Remy (9 page)

Her cheeks flush a deeper red as she nods. She looks as beautiful as a fucking rainbow. I want to stop with this arguing, take her up to my room, and make love.

Going up the elevator, I stay away. I want to finish what we started at the dance floor. I want to grab her, kiss her, hold her. I want her to promise me to never do that again. Never risk herself for me, or anyone, again.

“It’s okay,” she says, touching my shoulder, and all I can think is,
God, Brooke. You’re so sweet and so innocent. Are you going to do this when I’m black?

I’m all knotted up inside as I see her fingers on me, and in my mind, I bend my head and lick my tongue up her fingers, all the way up her arm, her shoulders, her neck, to latch onto her mouth. Before I can, she steps back to her corner and stares at me, her eyes wide and confused.

I flex my hands and try calming down.

“I’m sorry you had to see those assholes,” I say, pulling on my hair for a second. “I’m going to fucking break all Scorpion’s bones and pull his goddamned eyes out when I get a chance.”

She nods, and I’m calmed somewhat, but even then I’m fighting the urge to put my arms around her.

“Can I come to your room until the guys get back?” she asks.

I hesitate, then the thought of her leaving her scent all over my room makes me nod like a true masochist, and she follows me. In my suite, she settles down on the living-room couch and I flick the TV on as a distraction. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No,” she says. “I never drink the day before flying or I’ll get doubly dehydrated.”

I bring two water bottles from the bar and sit next to her.

“Why did you get in trouble when you were pro?” she asks.

“A fight like the one you just prevented,” I answer in a thick, textured voice. Then I stare off into the screen, jaw clenched as I remember. I’d awoken to find the TV ablaze with news about me. I’d been manic. I’d been provoked. I’d acted—like I always do. My life was over, just like Brooke’s when she tore her ACL.

Yet she sits here, next to me, my female.

My strong, beautiful female who defended her male tonight.

The need to pull her in my arms eats me. No woman has ever made me want to cuddle and nuzzle her to me, but if I cuddle her to me, I’ll kiss her pretty mouth, and if I kiss her pretty mouth, I’m not going to stop there.

I’m still jacked up, my testosterone flooding my veins, my body tight with weeks of pent-up wanting. But I need to get closer, and I find myself slowly stretching my arm out over the back of the couch. So fucking close, I feel her soft hair against my forearm.

She watches me through her lashes like she wants me to get even closer, and I realize some sort of heavy kissing is on the TV, annoying me enough to make me turn it off. I want it quiet enough that I can hear the sound of her breath, hear it quickening just for me. My hand goes to her nape, and I gently caress the soft skin at the back of her neck with my thumb. She trembles.

“Why’d you do that for me?” I ask her, my voice husky.

“Because.”

She holds my gaze, her amber eyes so alive and mesmerizing, there’s a fire at the pit of my gut as I squeeze her nape, insisting, “Why? Somebody tell you I can’t take care of myself?”

“No.”

Her mouth is more tempting to me than anything I’ve ever wanted and had to live without. I close my eyes and drop my forehead to hers. I’m hungry for her scent, I can’t stop breathing her in. I hear her breathing me in too when a light touch of a fingertip brushes across my lips. My chest knots up with hunger and my tongue darts out. I’m anxious for a taste. For
her
. She shudders. Undone, I groan and suck her finger deeper into my mouth, my eyes shutting as I savor her.

“Remington . . .” My name on her lips makes me hot enough to blow.

“Honey, I’m home!” A slamming door and Pete’s sarcastic voice stuns us. “Just wanted to make sure you guys got here okay. Scorpion sure seems to have a hard-on to get your ass back in jail.”

The lights flare on, and the knowledge of what I’m doing slams into me like a sledgehammer. I drop her finger and stalk to the window, breathing hard as I struggle for control. What the hell am I doing? She has no idea about me.

“I’d better go,” she says.

Pete watches her leave, then he looks at me as I stand here, feeling tortured like it’s my last day. “I’ll just wait for you here, Rem,” Pete says calmly.

