In retaliation, my fingers find his hair, twisting harshly. I tug harder than I mean to, and he snarls, his hips snapping forward in punishment. The pain-pleasure is exquisite, and I moan, my head falling back against the tile.
“Fuck, Eve,” he groans, his voice strained. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“Isn’t that what we do best?” I pant, my nails raking down his back. “Dangerous games?”
He laughs darkly, and then his mouth is on mine, swallowing my next words. His tongue dominates, clashing with mine in a dance of dominance and submission. I welcome it, giving as good as I get.
My hands roam his body, touching and reacquainting myself with the hard planes of his muscles. He’s thinner than he was eight years ago, his body harder, honed by time, and who knows what else. But he’s still Remy, still the man who set my world on fire with a single touch.
He breaks the kiss, trailing his lips down my neck, over my collarbones, to my breasts. He takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, my back bowing off the wall. His hand pinches my other nipple, twisting just to this side of pain.
I tangle my fingers in his hair, holding him to me, silently demanding more. He delivers, scraping his teeth over the sensitive bud before biting down. The sensation is electric, sending sparks of pleasure straight to my core.
My hips buck against his, seeking friction, needing release. He chuckles against my skin, the sound low and wicked. “So needy, baby. So desperate for my cock.”
“Stop talking, asshole,” I demand, my voice rough with desire.
He complies, thrusting up into me with one hard snap of his hips. I scream, my walls clamping down around him, trying to pull him deeper. He sets a punishing pace, every thrust hitting that sweet spot inside me that makes me see stars.
The bathroom fills with the slapping of wet skin, the obscene sound of flesh meeting flesh. Our moans and groans echo off the tile, mixing with the pounding of the shower. It’s raw, primal, all-consuming.
I climb higher and higher, my body tightening, my breath coming in short gasps. Remy growls, his fingers digging into my hips as he slams into me. “Oh yeah, baby.”
His words, his own tittering on the edge, send me over the edge. I shatter, my orgasm ripping through me, stealing my breath and my vision. I scream his name, my nails scoring his shoulders, my body convulsing around his.
He follows a second later, my name a hoarse shout on his lips. He thrusts once, twice more, before stilling, buried deep inside me.
We stay like that for a moment, chests heaving, hearts pounding. The steam swirls around us, and for a moment, it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. There is only this, only us, naked and raw and exposed in a way we’ve never been before.
But reality intrudes, as it always does. Remy pulls out of me, his softening cock slipping free with a wet sound.
I barely catch my breath when Remy’s demeanor shifts. His hand cups my cheek, surprisingly gentle, and his lips find mine in a tender kiss that threatens to undo me completely. This isn’t the rough, demanding Remy from moments ago. This is something far more dangerous—the man who once made me believe in possibilities.
My heart stutters, and for a split second, I lean into his touch, craving the warmth, the connection. But alarm bells ring in myhead. This tenderness, this show of vulnerability—it’s calculated, another move in his endless game of control.
I wrench away from him, slipping out of the shower stall before he can react. Water drips from my skin as I grab a towel, wrapping it tightly around myself like armor. My hands shake as I secure the fabric, but I force them steady.
“Eve,” he says, his voice soft, inviting.
I shake my head, backing away. “Don’t.”
Wild, passionate sex with Remy—that I could handle. It was just physical, a way to burn through the tension between us. But this gentleness? This false intimacy? It’s a trap designed to make me lower my guard, to make me trust him.
“You don’t get to play that card,” I tell him, my voice hard despite the tremor in my chest.
His eyes darken, and for a moment, I glimpse the real Remy behind the caring facade. The manipulator. The man who would use any weapon—even tenderness—to get what he wants.
His demeanor shifts so quickly that it’s like watching a mask slide into place. The tender lover vanishes, replaced by the arrogant bastard I know too well. He steps out of the shower with fluid grace, water droplets trailing down his muscled back. My body still thrums with aftershocks as I watch him wrap a towel around his hips with practiced efficiency.
“You used to be more into cuddling,” he drawls, gathering his scattered clothes. His voice drips with mockery. “Eight years ago, you couldn’t get enough of it.”
The reminder stings, but I refuse to let him see how much. “We hid a lot from each other back then.”
His movements pause, just for a fraction of a second. The words seem to hit deeper than I intended, and something flickers across his face—an emotion I can’t quite read. He recovers quickly, but I caught it. That brief crack in his armor.
He crosses to the bedroom door, his clothes bundled in one arm. The towel rides low on his hips, and despite everything, my traitorous eyes follow the movement. He catches me looking and smirks, the expression pure sin.
“Thanks for scratching that itch with me in the shower.” His tone is deliberately casual, infuriatingly smug. “If you need my services again, I’m at your disposal.”
