Remy(8)

We go toe-to-toe. I feint and Hammer swings, opening his side. So I jab his ribs, feel the satisfying punch race up my arm, and we bounce apart. Hammer is stupid in the head. He falls for all my feints and never covers right. I ram him hard enough to make him bounce on the ropes and drop to his knees. He shakes his head and hops to his feet after a moment. I love this. My heart pumps slowly. My every muscle knows where to move, what to do, where to send my power—right from my center, up my chest, shoulder, down the length of my arms, to the tips of my fucking knuckles that hit with the force of a charging bull.

I take him down, and then I do the same with the next foe. And the next.

A powerful energy takes over me as I fight, and I fight knowing that Brooke Dumas watches me. If there’s anything in my head other than winning, it’s that I want her to think inside that lovely round head of hers that she has never, ever, seen a man like me.

By the time the tenth guy falls, sweat coats my chest, and as the ringmaster raises my arm, I’m anxious to see the look in her eyes. I want to see that she liked it, that she—like everyone else in this room—thinks I’m the shit. Our eyes lock, my gut goes hard and twisted and wild with desire, and I smile at her as I try to catch my breath.

When the ringmaster releases my arm, I cross the ring, jump over the cord, and land in the aisle, watching her part her lips in shock as I come over.

People go crazy when I go outside the ring, and they’re losing their shit right now.

The whole room screams with their applause and cheers. And I know they all can see where my gaze rests and where I’m headed.

“Kiss his heart out, woman!”

“You don’t deserve him, you bitch!”

“You go, girl!”

I smile down at this woman who has stolen my thoughts, and as I wonder if she wants me to, she looks pleadingly up at me, almost begging me not to kiss her here. My blood simmers as I remember her lips on mine, but it won’t be happening again.

Not until you’re ready, Brooke Dumas.

I bend to her and scent her hair, whispering at her temple, “Sit tight. I’ll send someone over for you.”

I back off before I lose it, and climbing up into the ring, I steal one last look at her. My chest does all kinds of strange things when our eyes lock.

“Riptide, people!” the announcer screams.

The yells feed me. I suck them in with a smile, full of pride and satisfaction. I can see in every one of these people’s eyes that I’m the man. But I want to see it in her eyes. That. I’m. The Man.

The man who wants to be Hers.

♥ ♥ ♥

THERE’S NO TIME to wait for Coach to rehash what I did. I pummeled ten dudes to the ground and I’m fucking tired. But—at the same time—I’m wired as hell.

“Well done, boy. I’m gonna send a pair of masseuses to work on you,” he says once we’re in the locker room, and slaps my back.

In silence, I grab a pair of Gatorades to replenish my minerals and head out to the car with my duffel, knowing Pete and Riley will bring her to me soon. I want her.

At the hotel suite, my cock is hard and fully standing when I shower and I have to turn the knob to cold—ice-cold—as the water runs down my body. Dragging in a breath, I close my eyes and plant my hands on the wall as the water calms me.

But, god, the way she looks at me, the way she smells . . . Come tomorrow, when she works for me, I can smell her anytime, if I want to. And I want to.

When I come out of the shower in a towel, a pair of massage therapists have been let in by Diane.

“Food’s hot now, Remy,” she calls from the kitchen.

“Not now.” I grab an ice pack from the fridge and several more Gatorade bottles and then settle down at the foot of the bed, my muscles worn. My face hurts and I slap the ice pack on the sore as the women start working me. They massaged me last time and immediately get to work on my arms and shoulders while I intently wait for a certain signal from out in the living room.

And then I hear it.

Anticipation curls around my gut and I train my eyes on the bedroom door. Pete strolls inside in his best PA mode, and something tangles in my chest when I see her following him.

Brooke Dumas.

God, she scrambles my head.

Her legs look lean and endless in those tight jeans she must use butter to slide into, and the soft-pink top she wears is the same exact shade of her lips.

I like the shade of her hair, dark and seductive and sun-lightened with just a hint of copper, and I like the small earrings on her ears. She’s wearing hardly anything fake. No watch. No bracelets. Just the small earrings, and her lips are shiny with something. The rest of her is fresh and natural as a flower, but not even flowers smell as fucking good as her.