Mine (Real, #2)(90)
“My state of mind isn’t helped knowing I can’t trust you dipshits,” he growls, and they both go quiet and continue looking sick as he adds, “You’re my brothers, but SHE IS MINE. If she’d left me because of your lie, I’d kill you right now. I’d goddamn kill you both.”
“We’d bring her back to you, Remington,” Pete promises. “I swear, if we’d known the level of your . . . I swear we’d bring her back to you.”
“Rem, we were trying to help you survive. Like we always do. We thought it was over, dude. We thought we were helping. But then Brooke came back and we realized how wrong—shit, how wrong we were. We don’t even know how to correct the record without looking like idiots to you.”
Remy is thoughtful for a long time, and the three of them exchange strange, brother-like bonding gazes. Then Remington nods and slides his arm around my waist, pulling me to him, and when he nuzzles my pulse point with a soft growl and curves his hand over the roundness of my stomach, all the tension eases from my shoulders. I melt into his arms.
A thousand fuzzy things flutter inside me when I hear him inhale again, longer and deeper this time, like he needs my scent to calm down and find his center. I duck and kiss the top of his dark head, running my hands through his hair. I swear I can’t stop kissing him. I kiss his jaw, his temple, reach for his hand, kiss the backs of his fingers.
When we get back to the suite, Diane serves dinner, her face all aglow at seeing him at the table, and when Remy looks at me across the table and pats his lap, I almost run to it. When he lifts his fork to me, I feel like a stupid starved bird that’s being fed for the first time in a century.
When he asks me, “More?” quietly, intently watching my mouth as he lifts his fork, I nod and bite it all off and then, before I even munch, I press my lips to his, because I can’t express the relief I feel after this procedure, seeing that he’s all right. And actually a little better.
He lazily hits the bed, his body still relaxed with the remains of the anesthesia and the muscle relaxants they gave him, the mattress squeaking as he falls on it, all muscular and loose. “Come here,” he calls without even lifting his head or looking to see where I am.
We just brushed our teeth and I’m picking up the clothes that he left littered around, then I add mine to a neat pile in the corner chair and slide naked under the covers with him. Our skins touch. Every sensation is heightened to me. I am grateful for his touch. For hearing his voice. For every single moment I have right now with him. I now see how precious it is. Every song he plays me, when that brilliant mind is all right and blazing with light and thoughts. Precious, even, when he’s in the dark, quietly fighting it and clinging to me.
His arm curls around my waist, and his fingers curl at my hip bone as he drags me over to spoon me. My anxiety over having watched him go through what he just did still rushes through me, and I can’t help but press extra hard to his body. I hear him rumble out a chuckle in amusement.
To hear his soft, sexy laugh . . .
Oh god.
“It’s not funny,” I say tearfully as I face him. “It’s not f*cking funny.”
“Yes, it is,” he whispers with one adorable dimple, his voice deep and textured as he rubs the pad of his thumb down my nose. “Nobody’s ever worried about me before.”
“Yes, they do, Remy. Everyone who you love, loves you too. Pete, Riley, Coach, and Diane. They’re just better at hiding it from you.”
He looks at me thoughtfully, then he spreads his hand on my stomach as his lips scrape, soft and tender, over mine. “I’ve done this before. I’ve got this, little firecracker.” Those dark eyes watching me, he rubs his thumb over my forehead now. “Don’t get that little face for me, all right?” He crushes me to him and squeezes his eyes shut, groaning as if it feels good to him to hold me. “I want to make you happy. I want to make you f*cking happy, I never want to make you sad.”
“Okay,” I say, still a little emotional, pressing my lips to his jaw.
“Okay?” he says, turning his head and pressing his lips to mine.
Sliding my arm around my stomach, I lace my fingers through his as I nod. “More than okay.”
Running my free hand over his hair, I curl one of my legs around his hips and rain a thousand and one kisses on his face, making him chuckle. I laugh softly with him, a smile curling my lips with every kiss I continue to press on him, but I don’t stop.
Now I know that he is really mine. These fingers have been mine from the moment they touched me. This face. These lips. His huge, kind, protective, possessive, and forgiving heart. He’s been mine since I’ve been his, and knowing this makes me feel like I’m being pieced apart, then put back together new and whole and happy.
“I want to sleep with you in me,” I plead, dragging my open mouth along his jaw, my fingers suddenly almost clawing the skin of his shoulder as I breathe in his warm skin and try to get closer with my swollen tummy in between.
He slips his hand between us and starts preparing me with his fingers as he turns his head to slowly, leisurely take my mouth, his tongue slowing me down, licking into me with lazy pleasure. “Are you ready?” he murmurs heatedly.
“Fill me . . .” is all I can say, and a breathless sound bubbles up my throat as he grabs me by the waist and sinks me down on his length, filling me up so I am so full and so penetrated by him, I can hardly talk, or breathe, or think of anything but that Remy is inside me, pulsing and hot, his mouth taking me, slowly, quietly, reassuring me he’s got this. And he’s got me.