Page 55 of Win You Over
“Would it bother you if I did?”
I shake my head, pushing the long brown locks off my forehead before sweeping them into a bun and tying them out of my face.
“So did you?” I press.
“Yes. A few times.”
I suck my bottom lip between my teeth, the wicked taste of jealousy burning on my tongue.
“Did you ask him to hurt you?” I don’t know why I’m doing this to myself. The self-destruction is a potent mix of good and bad.
Remington changes position so that he’s on his knees. He moves the plate and our beer bottles to the side.
“Would it bother you if I did?” he asks, repeating his earlier question.
I shake my head again.
Remington leans forward, his hands on either side of me as he invades my space, bringing his lips dangerously close to mine.
“No. I don’t share that particular taste with many people,” he admits.
“Who else?” I ask, edging myself forward until the heat of his body seeps through my sun-dried tee.
“Finn and now you.”
“Because you fuck Finn?”
“Pretty boy, jealousy is a fucking sexy look on you.” He grins wickedly, his tongue darting out to lick a line across my lips.
“Answer me.”
“Yes, because ItrustFinn and IfuckFinn.” Remington shakes his head. “No, that’s not right. IfuckedFinn. Past tense.”
Fireworks pop and crackle in my stomach, a slow hum of electricity vibrating in my blood when Remington whispers his lips over mine.
“Know why they’re in the past?”
I move my head from side to side, our lips brushing with the action.
“Because I only want you. All of you. And onlyyou.”
Remington closes the space between us, his lips crashing into mine as his heavy body pushes me backwards. I adjust myself so my legs are open and he settles between them, kissing me hungrily. I wrap my arms around his back, feeling the expanse of his thick torso and the plains and grooves where the muscles move and bunch as he runs his hands up my sides.
“I like you jealous,” he breathes.
“Not jealous,” I retort. Two words, one very big lie.
His kiss deepens, his hands roaming every inch of my body he can reach. My own hands find purchase in his hair, tugging on the strands and making Remington moan. A hungry growl emanating from deep within him.
At some point, my hands fall to the sides of my head and Remington slides his warm palms up my forearms. I’m so lost in his kiss and his taste and the sinful noises falling from his lips that it takes me a second longer than it should to realise he has his hands lightly wrapped around my wrists. He bucks his hips, his erection rutting against mine and while the pleasure is there, it’s overridden by an immense, ice cold bucket of fear. The hands on my wrists are no longer his. No longer the hands of a man who wants to kiss me. Now they’re the hands that tormented me all those years ago.
My body stiffens, my breath coming out strained as panic sets in, and Remington pulls up, his eyes scan my face, wide with concern. Much like that night I lost the bet, he doesn’t know my history but he’s worked out enough to know that something is wrong.
“Shit, I’m sorry.” He shoots off me, his hands raised to show he’s not a threat. My body knows that’s the case, but my body and mind can’t agree.
I scoot up, pull my knees to my chest and bury my head between them, gasping in air in an attempt to calm my racing nerves. I try to recall the techniques the therapist once gave me for handling a panic attack, but it was so long ago that I revert to doing what I always do in these situations.
I take deep lungfuls of air and drop my hand to my pocket, seeking the comfort of dad’s knife.
