Chapter 51 New Orleans—Remy
New Orleans—Remy
The second bedroom door Remy opened revealed an unused room, and while it didn’t have a king-sized bed, the standard-sized one would do—for now.
A rough pallet on the floor might have served for a hot-as-hell moment when he was ripping off clothes, but not for the woman he intended to keep.
The woman, who owned his heart, deserved better.
He settled Skye gently onto a nest of layered quilts and blankets and an array of colorful pillows.
The yellow walls held a strange familiarity he couldn’t place.
He stood for a beat as the afternoon sun’s golden rays poured through the window, bathing him in a warm, liquid light.
Within that glowing wash, the grip of his inner despair melted away.
It might return—it probably would—but right now, standing in the sun-drenched room about to make love to Skye, the reins of his life felt firmly back in his hands.
The air crackled with raw tension—his and hers. A singular focus consumed him—to claim the woman of his dreams, to lose himself in her heat. Nothing would stop him. Nothing! Until a jarring reality check slammed into him. A condom. Goddamnit. He didn’t have one.
“I’ll be right back,” he managed, his voice a little strained. “I need to find a condom.”
“Remy, wait!” Skye sat up, bracing her weight on her forearms. Her gaze was steady, and she slowly licked her bottom lip. “I haven’t been with a man in over two years. I don’t have a disease, and if I end up pregnant, I won’t just celebrate—I’ll rejoice.”
Her confession hit him harder than a physical blow to the solar plexus. “Two years!”
She gasped, sitting bolt upright on the bed, her posture rigid. “Did you think that because I’m a jazz singer, I must be promiscuous?”
He realized his mistake immediately, and it hung in the air like a thick fog. “No. I just remember you telling Bastien you were a progressive, independent woman who challenged traditional norms. You said other couples sleeping together didn’t offend you. So I just thought…”
Her eyes blew wide open, barely containing the fury blazing in their depths. “That I engaged in casual, indiscriminate sex!”
He massaged his temples as a heavy sigh deflated his…
momentum. “I thought about casual sex with you constantly,” he admitted, his voice rougher now.
“But I was terrified of the consequences—that I would get you pregnant. I knew I couldn’t live in the past, and I didn’t believe you’d come with me to the future.
But did I think you were promiscuous? Hell, no.
I just thought you were a free spirit who would embrace what felt good, regardless of society’s expectations. ”
“You’re right. I would’ve invited you to my room the night I met you,” she countered, her eyes sparkling with a wicked light. “But you were staying in my house, surrounded by your friends. I couldn’t act on impulse. None of that matters now, though. Does it?”
He shook his head, a muscle tightening in his jaw. “I’m sorry it came up. It was a mood buster.”
“Well,” she purred, her tone a silken invitation, “let’s see if we can reclaim the mood. Shall we?”
“Are you sure?” he murmured once more—and her answer was a breathless yes as she reached for him.
With a single deliberate motion, she slowly stripped off her T-shirt: abdomen—his breath hitched, breast—breathing stopped, arms—he struggled to pull a breath from his lungs, shoulders—Dear Lord, and neck—have mercy on his soul!
If there had been any lingering doubt about his ability to perform, it vanished like smoke. If Marcelle purchased Skye’s black lacy bra, she was a genius who clearly had him in mind. If he survived this moment, it’d be the best day of his life. He swallowed hard, his mouth dry as a dust bowl.
“My God! You’re breathtaking.”
She unzipped her jeans, and he found himself mesmerized, rooted to the spot, a captive audience of one. If she intended this as a performance, a striptease to entice him, it was entirely unnecessary. Yet, he wasn’t about to interrupt the show.
She lay back and shimmied, easing the denim over her hips and revealing a black lacy thong that perfectly matched the delicate lace of the bra.
Remy drooled—a Pavlovian response he couldn’t control.
She kicked the jeans aside, planted her elbow firmly in the mattress, and propped her cheek in her hand…
A living work of art.
“Are you just going to stand there looking starved, or are you going to take off your clothes?”
He moved then with a clenched jaw and grabbed the hem of his T-shirt. Hell no. He wouldn’t just stand there. He tore the shirt off his body, almost ripping it. Then he slid the sweatpants down his hips, adding them to the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor.
