Remy (Real #3)(11)
Author: Katy Evans

I keep going with the ice, and when the slide of her foot across my abs feels like a caress, shocks of electricity course through me.

“Feel better?” I ask gruffly, and my head is screaming at me to kiss her. She looks like she wants it. Her pink mouth is parted. Her eyes shine with heat as she looks down on me. Her feet are on my stomach, caressing the squares of my abs—and not by accident. My hands are cupping her foot, and I crave to bend my head and lick her toes, the arch up her foot, up her leg. I want to peel that catsuit off her body, feel her skin with my lips, my fingers, my knuckles, my palms. I’m drawn to her strength and her sweetness, her bravado that makes me want to push and tease her, that draws me out of my own cave, my own walls, if only just to chase her and bring her back to my cave with me.

I don’t know the name of this, or maybe I do.

It’s the one thing in my life I don’t plan on fighting.

For the first time in my life I’m thinking of things other than f**king and fighting. I want to take care of this girl. I’m thinking about how I want to f**k her hard and kiss her softly, hold her tight and suck her gently, when she abruptly tells me, “It feels perfect now. Thank you.”

We engage in a slight tug-of-war for her foot as she tries to pull free, and I’m not too happy to let her, and then the door swings open and Diane appears. “There you are,” she tells me with a big grin. “I must feed you now so you can recharge for tomorrow!”

I stare at Brooke, confused as hell, and the way she stares at me as if I’d imagined the connection puzzles the shit out of me. What the hell? Right now, I could’ve bet my life that she’d wanted me as much as I’d wanted her. I toss the ice into the bucket and lower her foot. “I am sorry, about your ankle,” I tell her. She wanted my apology, and now she has it. “Don’t worry if you can’t make it to the fight.”

“No. It wasn’t your fault. I’ll be fine,” she hurries to say.

I’m still confused as I push to my feet. “I’ll ask Pete to get you some crutches.”

“I’ll be fine. Serves me right for messing with trees,” she calls out as I head for the door.

I stop and look at her, trying to read her, and for a moment she stares back at me, looking just as confused as I feel.

“Good luck, Remy,” she says.

Pummeled by a shitload of frustration, I consider charging across the room and slamming my mouth on hers, giving her a kiss so f**king wet and deep, there will be no doubt in her mind that she is mine. Instead, I shove my fingers through my hair and leave, then charge straight into the suite, where I know I’ll find Pete either on his laptop or on the phone.

“Get someone to look at Brooke’s sprain. Get her some f**king crutches. And get two of your own cars after the fight tomorrow, I want Brooke alone.” I cross the living room in search of food.

Pete dials to concierge. “Do you want the Escalade or would you like someone to drive you?” His yell reaches me in the kitchen as I scour for the food Diane prepared.

“Get me a driver, I want my hands free.”

PAST

SHE FIGHTS

I’m in the zone.

Standing so I can stretch my legs and bounce in place, I curl my fingers and twist my neck to one side, then the other. Riley lifts three fingers, and I’m up in three. After a couple more jumps, I pry off my headphones, slip into my robe, and then wait until I hear it: “And noooow, ladies and gentlemen, say helloww to the one, the only, Remington Tate, RIPPPPPTIIIIIIDE!”

Taking off down the walkway, I follow my name, then I leap into the ring, strip off my robe, and hand it over to the guys at the corner. The noise heightens as I open my arms and turn around, taking a good look at my crowd. Hundreds of heads are turned in my direction, waving banners and shit in the air as the name Riptide shudders upward and across the ceiling rafters.

My arms still out, I keep turning, scanning the crowd until my eyes lock on her. Brooke Dumas. Sitting right where I want her. She’s framed by the groupies Pete and Riley brought up to my room, and they have nothing on her. She wears her hair down, and her smile, f**k, her smile is just for me. I smile back at her, thinking, this is for you.

Then I focus on my opponent, wait for the bell, and take him down. Working up a sweat, I take out a second fighter, a third. On my fourth and fifth, I keep jabbing, hooking, shooting out double punches, straight power punches, countering, attacking, and defending.

On my eighth, I block a power punch from his left arm, then I bury my hook in his ribs and finish him with an uppercut to the jaw that knocks him out completely with a thunk. He tries to rise, but slumps back down.

