Moments like this eradicate the twist in my gut over Andrew West’s hush money. They make me want to bleed him dry instead of only taking what I need to survive while focusing on music and school. Or snag a plane ticket to Europe, knowing he can’t get a tuition refund for the semester.

I finally pick out a melody I’ve tweaked a few dozen times already, working it some more until my phone lights up. The video shows a busy coffee shop, people buzzing, and a random bark of laughter. In the center of the shot, Remi’s fingers tap against the side of a white mug. A nod to one of the first videos I sent her.

Except now it links to another memory of when I watched her driving those fingers into her perfect pussy. Another two memories, after last night. I got a show from her point of view, looking down her body while she lay on her bed, legs splayed. No face but fucking hot all the same.

Seeing her come really had been a worse idea, the worst one I’ve had yet when it involves her. I thought she’d infiltrated before, but she proved me wrong. The more of her I get, the more I need. I’m starting to think that wouldn’t change even if she gave me all of her. And I’d be a smitten, little, shit-filled kitten if I said the idea of having all of her isn’t feeling like it would be my best one.

Glancing at my guitar in my lap, I half-smile and text her.

You want better background music?

A shattered image of the bottom half of a slutty fairy appears in response. I angle my chair more toward the table, and I answer, already setting my phone up. I lean it against the rectangular planter of succulents, so she’ll only see the middle of my guitar.

Her hand curls around her mug as I relax in the chair. “You’re the better background music?”

“I am,” I tell her. I lazily strum the open strings a few times and then switch to something I started in Paris. It stayed in my head until we got here, and I practically sprinted to rent an acoustic.

When I hit the last note of what I have, I slide down the strings, causing them to squeak. The effect sounds right, how the song should end.

“I think I like you serenading me with your guitar,” she says softly—an admission.

“I think I like you,” I reply, but it’s know. “Be warned, though. Once I add lyrics, you’ll be throwing your panties at me.”

“Hmm.” The shot dips, and she picks a backpack off the floor, offering a peek at the plaid skirt with a leading role in my jerk-off fantasies—sharing the spotlight since Halloween. “You think you can seduce me with songs now?”