Burning inside my skin, I clamp my jaw in frustration, curl my fingers into my palms, and follow her to her room, so wound up I’m ready to burst through my jeans.

I want her so much I’m not even thinking of anything except the way she looks, the way she smells, the way she just fucking stuck her finger into my mouth.

As she slides the key into the slot, I let myself fantasize that this is our room. Or at least that it’s just hers. And she’d open up the door, and I’d follow her inside. I’d kiss her slowly. Set her down on the bed. I’d kiss her all over.

But it’s not just her room. I’ve been booking her with Diane, so I’d stay away. But maybe I don’t feel like staying the fuck away anymore!

She waits a moment and then finally turns.

“Good night,” she whispers, and looks up at me.

Before I can pull myself back, I grab her face and kiss her lips. “You look beautiful.” My thumb runs with desperation along her jaw. I tilt her chin and kiss her—softly, drily, quickly before I lose it. “So damn beautiful I couldn’t take my eyes off you all evening.”

Will You Marry Me” comes up on Pandora through the car’s speakers. Pete and Riley start to hoot like a couple of dipshits.

“Coincidence or what? Or what, man?” Pete punches my arm and I punch back with the same force. “Ouch!”

Okay, maybe a little more force than he used. “Don’t be a fucking pussy.” I laugh.

We pull into the church’s parking lot, where we spot the team’s rented Escalade parked already in a spot.

“So what’s this about Melanie having some fucking boyfriend,” Riley says as he jumps off, lifting a box of chocolates from the back of the car and showing them to us. “The name of these is even fancier than Godiva.”

“She told us the boyfriend’s name’s Greyson, remember? And
this
doesn’t belong to you.” Pete grabs the box of chocolates and puts them in the back of the car, then waits behind the wheel as the top closes.

“Sounds like some asshole. Nobody gives anybody chocolates these days—especially not someone you’re dating. Melanie’s ass is fine without those, I’ll tell you that.”

I punch Riley’s arm so he goes quiet when we walk into the church. People are finishing the touches on the floral arrangements. White. White for my bride.

“Still, I’ll bet he’s some sort of posh—”

I punch Riley lightly again. “Do you love her?” I demand.

“Hell no.” He looks affronted.

“Then stop complaining and let her be happy with this dude.”

“Amen,” Pete says.

I pull out my phone to check the time as Riley and Pete continue discussing the love life of Brooke’s best friend.

“There’s my boy!” Coach slaps my back. “You ready?”

“I was born ready.”

He laughs. “Season starts in two weeks, and we’re going to be ready.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Right now, I’m just ready to get fucking married to my wife.

We’re in the back of the plane the next day, our iPods in hand, my eyes devouring her and her eyes brazenly devouring me back.

“Put a song on for me,” I tell her.

Last night was a revelation. Maybe she’s more ready for me than I’d previously thought. Fuck, I can’t even think that without my hormones shooting crazy in me. As she ducks her head to choose my song, I want to brush her hair back and take her mouth, to tell her with that kiss she will be mine.

I’m playing her Survivor’s “High on You” and I’m fiercely impatient to find out what she plays me now. Another girl song? One that teases me with hints that she’s all right without a man?

I hand her my iPod and take hers in my hand, then I slip on my headphones and listen to her selection: Journey’s “Any Way You Want It.”

My lips curve in an amused smile, but holy hell, the lyrics work me up. I lift my eyes to hers, then I examine her pink marshmallow mouth. She’s telling me I can get anything I want?

Including that beautiful fucking mouth?

What about those gorgeous tits? Those legs around me?

She licks her lips anxiously as she watches me listen, and the lust hits me so bad, my cock fills up and throbs until it feels like lead.

She says something, then laughs, but the music plays in my ears and I have no idea what she’s talking about, or to who. I dip my head closer. I’m not used to subtlety. And I need to know if this means what I think it means. What I want it to. My willpower is shredded into pieces so tiny that I can’t even believe I can sit here without dragging her into my lap, plunging my fingers in her hair, and working my tongue across hers. But what this song is saying to me just gets my lion roaring and I’m starting to wonder if I can hold him back.

“Play me another one,” I command.

