Page 41 of Desperate Games

Remy leans down, still bare and sweat-slicked and devastating, and kisses me like the world has gone quiet.

Like we’ve stepped into some sacred pocket of time where only the two of us exist.

Slow. Deep.

A kiss that undoes me.

That cracks the armor I didn’t even know I was still wearing.

And then?

Oh hell.

I feel it.

Him.

That gloriously long, thick cock of his, already hard again, pressing against my thigh like a loaded weapon.

My breath catches in my throat.

I blink up at him, dazed.

“You’re showing off now,” I murmur, laughing a little despite the emotional war inside me.

His lips twitch into that sinful, smug grin that should be illegal in at least three countries.

“Nah, Baby. I just want you,” he says, voice all smoke and gravel and filthy promise. “But I’m thinking we go to the bedroom this time.”

Before I can form a coherent response, he’s on his feet.

And holy hell.

There he is—all of him.

The full Remy Falco experience.

He’s a giant. Easily six-six, maybe more.

All carved muscle and heavy shoulders and taut, inked-up flesh.

He looks like he belongs in a gladiator arena or one of those dark fantasy book covers I secretly read on my tablet.

Sculpted abs. V-cut hips. Tattoos that whisper stories I’m not ready to hear.

There’s Latin inked on his ribs—Memento Mori.

A raven across his throat, its wings outstretched like it’s protecting him. Or warning everyone else.

And right there, over the swell of his shoulder—a tiny red heart.

The only splash of color on that battlefield of a body.

I don’t have time to ask.

Because suddenly—he’s lifting me. Me.

Like I weigh nothing.