His smile fades.
His eyes flash with hurt as he curls his fingers into his hands and the wildness in his expression almost claws into me, but I feel equally wild, and this time, I just can’t appease him I am so fucking hurt, and angry, and jealous, and pregnant.
Vaguely, I remember there were times when I sat on these sidelines, wishing that magnificent raw beast up there were mine. And this moment I sit here, pregnant with his baby, hurting because some woman, or women, kissed and touched what I feel is mine, and suddenly I want what I had before. I want to be just a girl, just wanting a job. Simple. Simple goals and a simple life. But no. I can’t have that now. Because I am more in love with Remington Tate than I ever thought possible. And he is as elusive as a falling star, one that nobody will ever really catch, and if you catch him, he will only burn right through you.
Like he burns into me right now, right in the center of my chest, my love for him corroding me.
Unable to look into his dark eyes any longer, I force my gaze away to watch his opponent take the ring, and my eyes slide over but quickly return, to the tattoo of a dark, elegant curled B on Remington’s right bicep.
My heart stutters in disbelief. Staring at the inky design in confusion, I realize that yes, it’s right there, on his right bicep: a perfect, beautiful B.
It does something crazy to me. My poor panties suddenly feel soaked, and I start to throb.
Remington turns to his opponent, and I see his lips curl cockily when he spares a look at the fighter he goes up against, someone young and jumpy, clearly too eager to get started.
They tap gloves, and Remington looks at me. Then, without smiling, he meaningfully flexes his bicep with the B and kisses it so that I see. A furious, hot little ripple runs down my sex, and I clench my legs together.
His smile flashes, as if he knows he makes me wet and I can’t help myself.
The bell rings.
“When did he get that tattoo?” I ask under my breath. I can’t stop staring at the mark.
“Right after we left Seattle,” Pete tells me.
Remington goes toe-to-toe with the “eager young buck” as Pete called him, and immediately slams him; then he backs out and feints, making the new fighter come after him. The buck swings and fails, and Remington comes back with a powerful one-two punch that launches the man back like a cannon blast. The guy bounces on the ropes, and then falls facedown on the mat.
“Oooooooooo!” the public says.
“Ouch, that must’ve hurt,” says Pete, but he’s grinning while behind me, someone yells, “That’s what you get when you go up against Riptide, sucker!”
No matter what’s going through my head, watching Remington fight is such a thrilling experience that, inside me, all my muscles brace as if I were the one fighting.
The other guy gets up, and Remington hits him again, his punches precise and powerful, his body moving sinuously, the sexy black B on his bicep rippling as that muscle hardens in action. I’m a mess of emotions as the fight progresses, and a drop of perspiration slides between my breasts.
My body temperature seems higher with the pregnancy, but watching my baby’s father up there—a master of complete disaster, with that tattoo screaming to the world that he is mine, but at the same time kissed by some other bitches—makes me possessive and angry. I feel like a volcano.
After Remington knocks the young buck down permanently for the night, fighter after fighter is brought out to challenge him. He rams them so hard they bounce on the ropes, drop on their sides, face-forward, or onto their knees, all of them shaking their heads in consternation like their brains are shuddering inside them.
He’s unstoppable.
Pete laughs at my side. “It never ceases to amaze me how much that man likes to SHOW THE FUCK OFF WHEN YOU WATCH HIM!”
I shake my head in disbelief, and Pete nods somberly. “Seriously. The difference in his blood work when he’s exposed to you—the way you alter his chemistry and bring out all his testosterone, bring his fighter’s instincts to life—it’s incredible. Did you know men’s testosterone rises when they see a new attractive female? His doesn’t. It just goes through the roof when he sees you—his female.”
Pete’s words kill me. Remington always seems to want to prove to me that he is the strongest male in the world and the one who will protect me—and oh, yes, do I believe him.
He takes on a fourth fighter and then a fifth, his body a bulldozer of sex and strength as he pounds them down, one after the other, those dark eyes checking me out—in my seat—making sure I’m watching him. Every look he sends my way, I ache a little more inside me, get a little more angry and embarrassingly horny, until my sex is so swollen and my hands so tightly curled on my lap, I don’t know what I want to do most: fuck him or slap him.
A sixth and a seventh fighter are brought out, and Remington is still not tired. He’s blocking, punching, attacking, and defending.
“RIP, RIP, RIP, RIP, RIP!” the public chants to him, and Pete joins them, pumping his hands in the air, chanting the same word as the thousand people here, as the ringmaster grabs Remington’s thick wrist and raises his arm in victory.
“Our winner! Once again, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Remington Tate, youuuuur Riptiiiide!!”
Those dark eyes search for me in the stands. The second they find me, my pulse pounds fiercely in my body, my heart fluttering like a winged thing in my chest as he stares at me and smiles. A shiver runs through me at the sight of those dimples, the white smile, the dark, scruffy jaw—and that fucking red lipstick.
When I can’t seem to make myself smile back, his eyebrows draw low over his eyes, and he grabs the rope and climbs down from the ring.
“Riptide, Riptide, Riptide!” I hear the excited people start chanting.
