Mine (Real, #2)(69)
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 f*cking 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.
Tremors run through me and I clutch the back of his head, torn between pulling him up to my mouth and pushing him away; instead, I pull him up by the hair. “No,” I groan, and he eases back and looks at me with those wild-animal eyes, and I know I shouldn’t provoke him, I should calm him, but I am jealous out of my f*cking mind. He has turned me into this. Loving and obsessing about him, wondering who he’s been with. He might not even know himself—but they know, and they aren’t me.
Seized by a new determination, I sit up and angrily grab his jaw and start scrubbing my palms and fingers furiously over the marks. When I can’t remove much of them, I grab his white T-shirt and pull it up to wipe him. He stands there, breathing harder than he does when he fights, looking at me like he’s begging me for something—for me—as he patiently lets me wipe him clean.
My fingers tremble. His eyes are brilliant in the shadows of the suite as I scrub, but I still can’t get the lipstick off, and I can’t stand it.
I lick my finger and then rub saliva on the lipstick marks, then pass his T-shirt over the damned spot.
He grows frustrated and shoves his fingers into his mouth, then starts rubbing the places I am, our fingers bumping as we scrape our saliva all over his jaw. I lift the T-shirt and scrape again, going breathless as it finally starts coming off.
I stop when there’s nothing left, only his hard jaw, a little raw, my body on fire with need and my heart on fire with love and every inch of me burning with jealousy. And I grab his hair and lean over and set a kiss right there, where another kiss used to be, desperately trying to erase anything before. And I set another kiss there, and another where another mark used to be. He grasps my hips tight as I drag my lips along his jaw and head for his mouth, and I kiss it, fast and almost as if I don’t want to, and ease back, sucking in a breath as I let go.
He raises a brow. “Done?” he asks in a haggard voice, and I don’t think I’m breathing when I nod.
His chest expands as he grabs the stained T-shirt and lifts it in one single, fluid move, tossing it aside. “You and I are going to make love now. We don’t have to wait a second . . . longer . . . to be together.”
Shivers run through me, and my voice is raw with emotion. “I can’t stand seeing their lipstick on you, Remington—I won’t let them kiss you. And this isn’t some pregnancy craziness talking or my insecurities! I told you a long time ago that I won’t share. I won’t share you.”
“Shh, baby, I neither expect you to nor want you to.” He eases my tattered dress off my shoulders, then lets it spread out beneath me on the table. He urges me down and then looks at me splayed for him, with my knees folded back. He touches me everywhere—my legs, my arms, between my breasts—as he leans over. “Coach was tying up my hands, I had my headphones on. I didn’t see them coming until they were all over me. It won’t happen again. I kiss no one. I kiss no one. But my little firecracker.”
He ducks to my breasts and licks one nipple through my bra, sliding his thumb under the plain white cotton, easing the fabric down and hooking it beneath the rising swell. “I am going to lick these and I am going to suck these and I am going to do whatever I want with these.”
My heart pounds hot blood through my veins as he lowers the fabric on the other side and licks the sensitive peak, sending bolts of pleasure everywhere in me. My breasts are bigger, thrust out, the nipples darker and puckered, and he cups them as if exploring new territories that delight him. The sound that rumbles up his chest causes me to make a small little sound of my own as I squirm needily. His eyes lift to mine when he hears that sound, and he grabs my hips and drags me to the edge of the table, my butt flying off the very edge, and he jerks loose his sweatpants. Suddenly I feel how hard he is, his heavy erection brushing against my soaked entry as he leans over to lave and lick my breasts again, his hardness nestling into the apex of my legs.
“Sensitive?” He presses one nipple in with his thumb, then the other, his hands rough but gentle. I arch and mew softly. I want a bruise, I want to ache, I want to ache in my skin and my muscles like I ache inside with love for him.