Remy(38)

She starts heading over, and I scowl and pound the speed bag as fast as I can. Whackwhackwhack . . .

“Coach isn’t happy with your form and Riley thinks I can help,” she tells me, watching me hit.

And I keep hitting because I’m fucking mad at her.

She belongs with me.

I want to make out with her and make her as addicted to me as anyone can be addicted to anything, and maybe when she knows the truth about me, she won’t leave.

“Remy?” she prods.

I shift my body so she doesn’t keep distracting me and keep my eyes on the ball, making it fly as I hit it madly.

“Will you let me stretch you?”

Shifting even more, I keep slamming both my fists into the belly of the bag and notice she drops an elastic band to the ground before she reaches out to me.

“Are you going to answer me, Remy?”

Her hand makes contact with my back, and a jolt runs through me. Stiffening, I drop my head and angrily wonder if Pete feels a jolt when she touches him too, then I whip around and toss my boxing gloves to the ground.

“Do you like him?” I demand.

She just looks at me blankly, so I reach out and put my taped hand on the exact spot Pete touched on her arm. “Do you like it when he touches you?”

Please say no to me.

Please say no.

There’s no word for the way she’s tormenting me. I’m trying to protect her from me. I’m trying to protect myself . . . from what could be the biggest disaster of my life.

“You have no right to me,” she says in breathless anger.

My hold tightens on her, and I growl under my breath, “You gave me rights when you came on my thigh.”

“I’m still not yours,” she shoots back at me, her cheeks red. “Maybe you’re afraid I’m too much of a woman for you?”

“I asked you a question, and I want an answer. Do you fucking like it when other men touch you?” I demand, my temper rising.

“No, you jerkwad, I like it when you touch me!” she cries.

This appeases me.

It appeases me so much, the ice in my gut immediately morphs into lava. Dipping my thumb into the crease of her elbow, I gruffly ask, “How much do you like my touch?”

“More than I want to.”

She’s furious, but I know why she is.

Because we’re fucking killing each other being apart, and I want to end it. “Do you like it enough to let me feel you in bed tonight?” I prod.

“I like it enough to let you make love to me.”

“No. Not make love.” Fuck, she not only makes my cock hard, she makes life hard, period. “Just touching. In bed. Tonight. You and me. I want to make you come again.”

She surveys me in silence, and for a moment I feel her consider my proposal.

I have never before in my life seen a woman come like she comes for me.

Because she’s mine—and she’s as stubborn as they come. Fuck!

“Look, I don’t know what you’re waiting for, but I won’t be your plaything,” she says as she starts to pull herself free of me.

Grabbing her close, my voice is thick with frustration. “You’re not a game. But I need to do this my way. My way.” Before I can help myself, I bury my nose in her neck and scent her, my tongue sliding out to lick a wet path to her ear. A low groan rumbles up my chest before I seize her chin and force her to meet my gaze, silently willing her to understand. “I’m taking it slow for you. Not me.”

She shakes her head as if she doesn’t believe me. “This is growing old. Let’s just stretch you.” She walks to my back, and right now all her touch does is remind me what I want and she won’t fucking give me.

I jerk free and glower. “Don’t fucking bother. Go stretch Pete.” I wipe the sweat off my chest with a nearby towel, then ignore my boxing gloves and take up hitting the speed bag with my knuckles.

Whack, whack, whack.

“He doesn’t want me,” I hear her tell Riley as she stomps away.

I clamp my jaw and hit the bag harder.

♥ ♥ ♥

THE AUSTIN CROWD loves me a thousand times more than my parents ever did. It’s my city. Where I should’ve been raised. Where I hear people yelling my name, telling me they love me.

But it doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel like home. Not even the ring feels like home anymore. I feel fucking homeless lately. I walk around with a hole in my chest, and no matter how hard I punch, how much I train, it won’t go away.

Banners wave all over the arena. Women scream my name. Yet all I want is for Brooke Dumas to scream it. But she never does.

I take down my last opponent with a solid KO, and the screaming that follows is deafening.

“Our victor of the night, Remingtoooooooon Tate, your RIPTIDE!” the announcer yells.