Mine (Real, #2)(68)
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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking do this to me now,” he groans.