The public roars as my name takes over the entire room.

“RRRRRRIIIIIIPTIIIIIIIDE!” The ringmaster lifts my arm, and I’m catching my breath as the announcer yells, “Our victor, ladies and gentlemen. Riptiiiide!”

The screams are almost deafening, and I turn around and look at her, the smile on her lips so perfect, I can’t f**king wait to kiss it.

It takes me five minutes to shower and change at the hotel, then I cross the lobby to where Brooke waits in the back of a black Lincoln.

I slide in and shut the door behind me, and when I settle in my seat, the back of my hand rests against the back of hers. I carefully watch her for any signs of her wanting to pull away.

We head into traffic.

Brooke still hasn’t protested.

So I run the pad of my thumb over the back of hers, watching her reaction.

She inhales a quick breath, and the way her tits push up against her glittery top makes me hard. I think about running my thumb up her bare arm, her slender neck, then trailing it over that plump, pink mouth I want to feel all over me.

“Did you like the fight?” My voice is low and gruff.

She stares out at the window, her thoughtful profile making me want to f**king beg for it.

“No. I didn’t like it,” she admits as her eyes finally come to mine. “You were amazing! I loved it!”

The words hit me with such joy, I laugh, and I grab her hand, lift it to my mouth, and scrape my lips across the small rises of her knuckles, looking at her.

“Good,” I murmur, staring deep into her eyes. It takes all my effort to let go of her. But I want her to get used to me first. I want her to smell me, feel me right here. I want her to feel my body heat and get accustomed to me. My presence. Everything about me. When I sit next to her, this is the last time I want her shoulders to go tense and tight.

Soon, we reach the club. I help her out of the car, and when she slides her small hand deeper into mine, I feel so f**king possessive, I don’t let go of her. I want every man looking in her direction to know this one’s f**king mine. In silence, I lead her past the bouncers and to a private room in the back.

“Pete is getting a lap dance,” Riley tells me at the door of the private room, and I’m disappointed when Brooke quietly pulls her hand free from mine. “You don’t mind treating him to one as a birthday present?” he asks me.

We all watch as a woman in a glittering silver bikini heads for Pete, who looks goggle-eyed. Brooke squirms at my side, and Riley turns his attention to her, his eyebrows flying high. “You shy about this, Brooke?” he asks in amusement.

A soft-pink hue stains Brooke’s cheeks, and a rush of possessiveness charges through me. I engulf her hand in mine again, quietly asking her, “Do you want to watch?”

She shakes her head, and I quietly tug and lead her outside, noticing how she flattens her palm against mine, her soft fingers interlaced with my bigger ones. God, she’s so perfect. All my instincts are raring for me to claim her.

She lets me lead her through the throng like she knows she’s mine, or like she wants to be. There’s noise and a crazed crowd of dancers, and as an Usher track reverberates through the room, Brooke leaps in excitement.

“Oh, I love this song!” she tells me, squeezing my hand in a way that makes my chest hurt.

The blonde groupie spots Brooke from within the dance floor, and before I know it, she’s pulling her away.

“Remy!” The redhead who’d been dancing on the table of my suite grabs me and hauls me in by their side, and I can’t take my eyes off Brooke. Dark haired and sexy, she moves as gracefully as a cat as she dances. Hips swaying side to side. Long golden legs. Debbie pulls Brooke closer by the h*ps and they’re dancing as one, the undulating movements of Brooke’s small waist and narrow h*ps heating me up to the point of madness. She laughs and turns around, arms waving in the air, as the chorus of “Scream” begins.

She spots me. I’m not moving, even though everyone else around me is. Only my heart thunders inside me. Mine mine mine.

There are things you’re certain about. That you’d bet your life on. Things that you just know. You know the heat of a fire will burn you. Water will quench your thirst. She is one of those things; the most unerring certainty of my life.

She looks into my face, the look in her eyes soft and giving, and every inch of me wants to take what she’ll give me. I reach out, spin her around, and crush her body against mine. I dive hungrily to her lovely neck, brushing her hair to the side, and pressing into her spine, inhaling her like a madman. Her scent curls around me and I part my mouth, hungrily grazing her skin with my teeth before my tongue flashes out for a taste of her.