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“Just spit it out, Remi. I deserve to know who I’m living with.”
He licked his lips, and I barely saw it through the fog in the room. “Ollie is no danger to you and won’t come between us. He knows what it’s like. His girl was also taken, kidnapped by traffickers. As you can see, he’s still sound of mind. Woodrow isn’t, but he needs Jolie to survive, and she needs him, too. Maybe it’s a trauma bond. Or maybe it’s the greatest love you’ll ever witness, but whatever it is, it’s strong.”
“And you?”
“I’m not like either of them, and that’s what worries Ollie.”
“You have issues?” I already knew that. “Like your bears?”
He looked down at his own body, seeing all the agitated little inanimate objects. “I do. I’m an addict, as you know. That isn’t something that goes away, and my feelings for you in the past made me lose control. He’s worried I’ll relapse and hurt us both.”
“And what do you think?”
“I’ll do everything in my power not to let that happen.” He came closer again, his hands pulling me in, lifting me.
My palms flattened on his chest, but not to push him away. His racing heartbeat kissed me. His lips shadowed over mine in the heated room. His eyes, close enough for me to see the sparkle of desire, glanced between my mouth and eyes. Then back again, and with them still open, still on me, they finally touched, and I melted into the heat of the room. Into the heat of his touch as his hand weaved through my hair and his tongue crept through his lips and licked at mine, pushing past my boundaries and into my mouth for a single second.
A second where I tingled and became entirely his.
But he didn’t take it further.
The romance faded out as he slipped away from me, and the fog slipped out, too, from the window he opened on his departure.
His entire body shook with what could only be need as he fumbled with his new hearing aid, taking it out and leaving it on a shelf near some towels before he lost his shorts and stepped into the shower, readjusting the temperature.
The noise coming in from the backyard, loud enough to be heard over the shower, didn’t help.
Jolie’s soft voice, raspier than I’d ever heard, begging, “Please…”
She was out on the swing set. The fog blocked my view, but not enough to see that she was basically impaled on Wood—Hell’s cock.
I’m not sure how I’d ever get used to his switches or how Jolie and Remi could both tell which personality was at the front.
Though Jolie was smitten with Woodrow, she didn’t seem to mind which alter she spent time with. Her lips landed on Hell’s, and her lustful moans hushed slightly.
My nipples hardened beneath my shirt, dragging me from my aroused trance and back to a painful reality where they sat unevenly beneath my clothes. I rubbed over my breast area to flatten them out so they couldn’t taunt me with the fact that they sat at completely different heights on my body.
I hated that.
“Are you done perving on them?” Remi stepped around the shower, unshy…completely naked…perfect. More perfect because he didn’t demand I get down on my knees and swallow as much of him as I could.
Water droplets ran down his tanned skin. My stare tracked the one heading to the center of his V, and I watched until it disappeared into trimmed pubic hair.
He was hard…again. It was something I noticed whenever I stood a little too close or snuggled too tightly, but I never commented on it, and he never insisted that I relieve him.
My eyes lingered. I was definitely done perving on the couple outside, because instead, I was perving on him.
“Wanna join me?” he asked, playfully hopeful and not pushy.
Kinda. I couldn’t talk, but my head moved on its own, from left to right and back again, and his disappointment washed down the drain with the water that dripped off his glistening body. He wasn’t like the man I remembered—my dad, who shared his body type with Rothbart and his overgrown sons. Remi had a leaner physique, but he was still built and cut exactly where he should be.
My eyes struggled to move from his cock, and the collection of bars in the underside, all fascinating me so much, to the stitches on his side. His fingers moved there, too, scratching close to the area.
A sign he was healing.
Somehow, a second later, they were back on the bars piercing through his skin, more than half a dozen less than an inch from each other.
“It’s known as a Jacob’s ladder,” he told me.
