Chapter 17 Breck
Breck
Aweek has passed since Enzo and Remy had sex in the back of his Range Rover, and Remy decided that she wants a relationship with us. All three of us.
She’s made herself at home in our penthouse. She steals Enzo’s hoodies, curls up between us on the couch, and touches us without overthinking it.
But Ansel’s barely been home to witness it.
Three major deals hit simultaneously, pulling him in different directions. He’s living in conference rooms and red-eye flights, and I catch the frustration in his eyes when he looks at Remy, knowing he’s missing everything.
He really wanted to come to Paris with us.
Now we’re on the private jet crossing the Atlantic, Remy presses against the window as the sun rises over the ocean.
“I still feel guilty that Ansel couldn’t come.” She turns away from the window to look at us. “That Singapore deal is huge, and now he’s handling everything alone.”
“His choice.” Enzo doesn’t look up from his tablet. “The Paris client’s been courting competitors. We couldn’t wait.”
“But leaving him behind—”
“Was his call.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Trust me, Remy. If there were any way he could be here, he would be. But he’s also not going to let you stay alone while we’re scattered across the globe.”
Her fingers twist together in her lap. “The security you have surrounding me seems excessive.”
“Trent’s out there.” Enzo sets down his tablet. “No leads. No sightings. We’re not taking any chances.”
“Ansel made me promise to text him every morning and night.” Remy’s smile is soft. “And to send photos of Paris, so he doesn’t feel like he’s missing everything.”
“He’s worried about you.” I reach over and squeeze her hand. “And frustrated that he can’t be here. When he finally gets home for more than a few hours, it’s going to be interesting to see how he fits into our new dynamic.”
She looks between us. “He will fit in perfectly. I care about him just as much as I care about both of you.”
The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom. “We’ll be beginning our descent into Paris in about twenty minutes.”
Remy presses back against the window. “I can’t believe I’m actually going to Paris.”
Enzo’s intensity softens when he looks at her. “Wait until you see it from the Eiffel Tower.”
Her eyes brighten. “We’re going to the Eiffel Tower?”
“We’re doing everything.” I stretch, my back protesting the hours-long flight. “That’s why we came three days early.”
She bites her lip. “I can’t believe you planned this!”
I shift to crouch beside her seat. “You deserve to have some fun, Little Genius.”
Her cheeks flush. “Thank you.”
Enzo’s already gathering our bags, getting ready for landing. “When is the last time you actually took a vacation?”
She’s quiet long enough that I know the answer.
“Just relax and let us spoil you.” I squeeze her hand, and something in her smile makes me want to promise her everything.
The hotel is a restored nineteenth-century building in the 8th arrondissement, decorated in marble. Our suite takes up the entire top floor, with three bedrooms, a living area with windows overlooking the Champs-élysées, and a terrace with views of the Arc de Triomphe.
Remy does a slow turn in the living room, taking it all in. “This is insane.”
“This is Paris.” I drop my bag by the couch. “Your room is the one on the right. It has the best view of the Eiffel Tower.”
She moves to the window, and I watch her face as she spots the iron lattice rising above the rooftops in the distance. The wonder in her expression makes something warm settle in my chest.
She places her palm against the glass. “I’ve dreamed about coming here since I was a kid.”
Enzo joins her at the window. “Now you’re here.”
“Now I’m here.” She leans into him slightly, and he wraps an arm around her waist without thinking. The gesture is so natural, and rather than jealousy, I’m content watching her relax into what we’re building.
“Go get settled.” I move toward my own room. “We leave in an hour. Wear comfortable shoes. We’re walking everywhere today.”
The next three days are perfect in a way I didn’t know life could be.
We start at the Louvre, where Remy stands in front of the Mona Lisa for twenty minutes, just staring. Enzo explains the mathematical proportions in Renaissance art while she listens with rapt attention. I hang back and watch them, the way she lights up when he talks, how he softens around her.
Enzo doesn't open up to people. That's just who he is. Or maybe, that’s who he was. She's changing that, and I love seeing my brother so happy.
We visit the Eiffel Tower at sunset. The city spreads out below us, lights beginning to twinkle on, and Remy turns in circles, trying to see everything at once.
“It’s magic.” She grabs my hand, then Enzo’s, pulling us both to the railing. “This is actual magic.”
I’m not looking at the view. I’m looking at her, at the joy radiating from her, and I’m memorizing this moment.
We eat at tiny cafés, where the waiters speak rapid French, and I get to show off my language skills. We wander through bookstores in the Latin Quarter. We sit by the Seine and watch boats drift past while eating crepes from a street vendor.
And through it all, the relationship between Remy and us becomes something more.
Remy touches us more freely now—a hand on my arm when she’s excited, leaning into Enzo when we’re walking, reaching for either of us without thinking.
On the third day, we take Remy shopping at the Champs-élysées.
“I don’t need anything,” Remy protests as Enzo steers us toward one of the luxury flagship stores.
