Remy (Real #3)(13)
Author: Katy Evans

“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 f**king 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 f**k 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.”

PRESENT

SEATTLE

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 f**king pu**y.” 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 f**king 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 ass**le. 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.

Brooke.

“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 f**king married to my wife.

PAST

TO MIAMI

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 f**king 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 c**k 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 h*ps 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 c**k 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 h*ps 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 f**king 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 c**k 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.

She’s happy because she’s with you.

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.