Mine (Real, #2)(15)
My breath has left me. Fear chafes my insides along with other, colliding, sensations, like this incredible arousal that always seizes me as I watch him battle. He’s so spectacular. The power in his body, the ripple of his muscles, the perfect flex when each muscle hardens and lets go. Remington uses both intellect and gut instinct to fight. He seems to plan, plot, then just roll with it, but more than anything, he seems to live in the moment. To love it.
His face is concentrated now as he pummels Butcher until the man has crashed down in a red pool at his feet. Literally, at his feet. His face splat on Remy’s boots.
Remy’s lips curl in pleasure by the sight, and he steps aside, turning his body in my direction.
“RIPTIDE!” the announcer yells, and as his arm is yanked up high in the air, his gaze finally targets me.
My pulse stops inside me. The noise is gone. Even my heartbeat feels nonexistent. It’s stupid how much I need this, but when he finally lifts his arm and swings his head to me and his desperate, angry, blue eyes land on me, I shudder in my seat.
His gaze is vividly possessive and furious, a drop of blood sliding to his eyelid from his cut eyebrow, blood dripping from his nose and lips.
And when the ringmaster asks him something, he nods, and they call up another fighter for him.
“Yeah, now he’s gonna need to work off that rage,” Pete mumbles to himself.
A new tornado of nerves sweeps through me when I hear this. I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was doing this just to torture and punish me. The endorphins will keep him from feeling any pain. In fact, he’s so proud and driven that he’s relentlessly taught his body to embrace it. He constantly pushes it to the limits, and I think his threshold for pain might be higher than that of any other athlete I’ve ever met, but my own limits have been way beyond met for the evening.
Remington scores several hits on the new guy, using great combinations of punches, but although Riley tried curing him at his corner, blood continues pouring down his face.
Both fighters exchange hard jabs and suddenly the ring is a swirling maelstrom of flesh moving and muscles hardening. I keep track of Remy through the ink bracelets on his biceps as he throws what I’ve heard Riley call “punches in bunches.” He scores one in the ribs, one in the jaw, and then he throws in a right hook, his most powerful punch.
His opponent rocks, stumbles, and falls, flattened out.
The crowd screams.
“RRRRRRRIPTIIIIIDE! Ladies and gentlemen, your victor, once again! Riiiiptiiiiiiide!”
I’m so worn out. I’ve turned to jelly, Jell-O, everything soft and stupid.
“RIPTIIIIDE!”
It feels like an eon passes, but in fact, it takes only about twenty minutes to get out of the Underground riding a stretch limo to the hotel, and my legs shake as we shuffle into the car. All my senses scream for me to tend to my man as he plops down on the seat across from mine, while the feisty part of me still wants to hit him because . . . what the f*ck went on out there?
“Dude, what the f*ck were you doing?” Riley starts up, sounding as puzzled as I feel.
“Here you go, Rem.” Pete passes him a gel pack for his jaw. “I think the eyebrow cut might need a stitch.”
“How do you feel, boy? Did getting the f*ck pounded out of you feel good?” Coach demands in complete indignation from where he sits up front. “Where in the f*ck was your game?”
Remington takes the gel pack, sets it aside, and looks directly at me, where I sit motionless on the seat across from his.
He wears his gray sweatpants and a comfortable red hoodie, the hood drawn over his head in order to keep his body temperature leveled. He’s sprawled, big and quiet, in the seat, but his nose is bleeding, his lips are bleeding, the slash above his eyebrow is bleeding. His face is such a mess, I feel like there’s a bomb inside my stomach just looking at it. And yet he looks back at me with clear, observant blue eyes.
I guess I should get used to the fact that my boyfriend gets punched for a living, but I can’t. I can’t sit here and see his face, bleeding and swelling, without wanting to hurt whoever did this. I want to punch something really badly, and I’m shaking with the need to reach out and hug and draw him to me while I mentally count the minutes it will take to reach our hotel.
I hear Riley tell me, “Here, Brooke, let’s exchange so you can tend to him.” Jolting from my seat, I settle down on Remington’s right, and quickly delve into his open duffel bag, extracting my alcohol swab packets, some salve, and strips.
“Let me try to fix you,” I whisper to him, and my voice, oh god, it sounds so intimate even when the entire car is watching. It’s just that I don’t seem to have any other tone except the one that came out: low and sandpapery with emotion.
He turns fully in my direction to let me disinfect the wounds, and his gaze . . . I can feel it, a roaming, curious, palpable thing on my face as I apply the salve to the part of his lips that always gets cut—the fleshy part of his bottom lip. My teeth instinctively bite down on my own as I press some salve into his. God, I loathe when he gets hurt.
“Do the eyebrow one too; it looks a little deep,” Pete instructs.
“Yes, I got it,” I reply, still in that voice I don’t want to use right now but can’t seem to modify. I’m trying to be efficient with my hands, but they’re shaking more than I want them to, and the heat of Remington’s body, which is extra hot after the fight, surrounds me as completely as his arms sometimes do. His fast breath bathes my temple, and it takes everything in me to quell the impulse to lean closer and breathe it inside me just to appease myself with the knowledge that he’s all right. And at least breathing. Still pumped up with adrenaline, I head to the gash above his eye and press the wound closed between two fingers. God. I almost can’t take being this close to him. A hundred little prickles run from my fingers, to my arms, straight to my throbbing little heart.