Forcing myself to hold his steely dark gaze, I stand on shaky legs, watching him come over. He gives me his hand, and I look at all that fucking lipstick on his face, and then at his hand, and I grab it. My jaw tightens as he hauls me down the rows.
“Keys,” he barks at Riley, and Riley hops down from the corner of the ring and trots to walk next to us.
“I’ll drive you guys.”
Into the back rooms we go, and Remington stops at the lockers to grab his duffel, never letting go of my hand. I can’t stop looking at the lipstick on his damn, sexy, infuriating mouth, and at the B tattoo on his sexy, hard bicep. Conflicting sensations spiral in me so fast, I don’t even know what to do with them except grit my teeth. Releasing my hand for the barest second, Remington pulls on a white T-shirt and jumps into a pair of black sweatpants, then he grabs my hand, rams his fingers through mine, and leads me outside. He shoves me into the back of the Navigator, and once we settle in our seats and Riley starts the car, he grabs my face in one hand, his eyes glowing with the same hunger they’ve glowed with all day. Or maybe even more. He bends to kiss me and I twist my face around.
“Don’t,” I say.
He forces my head back around and murmurs in a low, desperate voice, “I want you to look at me when I fight. I’ve been waiting what feels like forever to have you look at me.” He crushes my mouth with his, and lightning streaks through me as his lips press to mine. The need inside me is so great, it takes all my willpower to force my mouth shut under his as I twist free with a moan.
“Don’t kiss me!” I hiss.
He seizes my face in one open hand and turns me around, and he takes my mouth again, forcing my lips to part so he can thrust his tongue in me with a groan. I moan as his tongue touches mine, fighting weakly as I squirm between him and the seat and I push at his shoulders, twisting my head away.
“Let go!” I moan.
“God, I need you like I need to breathe. . . .” He slides his callused palm under my dress, stroking his long fingers up my thigh as he presses a path of hungry, wet kisses up my throat. “Why are you playing games with me? Hmm? I need to be inside you right now. . . .”
“Did you tell that to your groupies?” Panting and angry as his hand advances up my thigh, I push at his granite chest and make a frustrated sound when he doesn’t budge. “Tell that to the one who kissed your chin, your temple, your jaw, and your fucking mouth!”
He edges back with a confused scowl.
“You’ve got lipstick all over your face, Remington!” I say, straightening my dress.
With a low, exasperated noise, he drags the back of his forearm across his lips, then looks down at it and narrows his eyes when he sees the red streak on his skin. He clamps his jaw shut and falls back in his seat, dropping his head back with a groan. He rakes his hands through his hair and stares angrily at the ceiling, breathing through his nose. I try sliding to the other end of the seat, but his hand shoots out and clamps around my wrist.
“Don’t,” he rasps, like he’s in pain.
I swallow a lump of anger in my throat as he slides his hand from my wrist to my hand and links our fingers. The entire ride, I am acutely aware of his palm against mine, his thick, long fingers laced through mine, holding me tight while my chest feels like bursting and imploding, all at the same time.
We get to our hotel and Riley cautiously checks on us via the rearview mirror. “I’ll pick up the rest of the team now,” he says.
“Thanks,” Remington flatly says as he helps me down from the car. Then, with his hand still holding mine, he walks me across the lobby to the elevators.
We hop on, and his scruffy jaw is still all streaked in red. Even with those streaks, his face is every woman’s fantasy. His hair rumpled and black, those sweatpants riding low on his hips while that T-shirt clings to his eight-pack and broad shoulders and bulging biceps. He’s still the same sex symbol he’s always been, while I feel more pregnant than ever, with the tiny bump of my stomach.
He pulls me into our room, the door slamming with its own weight behind us, and the instant he lets go of my hand he grabs me by the hips and lifts me up to set me down on the dining table.
“Don’t do this to me.” He nips my neck and slides his hand under my dress again, raising it up quickly to cup me over my panties this time. “Don’t fucking do this to me now,” he groans.
I start to shudder when he drags his mouth up to my jaw, nipping my lips as he rubs the tip of one finger over my panties. I hate the whimper that comes out of me, but he seems to like it, for he groans and heads straight for my mouth. I jerk my head away, my voice soft and pained. “I want to kiss you, not them!” I cry, weakly pushing at his big chest.
“It’s me.” He pulls his hand out of my dress, grabs the sides of my face in both hands, and kisses me, smearing me with someone else’s lipstick as he covers my mouth and forcibly opens me. I push on his chest until I can’t push anymore while his tongue overpowers mine and he curls his arms around my back as he leans me down on the table, his arms protecting me from the hard surface as he suckles on me with desperate hunger. “It’s me,” he rasps, rubbing a hand along the side of my body and to my breast.
I whimper needily and hate that I do. I’m so wet. I need him so much. He smells so fucking good. I’m going crazy, but when he covers my breast with one hand, I’m still so jealous and angry, I try to push his hand away. He makes a low, pained noise. “Brooke . . .” With a frustrated sound, he grabs the fabric of my dress in both fists and rips it open in one jerk. I gasp as he spreads the fabric aside to reveal me in my underwear, his dark head quickly diving so he can drag his tongue over my skin, from my belly button upward, as he parts the material even more and strokes his hands up my ribs.
