Remy(47)

I glare at them from the bench. They tried to help her with her suitcase; the dickwads think I don’t know they’re crushing on her?

I pull her closer to me and set a kiss on her forehead.

“Who are all these people here for?” she asks. A huge crowd is at the FBO where my jet parks when we arrive at New York, and security has cords holding them back. She’s so puzzled, it’s adorable.

“For me, who else,” I tell her.

Pete laughs. “Get off it, Remy.”

I swear they are all staring at her. I pull her to me. “Come here, baby. I want these good folks to know you’re with me.” I squeeze her ass to mark my property.

“Remington!”

I usher her into the limo before the rest come in, then I grab her to me and kiss her. I’m so fucking starved for her, I need to feel her heat, her warmth, her tongue.

My hunger is wild and unleashed, completely crazy. “I want to take you somewhere tonight,” I rasp into her mouth. “Let’s go to Paris.”

“Why Paris?”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because you have a fight in three days!” She laughs delightedly, and I want to take her to Paris, I don’t care about the rest, but she whispers, “Let’s go anywhere with a bed.”

I immediately fuck her in my mind on a bed, and then I imagine— “Let’s do it on a swing.”

“Remington!”

“Let’s do it in an elevator,” I propose. I am fucking her in an elevator, standing, my tongue hot and hard and pushing into her while I plunge my cock inside her, over and over.

Laughing, she shakes her finger at me, and I grin. “I’m never, ever, doing it in an elevator so you’re going to have to find someone else.”

“I want you. In an elevator.” Standing in that elevator, my tongue in her.

“And I want you. In a bed. Like normal people.”

My eyes dip to her cleavage, then down her body, to her pussy tightly hugged in the most delicious pants I have ever seen. I want to write a fucking letter to the makers and praise them for a job well done. Thanks to their jeans I have a good view of my woman all the time. “I want you in those pants you’re wearing.”

She nods and grins, then twines her fingers through mine and lifts my hand to kiss my knuckles.

I’m curious to see what she’s doing because I don’t remember her kissing my knuckles like this. She crawls closer and cups my jaw, sets a kiss on my cheek, and runs her hands through my hair, and my entire body homes in on her touch and the tenderness in her eyes as she looks at me.

Car doors open.

Coach rides up front with the driver, and everyone else slides onto the bench across from us. Brooke tries wiggling free but I tighten her fingers in mine and make her stay put. I don’t want her to stop touching me, all my body craves it. My mind is not thinking any shit anymore. Who cares what Coach does, Riley . . . I just look at her. And feel . . . good. Calm. Calmer. I want to rest my head on her and I slide down—fuck me for being so large—then I pull her closer and set my head on her chest. I can hear her heart pounding under my ear. She went very still, and I want her to relax. I pull her closer and shift so she’s comfortable, and I feel her melt with me.

I close my eyes and my mind feels quiet. It is quiet. I like it. I’m not thinking of anything except the pounding of her heart under my ear. Then I feel her fingernail along my earlobe and I tighten my hold to keep her locked to me. Tenderness oozes out of her like a blanket. I shouldn’t want it this much, but I do. Nobody can take this from me.

“You guys want a time-out when we get to the hotel?” Pete asks us in a voice that I can barely recognize as Pete’s.

She’s moving her fingers in my hair, and when she doesn’t speak, I move my head yes, not lifting it so that she won’t take her hands away. I crave her hands. It’s not the contact as much as the tenderness in her touch. The way her fingers respect my muscles, push just enough, support and help them let go. It happens inside me. I don’t believe in words, but I believe in this.

She strokes me all over with both hands, softly, and I hear her chatting with Diane about a recipe for me while we ride to the hotel, and her heart is steady and strong under my ear, and she’s small and fragile and smells like she does, and I am never letting her go.

I will. Kill myself. Before letting her go.

When we get to the suite, I’m anxious again. She’s getting her cosmetics out of her suitcase, and I watch her hands move on her bag and pull out her toothbrush, and then she brushes her teeth. And I do nothing but crave crave crave. Inside me in the very pit of my being.