Chapter 8 #2
I stop. Don’t what? Don’t leave? Don’t disappear in the middle of the night?
Fuck. Where did that come from?
Remy tilts her head, waiting. “Don’t what?”
I deflect. “Don’t hog the blankets.”
“I’ll do my best.” She rolls her eyes. “It’ll be fine.”
Except it won’t be fine. A pillow isn’t going to do shit when she’s right there, close enough to touch.
Close enough that I’ll be able to smell that lavender soap on her skin all night.
Close enough that if she rolls over in her sleep, we’ll be pressed together with nothing between us but thin cotton and my rapidly disappearing self-control.
I grab the toiletry bag that Kelly gave us and escape to the bathroom. The shower is scalding hot, and I stand under the spray longer than necessary, trying to get my body under control. This is Remy. Our employee. Damon’s ex. Off-limits for approximately seventeen different reasons.
But lately, those reasons are starting to feel less solid.
Damon’s been an asshole. Not to Remy alone, but in general. How he talks about women, how he undermines Remy’s work, how he acts like he’s entitled to our loyalty without earning it anymore.
Maybe we’ve been protecting the wrong person.
I turn the water colder, but it doesn’t stop my mind from imagining what she looks like under that robe. There’s only one way I’m getting through this night without doing something I can’t take back.
I brace one hand against the tile, water streaming over my shoulders, and wrap my other hand around my cock.
The relief is immediate and inadequate all at once. I close my eyes, but that’s a mistake—all I see is Remy. The way the robe hung off her shoulder. The damp hair curled at her neck. The freckles I’ve memorized across her nose and collarbone, the ones I want to trace with my tongue.
I imagine peeling that robe off her. The weight of her body pressed against mine.
My grip tightens. My breathing gets rough, echoing off the tile. The water pounds against my back while I work myself faster, chasing the edge I need to find before I can walk back into that room and lie next to her without losing my mind.
I picture her underneath me. Those blue eyes dark with want. Her hands in my hair, nails scraping my scalp. The sounds she’d make, the ones I could pull from her if she’d let me.
The tension coils tighter in my spine, my thighs. I’m close. So close.
I imagine her saying my name. Not professional, not casual. Breathless. Desperate.
That does it. The release hits hard, stealing my breath, my vision whiting out for a moment as I brace harder against the wall. Wave after wave until I’m empty, panting, water still cascading over my shoulders.
For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the sound of water and my own ragged breathing. Then reality comes crashing back.
Remy is going to wreck me. Fuck, she already has.
I just got off thinking about our employee. About Damon’s ex. About a woman I’m supposed to keep at arm’s length. And in five minutes, I have to climb into bed next to her and pretend that I didn’t just envision fucking her.
I turn off the water, step out of the shower, and brush my teeth.
When I come out, Remy is lying on her side, facing away from me, already asleep or pretending to be.
I slide into bed, keeping as much distance between us as possible. The mattress dips slightly under my weight.
Her voice is soft, drowsy. “Goodnight, Enzo.”
“Goodnight, Remy.”
I close my eyes and will myself to fall asleep, but I’m hyperaware of her breathing and the warmth radiating from her side of the bed.
Sleep doesn’t come easily, but eventually, exhaustion wins.
I wake to warmth.
Remy’s back is pressed against my chest, her body curled into mine like she’s meant to be there. Our hands are entwined, her fingers laced through mine, resting against her stomach. Her breathing is slow and even, deep in sleep.
I should pull away. I should put distance between us before she wakes up and realizes what’s happening.
But I don’t move.
She fits against me perfectly. The curve of her spine aligns with me, her head tucked under my chin, her soft skin warm against mine. She smells like the lavender soap from the bathroom and her own scent that I want to memorize. To keep.
Fuck.
For the first time in six weeks, my brain is quiet. No arguing with myself about why this is a bad idea. Just this. Her in my arms. Vulnerable. Trusting.
I’m not a relationship guy. I’m a one-night, no-strings, gone-by-morning type of guy. I don’t stick around for breakfast. Don’t learn last names. Don’t wonder what happens next.
But holding Remy like this—I get it now. I get why people choose the same person over and over instead of moving on.
I want this. Want her. That’s the problem.
She shifts in her sleep, and my arm tightens around her before I can stop it. The word rises in my throat without permission.
Stay.
I don’t say it. I clamp my jaw shut so hard my teeth ache.
My thumb traces circles on the back of her hand without conscious thought. She makes a small, content sound and burrows closer.
I’m so fucked. And Remy Ray is worth every complication she brings.
I close my eyes and let myself have this. Tonight. These stolen hours where I can pretend she’s mine to keep.
Even though I know better. Even though wanting things is how you lose them.
When I open my eyes again, sunlight is streaming through the windows, and the bed beside me is empty.
I sit up, disoriented. The bathroom door is open, and the shower is running.
Reality crashes back.
Last night was an accident. A moment of unconscious closeness that meant nothing.
Except it meant everything to me.
I scrub my hands over my face and get out of bed. By the time Remy emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed and back to her usual composed self, I’ve shoved every feeling from last night into a box and locked it away.
She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Good morning. The shower is free.”
“Thanks.”
I should leave it there, but instead I’m staring. I know I’m staring. And I can’t stop.
She’s toweling off her hair, and there’s a strip of damp skin at her collarbone.
She catches me, and her lips part. Her eyes light up with a flicker of interest, and I’m terrified of what she’s about to say.
So I open my mouth and sabotage whatever this is before it starts.
“You snore.” My words come out flat. Dismissive. “Just so you know.”
The flicker dies, but instead of looking hurt, she laughs. “I do not.”
She doesn’t, but I don’t say that.
I disappear into the bathroom and stand under cold water until my head clears.
The rest of the morning is all business. We discuss the breach over breakfast, coordinate the follow-up procedures on the drive, and plan the debrief with my brothers during the flight.
But the whole time, all I can think about is the weight of her hand in mine, and how much I want it back.