by Marie James
“Goddammit, cover yourself.” I’m hit mostly in the face with a fluffy towel, and I bury my face in it long enough to chuckle before resting the thing over the top half of me. “I thought you were over these stupid games?”
That stings, but so did kissing me then pushing me away. I guess it’s a good thing I’m used to being tossed to the side, huh? It’s made me resilient, given me thick skin, and that’s the story I’m sticking to no matter how many times I’ve cried myself to sleep the last couple of days.
“I want to go to a club. I don’t want to be trapped inside for my birthday.”
“You aren’t going to give up on this are you?”
“No.” I shake my head for emphasis. “Why should I? It’s your job to keep me safe and out of trouble.”
“One condition,” he concedes, and my spirits fall a little.
I was hoping he’d refuse, which inevitably would lead to me sneaking out and him having to chase me. Recreating that night he kissed me has been on my mind since I walked away from him on that sidewalk. Despite the hateful conversation I heard and knowing he’d rather be anywhere else than here with me, I somehow just want to spend more time with him. Thankfully, he’s been a little more talkative since the kiss. I get more than dismissive grunts, but he makes damn sure not to be in any position of comfort alone with me.
“What’s the condition?” I narrow my eyes and cross my arms over my chest.
His eyes dart away. “Remi.”
Looking down, I notice I’ve moved the towel and my right breast is once again exposed. With a smirk, I reposition the towel, waiting for him to turn back to face me without saying a word. His hands clench, open and close, open and close over and over for long moments before he turns back to face me.
“It has to be more than just me.”
“Who do you suggest?”
“Guys from Blackbridge, and you have to—”
“One condition,” I say, holding up a single finger. “No more.”
His jaw clenches, the muscles tightening and it makes me miss the scruff that formed there the days he was sick. It made him look older, but so rugged and out of control, unlike now. He’s all buttoned up looking like the secret service or a politician. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still handsome as ever, but seeing him a little frumpy will always be my preference. When he’s a little disheveled, I feel more on equal footing with him. Dressed like he is now, with that strait-laced attitude of his, I feel like a high school student getting in trouble at the principal’s office, which in some storylines has its appeal, but isn’t what I’m looking for.
“Fine,” he grunts, sitting in the lounger beside mine with a huff. He’s acting like he just came out of battle, and all I can do is smile.
Yeah, I want my party at a club. I was telling the truth when I said I didn’t want to celebrate here at the house. It’s a big deal. There have been moments in my life when I didn’t even know if I’d live to see legal-drinking age.
But mostly I want to cut loose, let music flow through my veins while Flynn watches me dance. I don’t want to dance with others and make him jealous. I want to clasp his hand when my favorite song comes on and have him not put up too much of a fight when I drag him out to the dance floor. I want to feel his body roll against mine, need to feel his hands on my back, twitching with the need to grip my ass.
I want—
“I’ll see you later,” Flynn says, clearing his throat and hauling ass away from the pool.
Saddened to watch him go, I’m also thankful for the time he spent talking to me. Okay, it was arguing with me, but at this point, I’m not going to be picky. Either is better than being ignored.
It doesn’t take long for boredom to settle in. I drank too much coffee this morning to be able to nap, and I have no desire to leave the house.
I tie my bikini top back on and pull my cover up on and wrap it around my body. I don’t mind teasing Flynn with my tits, but the gardener has been in and out all day checking on house plants, and that guy is a little creepy.
Flynn isn’t in the living room or kitchen. He doesn’t answer my knock on the security office door, but I know he has to be around here somewhere.
Looking takes longer than it should because honestly this damn house is too big, but I eventually find him running on the treadmill in the workout room. His eyes are laser-focused on the television in front of him, but no matter how enthralled he is with flipping CNN, I have no doubt he sensed me approach.
His strides are long and fluid, his back muscles working hard under his sweat-drenched shirt as his arms pump back and forth. Despite his weight and the speed he’s moving, his footfalls are nearly silent, but my eyes don’t settle on his shoes, choosing instead a few feet higher. The man has the tightest ass I’ve ever seen which is saying something considering I grew up around Hollywood stars and people paid to be perfect.
“Did you need something, Remington?” he asks conversationally, and it’s unfair that he’s not even out of breath.
I wanted to bend in half or roll around on the floor the other day after my pole class. It took an hour to get my heart rate back to normal.
“I didn’t know old men could run so quickly.”
He smirks, his eyes still on the television.
“Since when is twenty-nine old?”
“Twenty-nine?” I squeak. That actually shocks the hell out of me.
“Surprised? Wow, you really know how to make a man feel bad about himself.” He punctuates his words by turning up the incline on the treadmill without reducing the speed.
“It’s not your looks that made me think you were older. You act older.” He smiles, apparently okay with my answer. “You have the body of a twenty-year-old athlete, and the attitude of a grandpa.”
He stumbles a little, forced to shove his hands out to clasp the side bars to keep from falling.
I laugh, and his smile spreads wider.