She used her index finger to rub the very tip of her tongue. This gesture sent a surge of anticipation swirling through Remy’s nerves and a powerful tingle down his spine.
The mood was well and truly reclaimed. “Vixen.”
Her finger traced a path along her jawline, down the curve of her throat, lingering on the sensitive skin of her neck—a silent, intimate gesture. Her gaze held his, an unspoken language passing between them, the silence sending a rush of hell-hot heat through him.
He settled beside her, his fingers easing the delicate fabric down her legs. Instead of tossing her panties to the floor, he paused, holding the wisps of silk to his face and inhaling her unique scent.
His arm curved around her, his fingers brushing her silky skin.
With deliberate slowness, he found the small fasteners and released the catches one by one.
The moment the bra fell away, the sudden breathtaking reveal of her breasts hit him with quiet intensity, and the intake of breath seized his chest.
“Breathe.” Her voice was a hush, rich with an almost tangible texture. It was the same captivating quality she commanded on stage, turning sound into an experience that resonated deep within the listener.
And most profoundly within him, sending shivers through every nerve.
His mouth devoured hers, a frantic collision that felt less like a beginning and more like a necessary confession he’d been holding back for a lifetime.
Her hips shifted, and he leaned closer, his breath pebbling her nipples.
Her breathing quickened. The possibility—a concept he had once doubted—was unfolding before him.
With only the simplest of gestures, her appetite seemed to ignite, her body moved with a rushing intensity.
And then—a release marked by his name on a desperate breath.
Offering no pause, he lowered his head, a gentle pressure at her breast, while his fingers trailed a path across her heated skin.
She squirmed—a shift, a yielding—and his touch followed.
A slow, rhythmic movement brought soft gasps from her.
His touch became a deeper exploration, urging greater openness.
The intensity built, a circling, a focus that drew a powerful response from her.
With each movement, his touch matched it, a demanding yet sensitive connection.
He was giving her something deeply desired.
“Enough! Stop!” she cried.
“Not yet,” he said, smiling against her skin.
“You’re torturing me.”
The day would come when she’d tell her closest friends every breathless detail of their first time, and in that moment, Remy didn’t care.
His reputation, his carefully constructed mask, didn’t matter.
This was about something deeper—a primal urge to lose himself in the fierce current of her love, her unwavering attention, and her absolute devotion.
He reveled in the thought of deliciously pleasuring her, drawing out every exquisite sensation.
He didn’t give her body a moment’s reprieve from the aftershocks of that shattering climax.
With agonizing slowness, he moved upward, over the gentle slope of her hips, trailing a scorching path of open-mouthed kisses until he reached the aching peaks of her nipples.
Finally settling between her trembling thighs, he aligned himself, the hardened proof of his desire pressing against the very seam of her inviting, tender folds.
The slow, intoxicating friction of his body against her soft, wet heat triggered a cascade of electrifying sensations.
She clung to him, her eager lips answering his with an impassioned urgency that matched his own—a wild, hungry need that harmonized perfectly with the fire burning through his veins.
Her legs clamped around his waist, her fingernails dug crescent moons into his ass exactly as she’d done to his arm during their turbulent flight to New Orleans. A gasp tore from her throat as she surrendered to a second, powerful climax, this time with him inside her.
Every exaggerated story Remy had ever heard about life-altering, soul-deep lovemaking and happily-ever-afters was coming true for him in the most primal way.
A kiss deepened, a fierce, feverish plunge that made his heart pound a reckless rhythm against his ribs, pulling them both into a dizzying vortex where the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.
Shivers, intense and undeniable, cascaded across his shoulders and down his spine.
Sweat trickled past his brow as he drove into her.
She clenched around him, a powerful, internal embrace.
He might actually die from the sheer ecstasy of it.
He reached his own peak with a force so potent it shook his entire body.
The powerful surge of life flowed through him, and the raw electricity arcing between them was beyond anything he had ever dared to dream possible.
Nothing in his existence had ever felt as right as this single, perfect moment, lost in the arms of the woman who held his heart.
They cleaved together, a single entity, and stayed that way long after the storm had passed, arms and legs intricately intertwined. He no longer knew where his body ended, and Skye’s began.