Real(41)

“I see,” I say, weakly, and set my fork down. “Is it because he doesn’t handle alcohol well or is it some sort of anger issue?”“I’d say it’s an anger issue but I don’t know for sure.” Lifting her iced tea, Diane leans back and shrugs. “I’m the one who knows least about it. All I know is Remy is a handful.” She nods meaningfully, and sips through the straw. “A handful. Which is why I really, truly want you to reconsider before you … well, of course, unless you already …?”

“Nothing happened, Diane.” I rub my forehead and ask for the check.



We sign off and she invites me over to her room to check recipes, but instead I go to the suite, which I notice Pete or Riley kept closed with the “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging from the doorknob. I slide my key and head inside to quietly start cleaning up the worst of the mess.It takes hours to get the room into a semblance of order, and once I’ve got all the glass in piles near the door, I call housekeeping and request a dozen plastic bags to haul it all out. Once that’s done, I jump in the shower.



I’m still sleeping in the presidential suite, no matter that Diane offered me to room with her tonight. I just … can’t go anywhere else. I wanted to sleep with Remy, and now that we’re sharing a room for the first time, I’m not moving out and leaving him alone here.

Especially if he’s unwell.

But at night, the suite feels so deathly quiet, my heart won’t settle as I stare wide awake in my own bed, thinking of him, of everything that’s happened. I want to ask Pete and Riley about what’s wrong, and on the other hand, I want Remington to tell me.

I don’t know how long passes, but the bedroom door opens when I’m still staring bleakly at the wall. I’m groggy, but I sit up and see his silhouette. He must have taken a bath. A pair of pajama bottoms drape low on his narrow hips. His tan torso glistens, and his hair is all wet and spiky, not a strand falls on his proud forehead.My heart shudders. I think the sedative has worn off, since he stands perfectly upright, with only one hand braced lightly on the doorframe, maybe for support. I straighten up higher on my arms. “Are you all right?” I ask, my voice concerned and cottony.

His voice is gruff and craggy. “I want to sleep with you. Just sleep.”

My stomach turns.

He waits for me to reply, but I can’t. I want to cry and I don’t know why, but I attribute it to being hung over and dangerously close to falling in love with a man I don’t even know.

He comes over, lifts me, and carries me down the hall, back to the master room, to the wide, unmade king bed.



He sets me down, and when he slides under the covers and gathers me close so that my face is on his chest and his nose is buried in the top of my head, I don’t understand the overwhelming amount of oxytocin hormones that my body makes, but this … him … being in this bed with him … makes me feel way too good. Too safe. Too happy.I desperately want him to tell me what’s wrong. What happened? Can’t he control himself? Why did they react like this? Does he have a problem with violence and unresolved anger issues? Who the fuck hurt him? I think of why he was kicked out of boxing, how he’d been angered with Scorpion at the club, dangerously close to sabotaging his career again. But I don’t think he wants to talk right now. He seems lazy and gentle, and the darkness, the silence, feels so holy, I don’t want to break it.

Instead, I lie next to him while every pore in my body screams for us to physically connect. I try not to want it, because I know that this is not the moment. I don’t know what kind of sedative he was given, or how long it lasts, but I know that later he might not even remember that he’s here with me. Even I might not remember. I’m so tired and hung over I don’t trust my thoughts at this point.

“Just sleep, okay?” I whisper at his throat, even though I swear I ache for this man somewhere beyond my body, beyond even my heart.

“Just sleep.” He pulls me closer to him, and I can feel his erection between us, fiercely hard and pulsing with life, making me shiver inside. “And this,” he murmurs.



He cups my jaw and puts his lips on mine with such gentleness that all my cells seem to fuse with his. I moan and part my lips, sliding my hands into his hair, feeling a little crazy as I push my breasts up to his chest. Suddenly I want his hands on me, I want his tongue all over me. When he brushes it, slick and hot, against mine, I feel like I vanquished the impossible. Trembling, I clutch his face, kissing him harder.He slows me down with his tongue, his fingers twined in my hair, guiding my head to the slow, drugging rhythm of his mouth. God, I want him to touch me in all the parts where he can fit. Everywhere. Anywhere. I’m so swollen and lubricated, I thrum, and he’s so hard between our abdomens, I know how much he wants me too. But we said just “sleep” … and “this” … and now I don’t want “this” to stop.