“Hop on.” He points to the machine beside him.
“Are you wanting to see my tits bounce?” I open the wrap covering up my bathing suit, but it only draws a frown to his face.
“Is that how you always get attention, Remi?”
“No.”
I mean, sometimes, but he seems to be one of the few immune to the actions.
“You’re worth more than just throwing yourself at men. People would respect you more if you didn’t try to use your body and sexuality as a weapon.”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, hating that he’s got me in a spotlight.
“Thanks for the advice. I’m going to go make something for lunch.” I let my eyes rake over him one more time, making sure he sees me checking him out. It’s the only way I know to gain a little power back. “Don’t bother showering. You’re sexy as hell all sweaty.”
When I walk away, he grumbles and the sound of the machine speed being increased follows me out of the room.
Chapter 15
Flynn
“I don’t understand the irritation,” Ignacio complains. “What girl wants to spend her twenty-first birthday at her house?”
“You haven’t seen her house,” I counter.
“But her friends have,” Ignacio replies. “They don’t want to go someplace they’ve already been, especially not for such a big milestone.”
I get the feeling getting drunk and partying isn’t anything new for Remington. I’ve read her file.
I also want to mention that she doesn’t really have any friends. No one visits her. She doesn’t even have her nose stuck in her phone like most women her age do—and when did I start seeing her as a woman and not some bratty kid? I don’t know if it’s because she isolated herself or if the assumptions about fame and fortune being a lonely place are actually true.
“Can I count on the guys or not?”
“You know Deacon and Wren won’t leave their women.”
Deacon doesn’t get closely involved with the cases we work as individuals, keeping more of a management appro
ach, but Wren was never into social gatherings. He’s the nerd of the group, and the anti-social stereotype that usually accompanies geeks is a way of life for him. He was as uncomfortable going to a gala with Anna for Deacon as I was about coming to New York.
“You? Gaige? Quinten?”
“I’m sure it can be arranged. Brooks?”
“Fuck no,” I grumble. I don’t want that man anywhere near Remington. The charming bastard would only have to wink in her direction and she’d be putty in his hands.
My friend laughs, and I want to pummel him for his ability to read me even through a phone call. Am I that damn transparent? If so, I need to get a handle on that shit.
One damn kiss and I’m insanely distracted. Women. They have the ability to ruin any damn man, apparently.
“He’s going to be disappointed. What if he promises to be on his best behavior?”
“His best behavior is what concerns me.”
Another laugh. Another desire to choke my friend.
“I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“You aren’t concerned about his damn feelings.”
“I care about the mental health of all of my friends.”
Yet here you are torturing me.
And it says a lot about where my head is at that I’m struggling with a little teasing, growing angry at the thought of Brooks-fucking-Morgan showing his handsome face, wanting to wrap my fingers around his neck at just the mental image of him pointing his charismatic smile in Remington’s direction.
“No.” The word comes out just as harshly as I mean it to.
“Okay. Fine. Any of the guys but Brooks.”
“Go ahead and cut Finnegan from that list, too. Thanks.”
I hang up before he can rib me about the Scottish ginger, but I’ve seen how women go crazy for his damn accent. It has nothing on the British lilt that still clings to my voice even though I was born in the States. Women grin when they hear my voice, but they fall over their own damn feet when that fucker opens his mouth.
Ignoring my need to dig deeper and question why I’m so bent out of shape at the idea of either of those guys setting their sights on Remington, I leave the security office in search of my ward.
She isn’t in the living room or lounging out by the pool, and there’s no way I’m going to go see if she’s in her room. I head back to the kitchen and wait as casually as I can for her to show her gorgeous face.
Things have been… stilted since the kiss, but they’re better than right after coming back from the hotel. I don’t know how she felt when we returned but being vulnerable around her while sick really did a number on me. Her caring for me put my head in a dangerous spot, and the second we got back, I had to put some distance between us.
Had… not want.
What I wanted was to sneak into her room while she was sleeping and curl myself around her luscious body.
I wanted to sift my fingers though her soft hair.
I wanted to wake for once with the sun streaming through the curtains when neither one of us was covered in sweat from breaking fevers.
And of course, there were a million other things I wanted, things that made my slacks uncomfortable, things that made my mouth water and my fingers twitch.
But I can’t want those things any more than I can have them. Just the thoughts are torture enough for me to lose my mind.
And we won’t even go into the things I do when I’m alone.
Nope. We don’t even think of those things.
Those things are insidious. Those things make me ask questions like—What would it hurt? My brain answering that it would be a mistake while my body is insisting I jump in feet first.
“Good morning!” Bubbly and bright with a wide smile on her face, Remington bounces into the room, another pair of sinful leggings clinging to her body. “I have an appointment today.”
“Another pole class?”
She bites her bottom lip, making it obvious she was able to hear the excited anticipation in my voice.
“No.” She laughs when my face falls, and it reminds me once again that I need to do better on schooling my emotions around her. “It’s at a clinic.”
