We laugh, and I take her fork and grab a potato and feed it to her. She takes the fork back and feeds me too. I eat, but I like feeding her more. All my instincts home in on her mouth’s opening for me and on her eyes watching me as I come feed her.
The way her eyes shine on me make me feel like I am a god.
I slide my hand under her arm and caress her while I fork up a bite for myself, then I cut some for her.
She watches me as I cut, and I watch her as she bites and savors it and gets all my blood pumping so fucking hot, I’m burning all the way down into my soul.
“Who do you belong to?” I ask her, stroking my fingers up and down the divots of her spine. But suddenly food isn’t what I want. I set down the fork and slide my hand through the parted fabric of my RIPTIDE robe, curving it around her waist. I set a kiss on her ear, rasping, “Me.”
“Entirely yours.” My heart tangles at her admission as she maneuvers so she’s straddling me, and she buries her nose in my neck and slides her arms around my waist. “I’m getting so nervous about the big fight. Are you?”
I chuckle and peer down at her. “Why would I be?” I tip her head back, and she looks worried, frowning. “Brooke, I’m going to break him.”
I want her to know there is no doubt in my mind I am going to break that motherfucker. I don’t hate him, I don’t give a shit about him, but he’s not taking what’s mine. I’ve worked all. Fucking years. For this. My whole life. I fight to live, and I live to win.
“Remy, I love the way you fight,” Brooke whispers, searching my face, “but you have no idea how nerve-racking it is for me.”
“Why, Brooke?”
“Because. You’re . . . important to me. I wish nothing touched you, and every few nights, you’re just . . . out there. Even knowing that you will win, it does a number on me.”
My chest tangles again at the thought of her leaving me, getting sick of me. “But you’re happy, Brooke? With me?”
I wait for her to answer. I don’t know if she understands that I don’t ask a lot of things I want to, I am not used to asking. I am asking her if she loves me. If she wants to be with me. If she will stay with me. If I make her as happy as she makes me.
She looks at me and I see the concern and tenderness in her gaze, and the knot inside me starts loosening before she even speaks, for I know the answer.
“Deliriously.” She slips her arm around my neck and presses close like I like her, whispering, “You make me happy. You make me deliriously happy and delirious, period. I don’t want to be without you for a second. I don’t even want all those women to look at you and shout at you the things they do.”
Her possessiveness gets to me. It speaks to me so deeply that I instantly feel possessive of her—I want to physically show her she has all my devotion, so my voice comes out rough. “I’m yours. You’re the one I bring home with me.”
I go to her neck and drag her soft scent into my lungs until I’m relaxed and satisfied, then I buzz the back of her ear and tell her, “You’re my mate, and I’ve claimed you.”
I can tell by her soft smile that she likes it. That she likes that I’ve claimed her. I start feeding her again, and it gets all my instincts up and running in the satisfaction of being able to provide and feed her, protect and love her.
We fall into an easy rhythm and she starts telling me about Melanie, Riley, and how those two have become friends, and I tell her, “Tell me more.”
“My sister, Nora, used to fall in love with anything. She used to make fun of me and tell me I didn’t like men.”
I scrape my hand down her spine, smiling. “Did you tell her you were waiting for me?”
She laughs and pokes a finger into one of my dimples. “I’ll gladly tell her that now.” She smiles and pokes both my dimples now. We keep eating, and I feel immense satisfaction that she’s never given her heart away. It is mine. She is mine.
“Do you remember anything nice about your parents?” she asks when we get back into the bedroom.
“My mother used to cross me every night.” I lock the door, and briefly I remember my mother. “She crossed me on my forehead, over my mouth, and over my heart.” I don’t mention that she also mumbled and prayed words all day that had nothing to do with the rest of the things she did to me.
“She was religious?”
It comes easily to block out the memory as I pull out my iPod and my headphones and shrug, bring my stuff to the nightstand. I won’t be sleeping for shit tonight. My head is already starting to buzz with things to do, punching bags to hit.