Page 116 of Forever Never
“Did I mark you?” He was appalled. Mostly. There was also a small, ugly part of him that wanted to see it. Wanted to be proud of it.
“Focus, Brick,” she said, snapping her fingers to get his attention. “I’m saying what we did together was consensual and really fucking great.”
“So you didn’t mind…” What was he supposed to say?Hey, Remi, you didn’t mind being bent over a table and taught a lesson? How about when I pinned you to a bed and fucked you so hard I saw goddamn stars?
She dropped her knees open and leaned forward. The damn sweatshirt obscured his view of her pretty purple underwear.
“I loved it. I want more. But you have to know all the facts before you decide you’re up for more.”
His dick was ready to agree to anything. It didn’t care about the facts.
“Jesus, you’re not married, are you?” The very thought of it filled him with a possessive rage. He’d hunt down the man who’d tried to lay claim to her and destroy him.
She rolled her eyes. “No!”
He relaxed.
“It’s worse than that,” she said.
“Fuck. Remi. Just tell me. Put me out of my misery so I can get on my knees and bury my tongue in you before I make you ride me while the sun comes up.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Uhh.”
It was his turn to snap his fingers. “Focus. Talk.”
She looked up at the ceiling and took a breath. “Okay. But maybe we could cover up your chest acreage so I could focus?”
On a weary sigh, Brick grabbed the knitted throw off the back of the chair and covered up.
“Better?”
“It’ll have to do. There’s more to the story about the accident,” she began.
31
January 30
A few weeks earlier
She’d chosen the floor-length emerald green dress and gold filigree earrings because they made her feel as far away as possible from the rough-housing teenager her hometown knew her as.
But as she’d wandered the concrete floors of the gallery, admiring her own paintings, she realized that inside, she still felt like the same girl. The same giddy, wild girl in search of her next adventure. That next adventure was now.
While her smarmy yet somehow charming agent, Rajesh, schmoozed long-distance buyers—or ordered prostitutes—on his phone, Remi gave herself a few quiet moments alone with her paintings.
Starving artist hadn’t been a stereotype, it had been a long, necessary reality. But it was officially in the past now. Just like the girl who’d pined for a man who could never love her. There was a new, wonderful reality to grow into.
The week before, she’d sold a piece for more than what it had cost her to go to art school. She didn’t recognize her bank account with more than three digits in it.
She turned in a circle, watching her paintings drift past. Around and around, a merry-go-round of color and music. Of light and life. She was officially a big fucking deal in the art world. Well, Alessandra Ballard was.
Just a few months ago, she’d sold a piece to some charming British guy in Florida just so he could stick it to an asshole. Remi liked him so much when Mr. Charm came back to negotiate the purchase of another piece his fiancée had fallen for, she gave him a discount that made Rajesh cry.
“Happy?” Rajesh asked, tucking his phone in his suit jacket and adjusting his cuffs. “Because if you’re not, you’re a big enough deal that you can throw a temper tantrum and make them rearrange the whole thing.”
Remi snorted. The gallery had gone above and beyond to make sure the entire collection was beautifully and respectfully displayed. Each painting had a nameplate that included the name of the piece as well as the song it had been inspired by. Throughout the evening, the playlist would run through each song, and the lighting would change to match the colors that synesthesia produced in her head.
It was a sensory experience that would give visitors and patrons an idea of what it was like to be in her world. She approved.
