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But in this moment, I am my own god. In this moment, I am the sea and the sky, the moon, and the stars. I am everything that is right and good in the world, and I’m the reason it all exists. I don’t know if his goal was to make me feel like I’ve created universes and life, but it does. Because in this moment, I feel like this release is the only thing in the world that matters.
It’s so consuming that I don’t immediately notice that he’s drinking my release until I see his throat bob, my juices flowing out from around his lips as the pressure returns low in my stomach, an immediate need for a second release building. His tongue swipes the underside of my clit with his sucking.
A second orgasm right now would surely kill me, and yet I can’t get the words to tell him to stop. I don’t want him to, even though it’s starting to be too much, the sensitivity reaching the point of hysteria. I cry out, trying to pull away from him before a second explosion shatters me too well to ever put the pieces back together.
Remy seems to take the hint, letting go of me and sucking in a breath like he’s deprived himself of air for the pleasure of taking every last drop I had to give. My arms fall to my sides, exhausted from holding so tight to the edge of the counter as he stretches back to his full height, boxing me in between his thick arms as he braces his hands on the counter. I focus on the thick cords of muscle wrapping around his forearms for a minute, trying to catch my breath before he can lock eyes with me and steal it all over again.
He does steal it, though not in the way I expect. When he grips my chin, it’s to jerk it upward, forcing my head to tilt back. His eyes still smolder, though this time he’s the one looking down at me. And though I felt oddly indestructible when I was being torn asunder just seconds ago, the way he looks at me feels like a wrecking ball to the chest.
And that’s got nothing on the way he kisses me, hard and furious, crushing his mouth against mine so forcefully I think it may bruise… not that I care.
He could steal my soul out of my own body right now and I wouldn’t care, because I’ve already given it to him.
I’m so fucked.
Chapter thirty-seven
Remy
Claire protested the shower at first, claiming that she’d go shower when she had something to change into. She relented when I told her I wanted to take care of her. I also think she got a glimpse of herself and decided she needed to wash up.
She looked absolutely beautiful, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, her lips swollen from my kiss, her hair mussed and her pussy still glistening for me. In fact, I’ve never seen anything more devastating, but I know her ass has to be aching from being pressed into my countertop, and I definitely made a mess of her sweet cunt, both earlier and more recently. If she’s not sore after all that, she’s either got the pain tolerance of a sailor or she’s an Oscar-worthy actress.
I guide her under the spray in the center of the shower, while she watches me with a guarded expression. “I do have a little self-control.” I tell her mockingly. “I’m not going to jump you right now.”
That gets a laugh from her, and she lifts her hands to guide the water through her hair. “I trust you.” She assures me, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me into the spray with her.
Water cascades around us, dripping from my hair and running down my face onto hers. “You do?”
Something about that admission puts a lump in my throat. I should be glad that she trusts me. I want her to feel safe with me because she absolutely is. I’ve already killed for her, and I’d do it again without a second of hesitation. I’ve also already come to the terrifying conclusion that I’d die for her even though we’ll never manage to be anything more than friends who once benefitted—okay, a couple of times—benefitted from a connection to my sister.
And yet, I’m getting threats to her life from a fucking ghost. Can I keep her safe from that?
“Was that not clear when I literally put my life in your hands?” She teases, laughing. “I’ve never been choked before.”
“I sure hope not,” I tell her sincerely, “because I’d have to kill anyone who has ever done that to you. In fact, I think I’ll have to kill any man who’s ever laid a hand on you, whether you wanted him to or not.”
Claire’s eyes go wide at that, her mouth opening to protest. The sight of her lips like that is too much. I press mine to them and steal a gentle kiss, pulling away before she even gets the chance to kiss me back. I stay close enough to her, though, that the words I speak next whisper across her lips. “I do hope it’s a short list. Murder is tiresome.”
When she doesn’t say anything, I laugh. “I’m kidding, Claire. Relax.”
It takes a moment for her laughter to follow, but after a moment she grins, and a hesitant chuckle escapes her. “That’s not funny.”
I can tell she’s uncomfortable with being amused by my wry sense of humor, but she can’t deny that it hits her the same way it does me. We’re two peas in a fucked up little pod, which is why we’d never work out. But we can work our frustration out on one another—we’re really fucking good at that, apparently.
Claire reaches for the shampoo bottle, but I take it from her before she can open it and dispense a small amount into my palm before lathering them together. She’s confused at first, and then begins to protest when I tell her to turn. “I can do this mys—”
“I told you I want to take care of you.” I cut her off, nodding my head in the direction of the shower wall. She turns like the good girl she is, but her hesitation doesn’t melt until I’ve soaped her hair up and begun dragging my fingers against her scalp.
“Mmm.” She sighs, her head lilting to the side a bit as the tension leaves her body.
“Careful making noises like that…” I warn, silently scolding my still-hard cock as it twitches at the little noise of surrender. “I told you I can control myself, but if you go making those sexy little sounds, I may have to excuse myself.”
Claire stills at that, though the way she tilts her head back toward me lets me know she’s still very much enjoying the moment. It’s not until I reach for the hand-held attachment and begin to rinse the suds out of her hair that she makes any more noise. Whatever it is, I don’t catch the words well enough to make sense of them until she turns.
“It’s not a long list.”
It takes a second to remember what I’d said about hoping it was a short list of men who’d ever touched her, and once I do, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say in response. It’s truly none of my business—I’m not exactly an altar boy—and she’s in college. As long as she’s clean, her sexual liberties are her own. And yet, I feel an odd possessiveness in my chest, a jealousy at the thought of her wanting any other man. “How many?”
