The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (89)

But as always, Remy knows better than me, moving my thighs apart with the soft push of his hands and challenging me with a look that could ruin women forever—strong, determined brow, twinkling blue eyes, and the most enchanting curve of his perfect, soft lips.

“Leave them open, Ria. Give me room to work.”

I nod then, feeling more confident in my ability now that I’ve been ordered to comply. I don’t have a whole lot of Dom/sub-style daydreams, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t feel really good to submit when the rest of your life is made up of decisions and responsibility.

Remy’s tongue strokes and prods, and my stomach tightens with all the tension that’s left the rest of my body. Languid and light, my limbs have given over to the feeling of nonexistence. I’m nothing but my clit right now—and the torturous rub of Remy’s perfect fingertips at the pinnacle of my G-spot.

My head lolls back and my eyes feel heavy, overcome with sensation. I reach out to gather a chunk of Remy’s perfect hair in my hand, and he hums a moan against me.

It feels like heaven—vibrating, pulsating, debilitating heaven.

“You taste so fucking good, Ria. I thought I’d forgotten, but now that I’ve felt you on my tongue again, I know I didn’t. Best fucking pussy on the planet.”

Okay, holy shit, that’s some Grade A dirty talk.

I have to admit, his level of skill in that arena has changed a little since our teenage days. He was good then, but he was just a boy. Now, he’s all man.

I don’t want to come like this, though, with Remy all the way down there. I want to come with him inside me, his face in my hands, his eyes staring into my own.

“Rem,” I murmur, the softness of my voice the only volume I’m able to manage. “I want you inside me.”

He sucks harder on my clit, pushing my back up off the bed and forcing my eyes to roll back. It’s all I can do to hold off the rolling wave of pleasure pulsing at the base of my spine.

“Remy!” I cry, just as he climbs up my body and covers mine with his. I don’t know how anything happens from that moment to the next, but before I can complain again, he’s inside me, a condom in place on his cock.

I can’t exactly see the protection from this angle, but I can feel it. And as much as I appreciate his care with safety, I fucking hate it. Loathe that I can’t feel him skin-on-skin without the risk of conceiving a baby the traditional way.

All that thankfully flies out of my head when he starts to move, in and out of me with his elbows on the bed at the sides of my head.

The feel of his thighs on mine is one I’m not likely to forget anytime soon. It might be a weird thing to focus on, but aside from the actual penetration, there’s nothing to me that feels more intimate.

Remy moves his thumbs over my face, then tilting my chin up gently to gain my attention. He makes short work of locking his gaze with my own, and I take even less time to get lost in it.

Vivid, swirling blue, his eyes are the kind that tell stories of their own. Of pain and loss and triumph and joy. Their beauty isn’t just surface-level—they’re vibrantly multidimensional.

He groans richly, his head falling forward to meet our foreheads as his pace slows and deepens.

My throat dries out and my back arches and my eyes fall closed without my permission. I don’t…I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like this. The need, the build, the perfect, exquisitely torturous pace.

Being connected with Remington Winslow is an experience like no other.

Being reconnected with him over half my life later is an experience beyond description.

“Rem,” I whisper, knowing with intense clarity that I’m oh so close to losing myself over the edge. “Remy,” I repeat, forming the only word I can.

He nods against my forehead, putting his lips to mine to whisper back, “Me too.”

His tongue flicks out to lick across mine, and the taste of tequila on him is markedly better than the stuff that comes straight from the bottle. I moan, and even though I didn’t think it was possible, Remy’s stroke deepens—intensifies.

It’s all I can do to exist now, the more basic functions of my throat and eyes and the speed of my thumping heart giving themselves completely over to the moment.

I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t had sex in so long or if the sex is just that powerful, but the clench of my orgasm is so strong, I swear on all that’s holy I pass out for the briefest of moments.

I, Maria Baros, temporarily left my body and watched over it from above while it absorbed the most pleasure it has ever experienced in this lifetime.

Remy’s groan moments later is an indication that he’s finished the race as well, but I’m ashamed to admit, I don’t have the mental capacity to bear witness to nearly enough detail. I can’t tell you the position of his face or the shift in his eyes or even the parting of his lips. All I can tell you is that I want nothing more than to do it again.

Over and over and over again, if I’m honest.

But I’m merely a passenger on the journey of tonight, and my body’s reached the point of exhaustion. I can’t move or breathe or chat.

All I can do is fall asleep, the feel of Remy still inside me and his weight atop me only the faintest of details. Exhaustion trumps embarrassment; bone-weary trumps boning.

Tomorrow, though, after I’ve slept, I have the distinct feeling I’ll feel differently. Very, very differently.