Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

And vanished from sight.





CHAPTER 24





Perfect Boy





Wyn





I looked up from what I was doing with Remy’s cock in my mouth, but I knew better.

My gaze going up that long body, encountering that flat stomach, that wide, slightly furred chest, that muscled neck, his stubbled jaw to find his eyes dark and on me.

Yes.

Always a mistake to look at Remy when I was sucking him off.

There was a flush to his cheekbones and absolutely a smolder in his gaze. But he and his big body were sprawled before me, head to the headboard, pillows under his shoulders, one long leg straight, the other bent and fallen to the side, like he was relaxed and just hanging out while I serviced his dick.

No matter how many times I’d done it, it always got to me.

And this was no exception.

I kept eye contact as I took him deep then sucked hard as I slid him out.

He smirked.

Really?

Time to play dirty.

This I did, sliding him back in and grasping his balls, giving them a little tug.

He grunted, then I found myself being dragged up his body. He rolled us. Kicking one of my legs aside with his knee, he used his hips to aim and then glided inside.

Nice.

I huffed out a breath.

“We get nasty when there aren’t five other people in the house, three of them my babies,” he growled in my ear as he shifted gears from gliding to starting to fuck me.

Okay, was it hotter than all that had just transpired when my husband called his grown kids his “babies?”

Don’t bother to answer.

I knew the answer.

It was yes.

“I think nasty got us two of those babies,” I panted in his ear as my hands slid to his ass.

He lifted his head, going faster and harder, warning, “Wyn.”

“Two houses, we need to double up on our sex box, baby,” I told him.

Another growl, this one with no words, definitely fucking me now as he took my mouth and spiked his tongue inside.

I arched into him and dug my nails into his ass.

He began to slam into me.

Now we were talking.

He broke the kiss and stilled, I stilled, the house stilled when we heard Colette scream, “Don’t you dare think you’ll move her into this house!” Pause, probably for a reply from Guillaume before, “Not even over my dead body! I’m leaving everything to Remy! My son will see to it that cunt will never step foot over the threshold.”

The C-word?

Whoa.

A door slammed and I lifted my hand to Remy’s jaw.

He began to focus on me, but his eyes went to the door when we heard more from Colette.

Except now it was coming from the hall.

“Don’t you walk away from me! I’m the bad guy? Me? They think I’m the villain of this story, when their precious grandpa fucked everything that moved!”

Remy pulled out, rolled off, tossed the covers over me and grabbed his jeans.

Through this, Guillaume could be heard ordering, “Go back to your room.”

To which Colette retorted, “It’s our room, Guillaume, even if you’ve far from slept every night of our loving marriage by my side.”

Remy was yanking up his jeans, and I was out of bed reaching for my robe.

“This is not the time,” Guillaume declared.

“When’s the time, my love? They’re all here and I’m dying. Remy should know my express wishes about what to do after I die while you and your whore circle like vultures,” Colette returned.

I was tugging the belt closed on my robe, and Remy was still pulling on a tee as he yanked open the door.

“Not here, not now,” he commanded, stepping into the hall. “Mom, go back to your room. Dad, you and I will—”

“You and your father, you and your father, you and your father!” Colette screeched just as I arrived at Remy’s back and pressed close.

Her gaze was on her son, and she was standing in the middle of the hall, barefoot, wearing a pink peignoir set, of all things.

“What about me, Remy?” she demanded. “As usual, you’ll go off and console your father, but what about me? I’m the one who’s dying.”

“Je m’en occupe, Remy,” Guillaume murmured.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought he said, “I’ll handle this.”

“Dad—” Remy started.

“Listen to me, Remy,” Colette ordered. “Listen closely to your mother. You do not let that Estelle anywhere near,” she slapped a hand to her chest, “my home,” she tugged at her embroidered robe, “my things. This is your home, your grandfather’s home, your great-grandfather’s home. Your legacy. And it should not be besmirched by his,” she tossed her hand toward Guillaume, “filth. If you cannot promise me you’ll do that, I’m leaving it all to Yves.”

But Remy was stuck on something else she said, I could tell by the way I felt him holding his body.

“On ira parler,” Guillaume said, what seemed like urgently, to Remy.

I knew part of that: We’ll go talk.

“Estelle?” Remy asked incredulously.

And boom.

From the way he asked that, I remembered what Remy had told me last week.

That was his father’s lover from years ago. The one he’d introduced Remy to.