Resolved to clear the air once Rem returns, I head in the direction he pointed and find myself in the most opulent bathroom I’ve ever seen. A free-standing soaking tub takes up one end while a glass enclosed waterfall shower takes up the other. Between them is a marble countertop that could hold a store’s worth of skincare products, with his and hers sinks at either end. Behind me, on the same side as I entered, is a walk-in closet, with shelves that reach the ceiling and a three-way floor-length mirror at the end, the kind that gives you multiple views of the ten-thousand-dollar dress you need to be wearing to fit the vibe of this place.
I wrangle myself out of my dress, turn the shower on to full blast, and use as much of the expensive hair and body products I can to wash away the dirt and tangled emotions.
It’s only when I step out of the shower that I discover the room’s major design flaw: the towels are too far away.
I’m naked, dripping wet, reaching for what might be the fluffiest towel in existence, when I hear a sharp inhale behind me.
I squeak, instantly trying to cover my body and spinning to see Rem standing there. He’s still dressed in his jeans and sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his muscled, thickly veined and beautifully tattooed forearms. He’s taken off his socks and shoes, and the sight of his bare feet makes my heart gallop in an entirely unexpected way.
In one hand he’s carrying clothes. Expensive ones, I’d bet, though they’re slowly being crushed to death in his grip.
I drop my arms to my sides, revealing all my wet skin to him. I swear I hear his fingers tear through fabric. The skin around his eyes tightens when he catches sight of my bullet wound, uncovered, healing, but still red.
“Lena.” He half-growls, half-groans my name. Maybe it’s a warning. Maybe a cry of pain. It pries something apart deep in my chest, forcing to life a need I’ve never felt before.
A need to repent.
A need to apologize for the hurt I caused him, however unintentional. To get down on my knees and show this man how much he’s come to mean to me in such a short period of time.
I step forward, smiling softly when Rem devours me with his eyes.
Yes, I have an undeniable need to give my husband a wedding present.
22
LENA
Itake another step toward him. Rem drops the clothes to the floor. “What are you doing,piccolina?”
“Apologizing,” I say, closing the distance between us.
Rem’s eyebrow lifts, his questioning look so at odds with the erection tenting the front of his jeans. “For what?”
“I don’t think you are a monster.” I touch his cheek, feel his tension melt as he relaxes against my hand. “I know I haven’t known you long, but I don’t think you’re a monster. I promise.” I drift my hand lower, pausing over his heart, relishing the thump of it beneath my touch. “A tyrant and a devil, maybe. But never a monster.”
Rem smirks, his chuckle collapsing into a groan as I push him backward. “Is that your way of apologizing, calling me more names?”
“No.” My hand drifts to the hem of his sweater as I move us off the hard tile of the bathroom and onto the closet’s plush carpet. “This is.”
I sink to my knees, wet hair dripping down my back as I find the fly of his jeans.
Almost instantly, Rem’s hand lands on mine. I look up, pasthis hard chest and broad shoulders and find him looking down at me with half-confusion, half-wonder. He starts to say something but loses his train of thought as I pull down his zipper.
“Let me.” My hands hover at his waist band. “You’ve done so much for me. Now it’s my turn. Let me say thank you to my husband.”
Rem swallows. I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat, feel my nipples get hard and my pussy go soft at the sight of him standing above me. Feel my mouth water when he gets a self-satisfied glint in his eye.
“What kind of husband would I be,” he murmurs, his voice warm as it curls through my veins, “if I denied my woman what she so clearly wants. Especially when she asks so nicely.”
Any other time I’d smack him for teasing me, but right now my hands have other plans. Plans that get even more urgent when Rem strips off his sweater and the black t-shirt underneath.
I’ve already gotten his jeans and underwear halfway down his hips and, with a helpful shove from him, they pool at his ankles a second later. Then they’re gone, flung away and forgotten, and I sit back on my heels, fingers skimming his thighs as I see Rem completely naked for the first time.
My first thought is that no one should be so beautifully built and conceal it under clothes.
My second is that I’d happily rip out the eyes of any other woman who even glimpsed him like this.
From my position at his feet, Rem seems taller than his six-plus feet. His shoulders broader. His chest is a masterpiece of muscles and ink, scars visible through the artwork. His nipples are flat dusky circles on his solid pecs. Dark hair dusts his well-defined abs before gathering to draw a straight line down to the promised land.
