He doesn’t laugh, but he smiles a smile that sparkles in his blue eyes as he slides his fingers up the side of my throat, then I feel the pad of his thumb gently stroke across the flesh of my bottom lip. The butterflies in my tummy awaken. His eyes are at half-mast as he surveys my mouth. He does it slowly, from corner to corner, and then, because he seems to think he owns this mouth, he swoops down and takes it.
His lips fire me up. My stomach spins as he forces my lips apart, and when his tongue flashes, hot, damp, and powerful, to take a quick and heady taste of me, I trap back my moan.
“Don’t be,” he roughly tells me as he looks down at my kissed mouth and appreciates his handiwork for a moment. He presses his lips to my forehead for a fraction of a second, and then he heads back to the ring in that graceful way he walks, relaxed and almost ambling.
Behind me, I hear breathless voices.
“Holy shit, I want to do that ten ways till Sunday.”
“Ohmifucking god he was right here!”
I lick my lips, and I can still taste the sexy fucker, which only makes my nipples bead and my sex swell with complete possessiveness of him.
As his next opponent is called up to fight, Remington flexes the muscles of his arms, down to the tips of his fingers. His smile flashes at me from the ring, and very clearly, his two dimples tell me how much he enjoys leaving me in a puddle of love and longing. The devil.
A fighter I remember from last year, Parker Drake, “the Terror,” gets up in the ring to face him. And the bell rings.
Ting.
The crowd quiets as the fight begins, and both men start swinging and hitting. Remy’s punches are powerful, and you can hear the sound of his fists landing, deep, strong, and fast as lightning. Poom poom poom! Squirming in my seat, I watch and listen, alternating between thrill and worry, when Parker crashes to the ground. I shoot to my feet and scream “Riptide!” in chorus with all the other people, knowing that this is the first of many times I will be here watching Remington reclaim everything, every single thing, that he gave up for me.
TWO
HAPPINESS = HIM
I’ve only spent the night with one man in my entire life. I love bumping into his muscles while we sleep. I love how the sheets smell of him, of us, and how his shoulders have become my favorite pillow, even though they’re hard as hell and I can’t understand why I like sleeping on them, but I do. They come with his arm around my waist and his scent, and his heat, and I love it all, every bit of it. Especially when he ducks his head to tuck his nose into my neck, and I bury mine into his.
The problem is that his side of the bed seems to eject him exactly at ten in the morning, and my side seems to have no eject button.
Today I feel like a deadweight, while I can tell he’s not even in the room.
The air is different when he’s not near. He charges it when he’s nearby, like a slow, powerful vibration around me that makes me hyperalert and feel both safe and excited.
I’ve really fallen for him.
Six months ago, I wanted a one-night stand—to have a little fun after dedicating my years to my career. Instead . . . I get him.
Unpredictable, infuriating, sexy him . . . the man everyone lusts after and I didn’t want to. I ended up not only lusting after him, but falling face-first in love with him. And now, loving him is the most exhilarating roller coaster I’ve ever ridden in my life.
Sitting up on the bed, I rub my eyes to shield them from the streaming sunlight and wish I had Red Bull and Monster running through my veins like Remy does. We hardly slept doing our favorite sexy stuff, and he’s already raring to go. I even see his suitcase by the door, ready for us to leave for the next tour location, while I still need to pack.
Squinting again as I slide out of bed, I go to the small closet to find something to wear when I spot the letter on his nightstand next to his iPhone—which he rarely even powers on except for music-listening purposes. The sight of my letter brings a rush of awful memories to me, I have to quell the urge to grab it, tear it, and flush the pieces down the toilet.
But Remington would be so mad. He treasures that stupid letter I’d left him when I left.
Because in it, I tell him what nobody had ever told him before.
I love you, Remy.
My legs start shaking, and I close my eyes and tell myself I’m not perfect. I’ve never been taught to do this. I never dreamed of love, a partner . . . I dreamed of sports and the latest running shoes. Not of spiky black hair and blue eyes. I’m trying to learn. To be the woman a man like him deserves. And I want to spend the rest of my life showing Remy that I deserve him, and the rest of my days making sure he takes back what he lost because of me. If anyone in this world deserves to be a champion—it’s him.
“He’s a *, just relax,” I hear his gruff, manly voice outside the master bedroom.
I laugh at my own body’s response to hearing Remington say “*”—my womb clenches and I feel instantly a little warm. Whore.