“Whore!” they shout. “Bitch!”
Using my back as a shield, I catch an egg on my trapezius as I lift her up in my arms and swing around to face these fucking lunatics.
“It’s because of this woman I’m still fighting!” I shout at them, feeling angry, feeling betrayed by them.
A sudden silence falls across the crowd, and I’m not done yet—motherfuckers!
“Next time I’m in the ring, I’m going to fucking win for her, and I want all of you who hurt her tonight to bring her a red rose as an apology and tell her it’s from me!” I demand.
After a second, they get it.
They fucking get it. . . .
And they start screaming and clapping as I take her back inside.
Breathing through my nose, I’m trying to calm down when Brooke starts laughing in my arms, her eyes shining in disbelief as she looks up at me.
I frown in confusion and press the elevator button a dozen consecutive times.
“And they say Justin Bieber’s fans are crazy,” she gasps.
My voice is raspy and rough as I brush off some eggshells from her shoulder. “I apologize on their behalf. I disappointed them today.”
Her laughter fades, and she links her fingers at the back of my neck and stares up at me as I carry her into the elevator. A couple decided not to join us and remained outside the doors.
“You coming?” I snap as I cradle her against me.
They both step back and say, “No.”
So we ride upstairs alone, and Brooke presses the tip of her pretty little nose into my neck. “Thank you,” she breathes.
I tighten my hold. She feels so right and perfect in my arms, I never want to let her go. I don’t care if we smell like sulfur; I’ve been hungry to have my arms around her and her arms around me, and right now I can’t think of anything else that I’d rather be doing or anywhere else I’d rather be than here.
After sliding the key into the slot of my suite, I carry Brooke inside. “What the fuck is going on, Rem?” Pete demands as he and Riley charge over.
“Just get the hell out, guys.” I hold the door open for them with one arm and cradle Brooke to my chest with the other. They stare at Brooke as if she can solve some unnamed mystery for them, so I snap at them, “I do what I want, you hear me?”
That reminds them I’m here—glaring—and they turn their attention to me. “We hear you, Rem,” Riley answers as he follows Pete out to the hall.
“Then don’t fucking forget it.” I slam the door shut and bolt it so no dipshit can come here to interrupt my time with her, then I take us into the bath of the master bedroom. She tightens her hold when I pull open the shower door, and I’m so fucking happy that she wants to stay with me, I keep her in my arm as I turn on the shower.
The water falls, and I quickly kick off my shoes, take off hers, and then step into the shower stall with her in my arms.
“Let’s get this shit off you.” She slides down to her feet as I run my hands over her wet hair, the water falling on her face as I pull her dress over her head. I toss it aside and soap up my hands, then watch her face as I run them up her body.
She bites her lower lip as I touch her, spreading her arms up and sliding soap into her armpits, down her abdomen, between her legs, up her neck. My T-shirt is plastered wet to my chest, and I grab it in one hand and jerk it off me, quickly running the soap over me.
“I can’t believe your groupies called me a whore,” she says as she watches me.
Quickly, I lather my hair. “You’re going to survive.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yeah, you do.”
Then I lather Brooke’s hair, my fingers digging down to her scalp. “They hate me,” she tells me miserably. “I won’t be able to go to your fights now without fear of getting lynched.”
Taking the showerhead, I turn it so the water slides over Brooke’s head, and her eyes drift shut as the soap slides down her body.
Holy god. Holy god.
Her nipples poke into her bra, soft peach and puckered. And the cotton of her white panties clings to her pussy lips. Fucking bare as the rest of her. My eyes jerk up to hers before her eyelashes flutter open, and she looks at me. Her oval face, pink lips, dark, wet hair, those eyelashes glistening wet, and those gold eyes, looking at me like they do. Like there is nothing on this earth she would rather see but me. My throat feels thick as I brush a strand of damp hair behind her forehead, my heart beating as fast as it has ever beaten for anything in my life.
She’s so beautiful and so perfect, my lungs hurt. Lifting my arms, I frame her face as gently as I can in my palms and stare at her, then I use one finger to touch her mouth. She’s kept this mouth from me, and I want it back. I want it back because it’s mine. It’s fucking mine and she’s killing me right now, looking at me with those eyes, her body wet and shivering against me.