“You need a proper Parisian wardrobe.” He holds the door open for her. “Humor us.”
Inside, a sales associate materializes immediately, taking in our appearance with the practiced eye of someone who recognizes money.
Enzo gestures around the store. “Pick whatever you want.”
Remy crosses her arms. “I’m not letting you buy me a wardrobe.”
“Not a wardrobe. Just a few things,” I tell her so that she won’t put up a fight. But I’m already moving toward a display of dresses. “This one. Definitely this one.” I hand it to the hovering associate. “We’ll take it.”
“I haven’t even tried it on!” Remy protests.
Enzo’s already selecting items, too. “You will. Along with everything else we’re about to pick out.”
An hour later, we emerge with several shopping bags. Enzo simply handed over his black card and told them to wrap up everything.
We move from one designer store to the next, each more exclusive than the last. Remy protests, we ignore her, she tries things on and looks stunning, and we buy everything. By the time we reach the smaller shops, she’s stopped arguing and started enjoying herself.
Remy walks between us, while Enzo and I carry the growing collection of bags.
We’re nearly back to the hotel when I spot the boutique I’ve been watching for. The window display features silk and lace in shades of cream and blush, with the kind of elegant sensuality only French lingerie achieves.
Remy stops walking when she realizes where I’m steering us.
“You need lingerie for these dresses.” I keep my tone casual, even though my pulse kicks up thinking about her in any of those pieces. “French lingerie is an art form. It would be a crime to leave Paris without experiencing it.”
“I have perfectly functional underwear.”
“We’re not buying it for function.” Enzo’s eyes have gone dark in a way I recognize.
I open the door. “Let’s go.”
I catch the eye of our security detail and gesture for them to wait outside. Some moments don’t need an audience.
She looks between Enzo and me, then at the window display, then back to us. Then a smile spreads across her face as she walks inside.
The boutique is decorated in pinks, with velvet chairs and soft lighting. An elegantly dressed woman takes one look at Remy and gives her an approving smile.
“Mademoiselle, if you’ll allow me to take a few measurements, I can select the perfect pieces for you.” She produces a measuring tape and gestures for Remy to follow her. Remy glances back at us nervously, and the woman smiles. “We have a private area just here. It will only take a moment.”
She guides Remy into a dressing room while Enzo and I sink into the plush chairs to wait.
A sales associate appears with champagne. Because apparently, that’s what you do in Paris.
Ten minutes later, Remy emerges with the sales associate, who’s carrying an armful of carefully selected pieces. She holds up a cream silk set: a bra with delicate lace trim and matching high-waisted panties.
“Well?” Remy’s cheeks are pink. “She says this one is classic. Timeless. What do you think?”
My champagne glass freezes halfway to my mouth. Even just seeing the delicate fabric makes my cock hard as I imagine it against her skin.
"That's perfect." I set my glass down, not trusting myself. "I want to see how wet you get that silk before the night's over."
Remy's eyes go wide. She glances at the sales associate, mortified. But I catch the way her thighs clench. The sales associate is a professional, not reacting to anything she just heard.
Enzo sets his glass down carefully. “We’re getting that one.”
“And several others.” I manage to sound casual. “Show us the blush set next. And the black one.”
Over the next twenty minutes, the sales associate brings out different sets—creams and blushes and blacks, silk and lace in various styles.
Remy holds each one up, asking our opinion on colors and cuts while the associate offers expert commentary on quality and fit.
All I can focus on is the mental images of Remy wearing each piece.
Each set is more beautiful than the last.
By the time we leave, we have four more bags, and I’m questioning my self-control.
Remy links her arm through mine as we walk back to the hotel. “Thank you. For all of this. For Paris. For making me feel like I matter.”
“You do matter.” I pull her closer. “More than you know.”
Back at the hotel, we drop the bags in Remy’s room. We order room service and eat on the terrace as the sun sets.
The conversation winds down as darkness falls. Remy stands, stretching. “I should probably turn in. Thank you again. For everything.”
She kisses Enzo’s cheek, then mine, and disappears into her room.
Enzo and I sit in silence.
“This is going well,” he finally says.
“Better than well.” I collect the empty plates. “She’s letting us in.”
We’re cleaning up when Remy’s door opens. She steps into the living room, and every coherent thought evaporates.
She’s wearing the black lingerie. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders. Her skin glows in the soft light.
The plate I’m holding slips from my fingers. I catch it at the last second.
Enzo has gone completely still, his hand frozen on the faucet.
Remy takes a step forward, and there’s confidence in her stride mixed with nervous energy. “I figured if you’re going to spend all that money, I should model it for you.”
My mouth has forgotten how to form words.
“Remy.” Enzo’s voice is strained. “Fuck.”
“Three days of spoiling me, and I haven’t properly thanked either of you.” She steps closer. “I think it’s time I thanked you both. At the same time.”