“I feel appreciated when you scream my name and lock down around my cock.”

Holy Johnny Cash. Her body unanimously voted for boosting itself up on the counter and spreading her legs as wide as they could go for the man who looked like he wanted to devour her.

But her heart managed a veto.

“You felt used. That’s on me,” she said. “Ergo, it’s up to me to prove to you how much I want the whole shebang. Hebang?”

He raised an eyebrow.

She grimaced. “Forget the banging. My point is, I know there’s more to us than just sex, and I’m going to prove it to you.”

“By not having sex with me.”

She nodded. “No orgasms for me…or you. I don’t think I could control myself if I was making you come,” she admitted.

He closed his eyes like he was in pain. “Jesus, Remi.”

“Just go with it, okay? I want to make this right.”

42

As John Wayne plowed his fist into another man’s face, Brick wondered how the hell he’d gotten so fucking lucky. He’d spent the last forty-eight hours hating himself for what he’d said. What he’d done.

What kind of an asshole says “I love you,” delivers a rough good-bye fuck, then walks out while his girl was still on the floor?

The Brick Callan kind of asshole.

He’d been handed the woman of his dreams naked on a platter, and what had he done? He’d immediately looked for reasons why they wouldn’t work instead of ways they could work.

Remi giggled next to him on the couch. The lights were on low. The fire burning off the chill of the cold night. Snow falling silently outside. Their empty plates were stacked on the coffee table. Magnus was curled up on Remi’s feet under the blanket, exhausted from his catnip high.

It was like a fantasy. Not all of his fantasies had involved Remi naked. Some had been staged just like this. A quiet, snowy night with the woman he loved curled against him, borrowing his heat.

He stroked his hand through her hair, and she let out a sigh that sounded almost like a purr. It was perfect. This moment.

The fight on-screen moved from the pub into the street. Apparently, public brawls were a sport in Ireland. One he understood. He’d fight for Remington. He’d fight any enemy to keep her safe, to defend her honor. He’d fight to show her what was in his heart.

He let his fingers whisper up and down her arm. Slowly, rhythmically. Reassuring himself that she was there.

She wanted to spend time with him. To date without the distraction of sex. Of course, he’d been rail-hard since the second she’d walked in wearing her ridiculous plaid pajamas with her hair a mess and her face scrubbed clean. She was more beautiful to him like this. Because this felt like the real Remi.

Dipping his head, he indulged himself and dropped a kiss to her fiery hair. She looked up at him. Those wide green eyes spearing right through him.