RR&R 01 Real (10 page)
me
.
“
Are they right? What Pete said? Are you doing it on purpose?”
Remy, sometimes you break something and you never get it back. You
never
get it back,” I emphasize, then glance out at the distant street and passing cars for a moment, for fear of him catching the emotion in my voice. He just has me on edge, and I need to get a grip of myself.
“
I’m sorry about your knee,” he says, softly, then he slam dunks the packet into a nearest trashcan and jabs right and left, and we start up running again.
“
It’s not about my knee. It’s about you not taking your body for granted. Don’t ever let anyone hurt you, don’t
ever
allow it, Remy.”
All right. I like that so much better.”
I wouldn’t mind,” he says, with a delicious little chuckle, then he cracks his neck to his left side, then his right, and runs back with me.
A young couple shouts from the lobby for us to “Hold the elevator!” and I press the “Open Door” button until they hop in. My heart skips when Remington grips my hip and pulls me close to him once they board. And then I’m dying because he ducks his head, keeping it angled toward me, and I can hear the deep inhale he takes. Oh, god, he’s scenting me. My sex muscles clench. The need to turn around and bury my nose in his neck and lick the dampness on his skin burns through me.
You feel any better?” I ask, turning slightly into him.
“
Yeah.” He ducks his head closer, and my temple is bathed by his warm breath. “You?”
I hit the shower as soon as I’m in my room, and I make it as cold as I can stand it, my teeth chattering but the rest of my body still wound up in knots, over him. Him. Him.
When I hit the bed, Diane murmurs “hello” then continues reading a recipe book, while I just say “goodnight” and close my eyes and try to pretend I’m not roasting inside my skin.
But I ache so bad I’m squirming under the sheets, haunted by what I heard Pete tell Remington. Haunted by his full, sexy mouth with its recent cut on his lower lip, wrapped around that electrolyte pack as his tongue squeezed the last of the gel from it. I think about what it would have been like to be that gel pack, and feel his lips sliding over my tongue, gently suckling, and the thought draws a fresh pool of moisture to gather between my thighs.
stretch
him.
don’t know
.
Why did Pete think he was getting purposely injured so I would touch him?
want
my touch so bad?
Yeah?” Riley asks me, and I just stare like an idiot, my stomach sinking because, of course, these are the whores that … I duck my head and frantically think of something to say. “Did I leave my pho … oh shit, I got it.” I glance at my cell phone in my hand and roll my eyes, like I’m so stupid.
am
.
“
Never mind. Goodnight, Riley.”
Remy is sparring today the way Coach thinks he should have fought
yesterday
.
These are sparring partners, Tate. If you’d only stop knocking them down and just have fun and work on your moves, you’d still have someone to train with today … now we’ve run out and you have no one to spar anymore.”
“
Then stop giving me little pussies, Coach.” He spits off the ring. “Send Riley up here.”
“
Ha. Not even if he were suicidal. I need him conscious tomorrow.”
“
Hey, I know how to spar,” I tell Riley from where we watch at one outside corner of the ring.
Sure I did. I can show the guy moves he hasn’t even seen,” I boast, but frankly, I just want the opportunity to kick the shit out of Remington for being such a womanizing shithead that makes me fantasize day and night. And for licking the electrolyte packet after
I
did. What a flirting dickwad.
“
All right, Rem, I’ve got a little something for you,” Riley calls, clapping to get his attention. “I know for sure he’s not going to knock out this one, Coach,” he calls out to Lupe at the other corner, and he signals laughingly at me.
this
will. Even if I lose, I just want to freaking spar with someone.
“
Don’t smile like that. I can knock you down with my feet,” I warn him.
“
It’s not kickboxing. Or are you going to bite too?”
I try another one, and he deflects, and then I notice he’s standing in the center of the ring while I’m basically circling him. I know I can’t stand a chance in strength, but my plan is to dizzy him and then try to knock him down a peg. Riley calls what I’m going to do “weaving.” Which is just turning and twisting around your opponent so he misses. So I weave a little, and he’s clearly very entertained by me, so I try a test punch. He easily catches it in his full fist, then lowers my arm.
No,” he chides softly, and curls his hand around mine to teach me how to fist my fingers correctly. “When you punch, you need to align your two lower arm bones—your ulna and radius—on par with your wrist. Your wrist can’t be slack, so hold it perfectly straight. Now start with your arm folded to your face, tighten your knuckles, and as you punch out, twist your arm so that your ulna, radius, and
wrist
feel like one piece of bone when you hit. Try it.”
I keep one arm folded to cover my face, and then attack again, and again, noticing he’s just covering, but not counter-attacking.
Already the adrenaline rushes heady in my body, and I don’t know if it’s the mock fighting, or having those blue eyes so fixed on me, but I feel electrically charged suddenly. “Show me a move I don’t know,” I say breathlessly, liking this more than I anticipated.
He reaches out for both my arms and folds them up to guard my face with my fists. “All right, let’s do a one-two punch. Always cover your face with your hands, and your torso with your arms, even when you’re punching. Swing first with your left—” he pulls my arm toward his jaw “—then you shift your balance on your legs so you can follow with a power-punch with your right. You need good footwork here. Rip the strength from the punch from down here—” he pushes a finger into my core, then drags his hand all the way up my bare arm to my fist “—and send that power all the way to your knuckles.”
He makes a mock double blow that is fluid and perfect and makes little beads of sweat pop along my cleavage, and then I try it. Hitting left, squatting, shifting, and hitting harder with the right.
His eyes spark delightedly. “Try it again. Hit me at a different spot on your second punch.” He gets in position, his hands open to catch my blows.
Following orders, I use the first arm to deliver a quick punch to his left hand, which easily catches my blow, then I power punch the other hand with my right. My punches are delightfully accurate, but I think I need to put more strength into them.
Double punch on your left,” he says, and moves his hand up to catch my blows.
“
On your right,” he says, and on my first hit, I strike his open hand with my fist—poof. Then I decide to surprise him and land my right power-punch into his abs, which contract automatically as I hit and send surprising pain shooting up my knuckles. But even
he
looks surprised I got that last one in.
“
I’m so good,” I taunt him as I ease back, bouncing on my calves like he does, and playfully sticking out my tongue.
I swing out like I learned in self-defense. Legs are the strongest part of a woman’s body, and certainly an ex-sprinter’s. My aim is to strike his Achilles’ tendon with the ball of my foot, and knock both his big body and his ego to the ground.
But he moves the instant I swing, and I hit his tennis shoe instead. Pain screams up my ankle. He quickly catches me by the arm and straightens me up, his eyebrows jerking into a frown. “What was that about?”
I scowl. “You were supposed to fall.”
He just looks at me, his face blank for a moment. “You’re kidding me, right?”
