Page 71 of Vicious Temptation

“Leave your shoes by the door,” she says, already kicking out of hers.

I toe off one boot, then the other, my attention fixed on her as she moves through the foyer. Maybe I’m a son of a bitch, but not watching the sway of her hips or the way those leggings hug her ass would be a damn crime.

As if she can feel my eyes on her, she glances back, biting her bottom lip, making my fists clench at my sides.

This fucking woman is going to kill me.

“What are you in the mood for?”

You.

“Anything, really. Whatever you have,” I say, following her into the kitchen.

She tugs open the fridge, nearly disappearing behind the massive double doors from my angle, leaving only the top of her head visible.

While she searches, I take in the penthouse around me. Polished stone and dark finishes stretch beneath floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, but it’s the smaller details that hold my attention. A half-finished sketchbook sits on the kitchen island beside a bowl of lollipops, and a set of expensive keys lies tossed on the nearby marble. My gaze drifts into the living room, where her leather jacket hangs over the back of a designer chair. Motorcycle gloves sit nearby, and what look like tattoo reference sheets cover part of the end table.

The place is undeniably expensive, yet Remi is everywhere I look.

She moves through the kitchen with restless energy, opening one cabinet before changing her mind and moving to another. Watching her here, surrounded by all the things she loves, I finally understand why she keeps this place so well protected.

This is where she comes when she wants the rest of the world shut out.

“How about pizza?” she asks, balancing on her toes to reach the top shelf of a cabinet.

I never thought I’d associate the word adorable with someone like Remi, but watching her stretch for something she can’t reach makes it impossible not to think of anything else.

My gaze travels down her body before I force it back to her face. She’s beautiful, as I’ve known since the second I met her, but this feels different.

“Pizza is good,” I manage.

She snatches her phone off the counter and starts pulling up a menu. “Pepperoni?”

“What do you want?”

“Oh, I don’t share, Braga.” She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “So what I want is irrelevant.”

I laugh. “Sounds a little selfish.”

“No,” she says, leaning against the counter. “Protective. What’s mine is mine. There’s a difference. Plus, I have to really like you before I share.”

Pulling out my phone, I open the Notes app. “Goal number one,” I say as I start typing, “get on Remi’s good side so she’ll share her favorite foods with me.”

“You’re a cop. You’ll never be on my good side.” She eyes me with a grin.

“Really?” I ask, stepping closer. “Because I distinctly remember you sharing your chilaquiles with me once.”

Her eyes narrow.

“By your own rules, that means you liked me.”

“That was a lapse in judgment.”

“Sure it was,” I say with a grin.

I stop directly in front of her, close enough to catch the faint trace of smoke and something sweet lingering on her skin. She tips her face up to mine, and my mind immediately goes to what she’d look like pinned beneath me, those pretty red lips put to better use.

“So you bring all your cop friends to this maximum-security penthouse?”