She hesitates, her face flushed and her eyes liquid, and I have never been more aware of my hands, the palms of my hands, my fingers, and where I want them to be. She then plays me a song by a woman who’s begging to be made love to.

As the song plays to me, I make love to Brooke in my head. I move over her, inside her, in my head. She grips me with her arms, and I grip her hips and sit her down on me, and she moves with me, opening her mouth when I lick her lips, her tongue.

Now, I lean closer and dip my head to her own, and she leans back on the seat as if alarmed, her pulse fluttering in her throat.
No, little firecracker, get back here with me. Don’t fizzle out now.

Sliding my hand around her small waist, I bring her closer, then I press my lips into her ear. My cock pulses in my jeans. My heart kicks into my rib cage and it is feeding my groin. I lean back and play “Iris” to her, then I pull off both our headphones and come closer to kiss her ear again.

“Do you want me?” I ask her, my voice guttural with need.

She nods against me, and my control snaps. I clench my hands on her hips and keep her against me. God, she wants me. I knew she did. I knew it. Something in my brain snaps, and I inhale the scent at her neck, where it’s always so powerfully sweet. I’m going to make her mine tonight. Suddenly, there’s nothing stopping me. Nothing.

Fuck me being black.

Fuck everything but Brooke.

My hunger is a raging monster as I tug her earlobe with my teeth and lick the shell of her ear, delighting in making love to that little ear with my tongue. The blood rushes through me, hot and heady. I can’t stop tasting and nuzzling her. She’s fallen still in the seat, against, and almost beneath, me, and I can feel her every shudder as I work my lips on her skin. All I can think of is the songs she played me . . . how they spoke to me . . . I can get anything I want, any way I want it, and she wants me to make love to her. She’s mine. I am meant to provide and to take what she gives. I won’t deny her any longer. I won’t deny myself.

We arrive at the hotel and I book her into the two-bedroom Presidential Suite.

“You sure about this?” Pete asks.

I nod and glance at Brooke, her eyes slightly widening when I hand her a keycard from my set.

My thumb brushes her, and her eyes clasp mine, questioning. I look back and hope she reads me, willing her to know what I want tonight. If she’s not ready, I hope to hell she’ll say something now.

But she doesn’t. She takes the keycard and smiles, her smile radiant and shy, and she brushes back my thumb with hers. That, right there, was no fucking accident. Not the way she smiles, or touches me, or looks at me with a kind of
bring it
look that sets me on
fire
.

My brain starts running a mile a minute as we go upstairs to wait for our suitcases.

“What a pretty view,” she says when we enter the living room. The door shuts behind me. We’re alone. I’m suddenly doing her on the couch. The dining table. The floor. I’m tearing off her clothes. I’m sinking my cock in her and my teeth in her skin . . . my lips are on her neck and all I smell is her.

But, no, there she stands, looking outside.

Brooke Dumas.

The only woman I want.

I’m bursting the zipper of my jeans. I’ve had groupies in my rooms, naked, sliding their hands up my abs and my chest. Nothing hits me like seeing Brooke in my room, in her bouncy ponytail, looking excited and . . . happy.

My heart kicks. I curl my hands into my palms and watch her peer nervously out the window, her teeth digging into her lower lip.

I have a fight tonight.

I can’t wait for her to watch me win.

Then . . . watch me make love to her.

Heart pounding hard inside me, I walk to her, tip her head and angle it, so her ear is titled to my mouth. I lean and lick it, earlobe up to the shell, then I dip my tongue into the crevice and tell her, “I hope you’re ready for me. I sure as hell am ready for you.”

“COME HERE, MR. Fucking Miami!”
A few guys swing me up on their shoulders and carry me into the Presidential Suite after the fight, and my restless eyes scan the room for my dark-haired goddess.

“Remy! Remyyyy!”
they yell as they launch and catch me.

Some days, my fists just have their own will.

Today is one of those days.

Miami fucking loves me for kicking the shit out of every poor motherfucker put in my way.

Lightning courses through my veins.

Hell, if I lifted my hands and pushed out the heel of my palms, I’m sure I’d be shooting our spiderwebs.