“Oh! So you can actually feel everything during…”
“Everything,” I happily say, and my body clenches remembering every. Single. Inch. Of Remington Tate inside me.
“Brooke, you have a seriously horny look on your face. Tell me everything about you and that sex god!” Melanie demands.
My eyes widen, and then, laughter takes me over so hard, my head falls back and I clutch my stomach. “You did not just call me horny.”
Melanie grins wide and varies her tone. “Horny. Horrrny. Hornyyy. You can’t even say his name without looking hornaay. Hell, I can even feel your horniness in your texts. Especially that drunken one, you closet alcoholic.”
Belatedly I realize we’re so excited, we’re having a totally personal conversation in the back seat while Pete drives, and suddenly I can feel a hot red flush creeping up my cheeks. Grabbing Mel’s hand, I twitch my eyes in Pete’s direction so she knows we can’t keep saying “horny” with him around, for the love of god. Not that I don’t trust him, but he’s a guy. This is personal, damn it.
“Ahhh,” Mel says, and nods, then she squeals and hugs me again, and I just let her give me some love and give her some back, because I just missed my bubbly little Mel.
So she ends up talking to Pete about the weather in Chicago, which is windy but sunny and frightfully chilly in the evening, and then I take her to lunch.
After some whoppingly large salads and panini, I take her to the presidential suite with two rooms that Remington booked for him and me. Nobody uses the extra room, and while Melanie has a separate room, I decide to invite her over to this empty bedroom for a while so that we can lounge around and chat without anyone overhearing.
For hours, we’re both barefoot, each in a queen bed, catching up.
She tells me Kyle is dating someone and that Pandora went back to chain-smoking ever since the battery on her e-cigarette stopped charging and the FedEx shipment for a replacement got delayed due to bad weather. Obviously it wasn’t Pandora’s day that day. And then Melanie wants to know everything about me, so I tell her about him. The songs we share, the time I bashed Scorpion’s goonies with those bottles. I also tell her about Nora.
“She was always too innocent for her own good, but what do you suppose she was doing sending those fake postcards?” Mel asks in complete puzzlement.
“I don’t know, I just can’t get over the fact that she ran away from me when I tried to see her.”
We think about it some, both frowning hard in concentration, then she sighs. “Honestly, Nora was always an adorable little airhead. Maybe she just needs some redirecting?”
“Maybe so.”
“Now stop with the wandering and tell me about your drool-worthy new romance.”
Rolling onto my stomach, I swing my legs up behind me as a dreamy sigh works up my throat. Remy is working out and I think he planned to run today, and I miss not having a run with him. I miss stretching him, watching him. But it feels so good to talk, I’m fairly bursting with things to say that I’m having trouble vocalizing.
“It’s so crazy, Mel.” I’m whispering reverently even though there’s no one around to hear. But confessing this is so monumental for me, I can’t even say it any louder than this. “I've just never felt like this. Every time Remy touches me, Mel, I feel a thousand good things rush through me. Better than endorphins. I think its oxytocin, you know how powerful they say it is? The cuddle hormone? But I’d never felt it before.”
“You love him, stupid!”
I wince at that, then nod vigorously. “I just don't want to say it out loud,” I admit, my heart already doing hopeful turns and twists in my chest at the thought of being loved back by him.
“Because?”
“Because he might not feel the same!” The mere thought makes me heartbroken.
How do emotions work with Remington? Can you love and unlove someone with your different mood personalities?
It hurts to think about it.
The front door closes out in the living room, and footsteps sound on the carpet before he appears at the door. My heart accelerates at the sight of him. He wears a damp black t-shirt that reads “Chicago Bulls” in red letters, and today the sweatpants hanging low on his narrow h*ps are red. He looks so hot, so doable, and so manly and comfortable in his attire, my br**sts seem to swell up inside my bra.
“Hey, Melanie,” he says when he spots her.
“Omigod.” Her eyes are round as pizzas as she straightens on the bed, obviously awed by those delicious dimples and finger-tempting messed-up black hair and heart-robbing blue eyes. Her hand flies up to her mouth. “Ohmyfuckinggod, Remington. I’m such a huge fan.”
He doesn’t answer back because his head has swiveled in my direction, and now he looks straight at me, and I can’t help the way the sight of him affects me. My entire body responds and I feel instantly tight inside, damp and achy.
“Hey.” He uses an entirely different tone on me, and when I respond, my voice is also different. Huskier.
“Hey.”
I’m unsettled to my core.
He does that to me.
He unsettles me in any way. In every way.
From his electric baby blues, to his muscled arms, to his dimples and the way he looks at me right now, studying me top to bottom, like he doesn’t know what part of my body to lick and bite first when he peels my white linen dress off me…
“You have dinner yet?” he asks me in that roughened voice.
I nod.
He nods in return. Then asks me, his voice still in that pitch that seems sensual and deep and just for me, “You coming to bed later?”