Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74956 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 375(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Before I can respond, she whirls and kicks the bookshelf with a guttural sound of rage. The built-in, designed to survive decades of tenants, doesn’t budge, obviously, but Remy does.
A beat after impact, she crumples with a whimper of pain, grabbing her bare foot as she hops backward.
I lunge forward, catching her before she can fall, but she pushes me away, dropping onto the couch and curling around her injured foot like a wounded animal. Her face is a mask of anger fighting to win the battle against grief, her jaw clenched tight as she refuses to give in to the tears shining in her eyes.
I grab the speaker remote from the coffee table again, silencing Trent mid-snarl.
The sudden quiet feels thick, heavy with everything she just let out into the open, probably for the first time, if I had to guess.
Crossing my legs, I sink down onto the floor in front of her, curling my fingers. “Let me see.”
“I don’t need—”
“Shh.” I reach for her foot, gently, but firmly. “Let my magical healing touch fix it. Works on Barb every time someone accidentally steps on her toes. Which happens more than you’d think when you have a dog the size of a loaf of bread.”
“She’s not as big as a loaf of bread,” Remy chokes out.
“Okay, fine. A croissant? No, she’s bigger than a croissant. Maybe a filled donut? Or a cream horn? The long skinny kind, not the big round kind, obviously.”
“Obviously.” She lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, but as I cradle her foot in my palms, the tension vibrating in her muscles slowly begins to fade. Her big toe is swelling up, but I don’t think it’s broken, and hopefully it’s nothing ice and a pain-killer can’t cure. “You do have a healing touch, you know,” she murmurs after a long moment.
“I know,” I say with a toned-down version of my shit-eating grin. “I’m a man of many gifts.”
“You are.” Her bottom lip trembles as she adds in a whisper, “I love him, you know. I love him so much, but…it hurts sometimes. It really hurts.”
My heart splinters at the raw emotion in her voice. “I’m so sorry, babe. This just… Well, it fucking sucks. Growing up, my parents were always so careful to make sure all their kids knew that we got to choose our own path and be our own people. And that they loved us and supported us, no matter what. I can’t imagine how hard this is. And how much harder it was when you were little.” I stroke my thumb across her arch, wishing I could soothe away more than just her physical pain. “You’re so damned strong. Seriously.”
She’s quiet for a long, long time. Then, in a voice so soft I almost miss it, she whispers, “But I’m tired of being strong, Stone.” The words carry a hint of shame, as if admitting that she’s tired isn’t something that’s allowed. Not for Tim Lauder’s daughter. “I just want to be me. And for that to be enough for once.”
“It is.” I hold her gaze, willing her to see that it’s the truth. The highest truth there is. “It’s all you have to be or ever should be. And it’s all I want, Rem. I just want you. The real you. Full stop.”
The tears in her eyes swell and spill over, but she’s smiling a small, heartbreaking smile as she nods. “I know you do. Me, too. With you. I just want you.”
Something shifts between us, an unspoken revelation that hovers in the air, intense, but beautiful.
Then she’s sliding off the couch into my lap, her lips finding mine with a need that takes my breath away. I catch her, steadying her with palms molded to her ribs as she straddles my thighs. Our kiss quickly grows wild, urgent, but also honest in a way we’ve never been with each other before.
Not even last weekend.
Clothes disappear, skin meets skin, but this isn’t just about desire or even comfort. This is about connection, about being seen and accepted and welcomed into the deepest parts of each other. With Remy, I can drop the social mask and just…be.
Be myself, be the Stone who isn’t always funny or easy or perfectly presented for maximum enjoyment and acceptance. In the past eighteen months, Remy has seen me pissed off and sick with a nasty head cold and needy and freaking out about the end of my career and she keeps coming back for more. We’ve finally reached the place where neither of us is pushing this away or pretending it’s not real. Or rare. Or worth fighting like hell for.
When she finally lowers down on my dick, hot and tight and perfect, my heart hammers and my head spins. The sensation is almost too much—not just physically, but emotionally. It feels like she’s inside me as much as I’m inside her. Like we’re sharing the same skin as we begin to move.