Page 81 of Late Harvest

Remy couldn’t help it. She reached up and brushed back a sweaty tendril that had landed on his forehead. It was a tender gesture for a decidedly not tender woman. Once again, Sebastian was excavating parts of her she never knew existed.

“Fated mates?” Remy couldn’t help her matching grin. “I’m assuming this has something to do with that shifty romance you’re reading?”

“Shifter.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Which you know. Brat.”

“Potayto-potahtoe.” She waved a dismissive hand.

“Au contraire, my queen. And I bet if you read even a couple pages of my shifter,” he hit the word theatrically, “romance, you’d be hooked.”

What was this easy rapport? And following mind-blowing sex. What parallel universe had she fallen into? Had she passed out and hit her head and this was just some bizarre fantasy? It had to be.

Sebastian lowered his mouth to her nipple and began nibbling and sucking, stoking a fresh surge of need between Remy’s legs.

Nope. This was definitely real. He was real. Remy fought to keep her train of thought as Sebastian flicked her nipple.

“That’s what fated mates do. It seals the bond,” he murmured against her. “Then they’re both stronger with the mate bond. Well, technically, she has to bite him too. But sometimes there’s a delay. Like when her wolf is repressed.”

Remy jolted up and faced him, nipple pleasure momentarily forgotten. This man and his big, unfiltered emotions. She was quite sure, in the aftermath of amazing sex, he probably thought their connection was lasting. But Remy knew better. His life and hers ultimately were incompatible. And he deserved someone less…damaged. Someone newer and brighter and beautiful.

“I don’t have a wolf, repressed or otherwise. And I’m not biting you back, Sebastian Wheatley.” She crossed her arms.

Sebastian beamed at her, appearing unphased by the re-emergence of her self-protective snark. “There she is. My beautiful queen with her barbed tongue. Good thing prickly seems to be an aphrodisiac for me.” He winked and motioned to his cock, which was rising to the occasion. Again.

Remy wasn’t the most experienced woman, but she was pretty sure that short of a sexual refractory period was unusual for a male in his late forties.

He raised his brows and wagged a finger at her. One that had been inside her body not that long ago. A wave of fresh arousal crashed through her. “You better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking, my queen.”

Remy giggled. This man made her, a grown-ass woman, giggle. “I’m merely impressed with your recovery time.”

“I’m in the prime of life, I’ll have you know!” Sebastian faked a growl and rolled her onto her back, once again peppering her with kisses all over her face, neck, and chest.

She laughed and batted at him. “Stop, you silly clown!”

She absolutely did not want him to stop.

“Nope,” Sebastian pronounced between kisses. “Now you pissed off my inner wolf and he’s going to have to mate you—spectacularly, I might add— to prove his alpha dominance. If you’re lucky, I might even knot you.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” she asked, trying to catch her breath as his teasing kisses took a more seductive turn.

“Read the book. And when you’re good and turned on, let me know, and I’ll fuck you ‘til you scream.”

Three hours—and four more orgasms—later, they were tucked in bed, naked. He was sitting against the headboard, Remy propped between his legs. Sebastian had pulled the sheet over them, but kicked one leg out, claiming it helped to balance his temperature.

Goofball. Remy smiled, stroking the muscular length of his thigh, enjoying the feel of hard sinew under skin. She was pleasantly sore in all the best places. Seven orgasms tonight! That was more than she’d had in the past seven years. And his solicitious, tender care after? It wrecked her in the best possible way. Impulse had her turning in his arms to press a kiss on his chest.

“What was that for?” Sebastian’s question rumbled in his chest. He had his book propped on a pillow off to his side, reading glasses on.

So sinfully enticing.

“Just felt like it.” Remy settled back against him. “Sebastian?”

“Hmmm?” He was quite engrossed in his book.

The same could not be said for her and the F1 coverage currently on the TV. She’d finally muted it, unable to focus on her favorite sport.

“Do you have chest hair?”

“Does it feel like I have chest hair?” he parried, closing his book.