My brows furrow. “Are you feeling bad again? Relapse of illness after being sick is very common.”
“Oh.” She tilts her head to the side. “Are you worried about me?”
“No,” I lie. “But I imagine your parents wouldn’t be very impressed if you were sick twice in the small amount of time I’ve been here.”
Narrowed green eyes glare at me. “Of course. Always worried about your damn job.”
The jovial mood she was in disappears, and I fight the urge to stand, cup her face, and assure her that I don’t give a shit about her parents, or at this point, my fucking job. But that would be another partial lie. My job is keeping her safe, and other than her sinful body, the only thing in my head.
“It’s not that kind of appointment.” She grabs a juice from the fridge before walking across the room toward the garage. “It’s a little more intimate than that.”
I glare at her back, my fingers twitching to open the front passenger side door when she stands near the back of her car.
“I’m not going to your woman’s visit with you, Remington.”
She just laughs as she settles into the backseat, tugging the door closed when all I can do is stare down at her.
Heaven fucking help me, because it’s going to take celestial intervention to survive this woman.
***
“Absolutely not,” I hiss as Remington leads the way into the clinic. There’s more conviction in my voice than was present when I started out denying her ideas for her birthday party.
A beautiful woman stands at the front counter, beaming at first, her face falling slightly when I clasp Remington’s arm. I could have this conversation without touching her, and it’s definitely possible without pressing my front against her back and growling in her ear, but maybe the nearness will get my point across better.
“I’m not going into that room with you.”
She spins toward me without even attempting to pull her arm from my grip. It’s not tight enough to hurt her, and she doesn’t seem too keen to lose the contact either.
Bright green, mischievous eyes blink up at me. “Yes, you will.”
“I won’t. I’ll sit in the lobby and wait.”
This isn’t the damn pole class. This isn’t a group event of seduction like the damn dance number she did while swinging around a pole, her legs spreading so wide I swear I could see her—
I clear my throat. “No, Remington. That’s going too far.”
“I can’t do this on my own.”
“It’s your first time?” She doesn’t have a clue what she’s gotten herself into.
“No.” She scoffs like I’ve insulted her breeding like she’s a peasant. “I just always have someone with me.”
“Like Phillip Warren?” My words are a low hiss, and I fucking knew that guy was dipping his fucking pen in the company ink, despite his denial.
Her eyes dart away. I’ll fucking kill him.
“Remi.”
“Not him. I don’t think his boyfriend would’ve minded though. Is that your problem?”
It’s her turn to press her body against mine, and my grip tightens slightly in an effort not to release her arm and wrap my arm around her waist and hold her close to my chest.
“Do you have a boyfriend waiting back home for you?”
I chuckle at her ludicrous question. I don’t say a word because even though I’m straight, no one should ever have to justify their sexual orientation or defend their choices in that manner.
“A girlfriend?”
I continue to stare, my lip wanting to twitch in humor at her probing questions.
“A fiancée?”
I cock an eyebrow, wondering how far she’s going to take it.
She pulls away with a hiss, her eyes darting down to my empty left hand. “A wife!”
“I’m not married nor in a relationship, Remington. If I were with someone, I never would’ve kissed you. I’m not like the imbecilic boys you’ve probably dated. Real men don’t cheat.”
She swallows, her delicate neck working on a swallow.
“Now tell me.” I take a step closer, closing all distance between the two of us. The rise and fall of her chest push her perfect tits against my chest. “How many times did Phillip Warren watch you get your little pussy waxed?”
“Wh-what?”
“Your pussy,” I repeat, just the words on my lips having the power to make me thicken down south. “How many times was he in the room with you?”
“N-none. I lied. I always go in alone.”
I’m man enough to admit my dick is hard at the mere thought of seeing her splayed out on a table, completely bare. Add in another woman—hey, I can’t control what turns me on—touching her most intimate spots, although not in a sexual way, and I’m close to breaking my own damn rules. Surely, there’s a broom closet or something we can sneak into for a few minutes—scratch that, a couple hours.
“Then you’ll go in alone today. I’ll wait out here.”
She darts her eyes over her shoulder at the counter. Two more women have joined the first, but they don’t look alarmed at us having this whispered conversation in the middle of their lobby. The two new ones stare past Remington at me, one going so far as to tilt her head to get a better look.
Remington practically sneers in her direction. Hello, little green monster. It shouldn’t make me ecstatic to see her feeling a hint of the jealousy that slammed me in the chest just thinking Warren—gay or not—went into that damn room with her.
“Get it over with.” I take a step back, putting some much-needed distance between the two of us.
“You’re going in with me.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what’s going to keep me from climbing out the window?”
Like a Rolodex, my mind shuffles through the list I’ve memorized that Warren left for me. Fuck, Muse was on that damn list.
“How long has it been since you’ve been waxed?” My mouth clamps shut. That’s none of my damn business. I have to bite the inside of my cheek, the pain keeping my mind from picturing her in her bikini bottoms, trying to remember if I saw any—
