just wanted sex with you; I want it, Echo, but I want you so much more. So, even if, say, we could never have sex, I'd still love you."

It was a sweet admission, and I appreciated what he was trying to do, what he was trying to show me—but I was sexually frustrated.

"Do we have a deal, Remi?" I demanded.

"Deal. You come for Thanksgiving dinner, and I'll fuck your brains out tonight."

I narrowed my eyes. "That means you also orgasm."

He chuckled. "Yes, ma'am."

"Inside me?"

He laughed. "I love you, Echo, so fucking much."

"That's a good thing." I kissed his lips softly. "Because I feel exactly the same way."

He arched an eyebrow.

"I love myself a lot, too," I said cheekily.

It wasn't like Remi was a whole new man—I knew this Remi well. He was the one who spent time with me. He was affectionate. He made love to me like I was the last pussy on earth. The big difference was that he now accepted we were in a relationship, that this was special and unique.

By now, I was sure most of his friends circle knew about us. I still hadn't gone back to Paint the Town Red—cause I wasn't ready. I still had some PTSD from that fateful night, and the only people we saw were my colleagues and his who knew and accepted us as a couple.

Remi handed me a helmet. I put it on. I loved riding on his Ducati and was fully intending to learn to ride myself. It was one of the most freeing things ever.

"I think I'm going to sign up for motorcycle classes," I told Remi as I got on behind him.

"Hell no!"

"Why?"

"Baby Doll, it's fucking dangerous."

"But you do it?"

"Yeah, 'cause I know what I'm doin'."

"I said I'll learn."

He started the Ducati and turned toward me. "Ain't ever fuckin' happenin'."

On that note, we took off.

Remi was, as he said, a good ol' Southern boy, which meant that sometimes, even to his own detriment, he behaved like a caveman. I was a Southern woman who came from the generation of "a man is not a plan," so our wires often got crossed.

To give him credit, he didn't put on his alpha male act often. And despite what Betty Friedan had instilled in me, the truth was that his dominance was hot as hell. Well, not about the motorcycle—I was definitely going to get on one of those. The thrill of riding a bike was something I definitely wanted to experience.

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