“That ugly bastard landed a pretty hard one here. He landed a lot of hard ones. Does it hurt?” she whispers. She eases on her investigations for a second, then she pushes even deeper.
She’s pushing so hard, a fractionally amused part of me wonders if she wants to make me sound like a pussy and say, Yes. “No.”
“I’ll rub you down with arnica, and we’ll do cold therapy.”
She sounds businesslike as she works some nice-smelling oil into my skin. I hear the slick sounds as her touch slides over my skin, and I imagine turning around, lowering her down on my bed, and being the one who drags his hands all over her. Being the one who finds a slick spot that makes noise when I rub my fingers across.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“No.”
“You always say no, but I can tell this time it does.”
“There are other parts of me that are hurting more.”
“What the hell?” The door of the suite slams shut, and Pete storms into the master bedroom squealing like a freaking banshee. “What? The hell?” Pete demands.
A couple of seconds later, Riley joins the party. “Coach’s in a snit!” he rants. “What we all want to know is, why the fuck are you letting your ass get kicked?”
Brooke’s hands stop massaging my shoulders, and I swear to god, I want to pound their faces in for taking those hands away from me.
“Yes or no: You let him get in on purpose?” Riley demands.
I don’t answer.
But the look I’m sending in their direction is so clear, only a wall would not understand my fucking meaning—to piss off!
“Do you need to get laid?” Pete asks, glaring as he signals down at my lap and the painful, pulsing erection she just gave me. “Do you?”
Brooke mumbles something under her breath, and the moment she leaves, Pete fixes his attention on me. “Dude, you can’t let them do this to you just so you get her hands all over you. Look, we can arrange some girls. Whatever it is you’re doing, you can’t play these damned games like a normal person. You’re just torturing yourself, Rem. This is a dangerous thing you’re doing with her.”
My heart is pounding in anger and frustration. She. Is. Mine. Mine to take. Goddamn them for making me feel like I’m not worthy of her.
God.
Damn.
Them.
“You bet all your money on yourself this year, remember that episode?” Pete asks me, like I’m a fucking moron and don’t remember the million other times he’s told me this in a panic. “Now you need to defeat Scorpion at the final no matter what. And this includes her, dude.”
Teeth clenched, I keep my voice low as I fight to keep my temper in check, but my god, I want to punch them. Scorpion is a walking corpse. Nothing on this earth or on this planet will keep me from busting his face open and taking the title that belongs to me. He ruined my life once and that’s fucking enough for me.
“Scorpion’s a fucking dead man, so just back off.”
“You pay us to prevent this shit, Remy,” Pete counters, jerking on his tie as he paces around.
I rise to my feet and look at Riley, then wait for Pete to stop pacing and look at me. They’re my guys. My brothers. I pay them a lot of money to keep me from doing shit, and to keep me from screwing up. But I’m not screwing up with Brooke. Jesus, I haven’t set a fucking finger on her even when the thought of her under me is taking chunks out of my brain. I softly growl, “I’ve got. It. Under. Control.”
Shoving past them, I go grab my sweatpants and a T-shirt, then slam into my bathroom to change. I find Brooke in the kitchen, talking to Diane, and the mere sight of her round butt is a friendly greeting to my dick. Under control my ass. I’m a walking tornado of lust and it’s all because of her.
Stepping close behind her, I seize her wrist and tug her around to look at me. “Do you want to run with me?”
I want to be with her. Alone.
If I can’t fuck her yet, I want her close. I want her in my space, so deep that soon I want her space and mine to be the same—to be buried to the hilt in her, and she’s wrapped, hot and wet, all around me, and we’re just Brooke and Remington.
I can tell she’s alarmed by the tumultuous energy around me, and I can’t help but notice how cautiously she inspects my bruised chest.
“You need to eat, Remy,” Diane chides from the corner.
Smirking at her, I grab a gallon of organic milk from the counter and down it, then wipe my mouth with the back of my arm.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say, then I glance at Brooke, lift one eyebrow, and wait for her to answer.
The lady takes her sweet time.
“Brooke?” I prod.