She squeaked out a breath and another one. Every time she inhaled, she felt like she was coming apart at the seams. Every swollen inch, every vein, every throb of his cock felt like it belonged to her.
“When you’re ready, you’re going to rock for me, and we’re both going to come again,” he told her, shifting his attention to her other breast. Her nipple felt cool and wet from his mouth.
“Okay,” she whispered. She gave a testing squeeze of her inner muscles, and he moaned against her breast like a man starved for release.
“So fucking tight, Remi.”
“It’s starting to feel good,” she confessed. Really good.
“I know. I can feel all those greedy little muscles in your pretty cunt shaking with how much they want this, how much they need me to move. Are you ready to move, baby doll?”
“God, yes,” she hissed.
He brought his thumb to that needy bundle of nerves and brushed over it once, twice, while drawing deeply at her breast.
“Move,” he ordered.
She did as she was told, bucking against him with a roll of her hips.
He growled, the vibration of it tingling her nipple. Again she rocked her hips, barely moving on his shaft, but it was enough. He was so deep, so thick, and that thumb was working its magic.
“Brick,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
“I’ve got you, baby. Let me make you feel good.”
She levered her thighs down against the metal of the chair, shifting the angle until the head of his throbbing penis rubbed exactly the right spot. She wanted to close her eyes and focus on the sensation, but the view of him holding her like this, impaling her, was too much to look away from.
“Good girl.”
He was panting, she realized. And so was she. She rocked against him, keeping him as deep as he’d ever been. Fire. It was inside her veins, racing through her body. It was scorching her skin everywhere he touched her. He was going to burn her alive. And she was going to let him.
The pressure built inside her, an exquisite torture.
He was so thick, so hard, so damn deep it didn’t matter. His arm banded around her back, holding her impaled on him, and then he began to thrust.
“Mine,” he growled, claiming her breast with his mouth. The long, hard pulls of his mouth echoing in the needy muscles that trembled around his shaft.
“Yours,” she whispered as she rode him. His thumb pressed harder, and it was like a trigger had been pulled.
On a broken sob, she came apart on him. He went rigid under her, grunting against her breast as he came again, the picture of agonized ecstasy.
47
Brick was sound asleep, his body wrapped around Remi’s in a tangle of limbs and sheets, when his phone chimed three times in rapid succession on the nightstand.
Remi grumbled into her pillow.
Whatever the notification was, it could wait until he’d gotten at least two more hours of sleep. He buried his face in Remi’s neck. She smelled like him. It made him half-hard. But it was too early, and she’d be sore after their fun and games last night in the alley and the office. And then again in an actual bed when they got home.
Home. She was staying. She’d chosen him and this place he loved. She was committing to building a life with him here. And he was going to do whatever it took to finalize his claim on her. Starting with locking up Vorhees. The next order of business was a fucking ring. He’d force it on her finger with his cock inside her if it was necessary.
That’s where she surrendered to him, trusting him completely to take care of her body. After so many years of chasing after her, the rush of possessing her physically was indescribable. And it already wasn’t enough. He wanted the commitment. The papers. The fuss and celebration. The acknowledgment of the world that she was his.
His phone rang obnoxiously on the nightstand.
Remi growled. Smiling into her hair, he squeezed her sweet little ass before rolling over and reaching blindly for the phone.
“Hello?” he rasped.
“Brick, it’s Juanita Houston from the coffee shop. Sorry for calling this early after you had such a late night at the bar.”
Juanita ran the cafe across the street from the ferry landing and knew everything about everybody.
“What can I do for you, Juanita?” he said, trying to muffle a yawn.
Remi rolled over to snuggle up against his back, and he looked down at her, feeling his chest flood with warmth. She didn’t look angelic in the early morning light. She looked more like a nymph, recharging her energy just to cause more trouble.
The wave of love, of possession, that crashed over him threatened to level him.
“I know you asked a few of us to keep an eye out for that Vorhees fellow.”
His muscles tensed, and he jackknifed up.
“Yes,” he said, his voice terse.
“Well, you know how I don’t mind a little digging—”
Naked, Brick launched himself off the bed and headed for the closet, snatching his gun off the dresser. “Did you see him? Here?”
Remi stirred on the bed behind him.
“Oh. No, no. Not anything like that.” Juanita chuckled.
He blew out a breath and closed his eyes.
“But I think I saw his wife get off the first ferry.”
He glanced at his watch. The ferry would have landed less than ten minutes ago.
Swearing under his breath, he reached for his sweatpants.
“Was she with anyone? Did you see which way she went?”
“I got swamped with the morning rush,” she said. “But I figured I should let you know.”
“Thanks, Juanita,” he said, dragging on the pants and sweatshirt.
“Oh, sure. I’ll keep an eye out and let you know if I see her again or that Vorhees guy.”
“Appreciate it,” Brick said. He hung up and jammed his feet into sneakers, leaving them untied.
“What’s going on?” Remi asked groggily.
“Nothing, baby. Go back to sleep,” he said, pausing only long enough to press a kiss to her forehead.
“Nothing doesn’t require a gun,” she rasped after him. But he was already on the stairs.
The doorbell rang just as he hit the first floor. Keeping his gun at the ready, he reached for the deadbolt and threw open the door.
“Dad?” Brick was dumbstruck on his own doorstep.
“Camille?” Remi, dressed only in one of his t-shirts, pushed past him and carefully wrapped her arms around the woman standing next to his father.
She reminded him of one of his grandmother’s prized swan figurines. Delicate and lovely. Spencer had broken it accidentally, in the midst of gangly puberty when he’d had no more control over his own body than a marionette.
The swan had shattered, its long graceful neck snapped. But instead of careless accidents, Camille’s porcelain skin bore the evidence of grisly, purposeful violence.
“Oh, my God,” Kimber, pink-cheeked and hair tousled, appeared on the porch behind his father.
“Where were you?” Brick asked.
“Uh. Out for a run.”
She was a shit liar, but he had much bigger fish to fry.
“What’s going on?” Ian demanded.
“Nothing, sweetheart, go upstairs,” Kimber said, stepping past Brick and urging her son toward the staircase. “If you go back to bed for half an hour, I’ll make you chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast.”