Page 69 of The Prodigal

Remington arches a brow, a boyish smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I have to admit, you’re good for my ego, love.”

“I’m good for shoving my foot up your ass, too.” I put my hands on my hips, not giving a shit who sees me. “Come over here and help me.” After all, it’s his fault I’m wet, with my shorts at my knees.

That damn brow of his stays cocked. “And if I don’t?” he dares, fighting back his amusement. “What are you going to do about it?”

Threats and promises are his favorite way to communicate, and you know what?

I think they are my new favorite, too.

“Never mind,” I pop back, unruffled. “I don’t need your help after all.”

If he doesn’t want to help, then he can sit back and watch.

He canwatch, with the entire park, as they drink in my nakedness. Stalking toward the car the best I can with my shorts at my knees, I snatch my suitcase off the ground.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

There’s no lightness—no playfulness left in his tone.

“I’m changing.”

“The fuck you are,” he snaps back angrily.

“The fuck I’m not.”

A growl tears through Remington as he wrenches the suitcase from my hand. “Walk,” he barks, as if I’m some pet he hates.

He takes a step, his hips brushing mine in the process. “You can walk on your own,” he threatens, “or I can help you. Only one of those options is fun.”

Somehow, he’s managed to turn this whole situation around. Here I was, thinking I would force his hand into being more compliant, and now I’m the one following orders. It’s not fair, but it is sexy. I’ll give him that. Demanding Remington is way hotter than asshole Remington.

“Where would you like me to go, sir?”

He doesn’t bother answering me. Instead, he forces me backward with his strides until we reach the driver’s side door.

“Get in,” he orders, opening the door.

I flash him a charming smile that he doesn’t appreciate. “Such a gentleman you are, Mr. Potter. I’m impressed.”

“You should be,” he clips, tossing my suitcase onto the hood, rooting through my clothes like they are his property. “I’ve been practicing just so a stranger would give me a sarcastic compliment.”

He is such an ass.

But I laugh anyway. “How are you still single?”

He shoves a pile of clothes at my chest and leans in as his breath grazes over my ear. “I’m single because no one has ever been able to survive me.”

I roll my eyes, not intimidated in the least. “Who are you? A mafia prince?” I shove my clothes back into his chest. “Hold these, mafia boy.”

He starts to object, but then I hook my fingers around the band of my underwear and push them down to the ground with my shorts. All that’s audible is the sound of our breathing as our chests rise and fall with the beat of our erratic hearts.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline or some kind of shock from him spanking me on the hood of his car, but whatever possessed me to get naked in front of Remington Potter is clearly having its way as I stand mostly bare before him.

“A gentleman would turn around,” I note, as butterflies swirl in my stomach at his hooded gaze.

“I’m no gentleman,” he counters.

And I’m no fucking lady.

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