Raising my arm, I drag the tips of my fingers along the square line of his jaw. “When I came back, I promised myself I’d never leave you.”

“I promised myself I’d never let you go. What else do you expect me to do?” His eyes are dark and tortured, and I know he didn’t sleep.

He paced all night, curling and uncurling his fingers as he asked me if I felt any pain. Yeah, I did. I felt little stabs in my heart, and said, no cramping. He returned to bed to gather me close, kissing me like he wanted to devour me. I remember every movement of his tongue on mine. The temperature of his breath on my face. And how many times he tore his lips away, kissed my forehead, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Because we’re not allowed to make love either.

So our last night together, we spent kissing. And the several times he took a cold shower, I spent crying into my pillow.

Now he brushes loose strands of hair behind my forehead, his eyes holding mine. “We’re going to be all right, little firecracker,” he whispers to me. He runs his gaze down my body and spreads his hand open on my stomach. The proprietary gesture makes my heart burn with love. “We’ve got this.” He rubs me softly through my cotton shirt, looking down at me with tender blue eyes. “Don’t we?”

“Of course we do,” I say, with a sudden surge of determination. “It’s just two months, right?”

He tweaks my nose. “Right.”

“And it’s not like we can’t communicate in other ways.”

“Exactly right.”

Sitting up, I rest my forehead on his shoulder, and he slides his hand around my waist as I massage his muscle. “Let your body rest. Ice yourself after your workouts. Warm up properly.”

He buries his face in my neck and pulls me closer, and I hear us both scenting each other with the deepest breaths possible. His hand clenches on my hip bone, and suddenly he licks my neck, his voice guttural when he rumbles in my ear, “I can’t let anything happen to you, Brooke. I can’t. I had to bring you back.”

“I know, Remy, I know.” I run my fingers through the back of his head because he sounds so tormented. “We’re going to be all right, all three of us.”

“That’s the point of all this.”

“And like you say, we’ve got this. We really do.”

“Damn right we do.”

“You’ll be back before we even have time to feel sad or miss each other too much.”

“That’s right. I’ll be training and you’ll be resting.”

“Yeah.”

When we fall silent, we stay close and embracing for a long time, and I can almost hear the minutes ticking by, like little bitches intent on ruining my life. Remington scents me again, as if he wants to get enough of my scent to last him two months, and almost frantically, I do the same, inhale his scent and close my eyes, feeling his shoulder muscle under my fingers, so strong and solid, as I start to massage him lightly again. “I left some arnica oils in your suitcase. If you have any muscle soreness or any pain.”

“Are you still seeing blood?” he asks quietly, and when I nod, he brings me to his lap, where I cuddle closer and press my temple into his jaw.

“Every time a cramp starts, I feel like it’s going to come out of me.”

He strokes his hand down my back and presses his lips to my forehead. “I know it’ll kill you not to run. Stay off your feet for me.”

“Not as much as it would kill me to lose our baby,” I whisper.

I’ve run my whole life. But right now, I’m scared even of walking, for dread of having the cramps return and finding red in my panties. I swear if I can’t hold the man I love’s baby in me, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I can’t—I refuse to—lose this baby.

“Your parents know you’re coming? Your sister?”

“I let them know I was coming, but they don’t know about us yet. I’m saving that for face-to-face. Only Mel and my two other besties know about it.” He draws my head back so he can look at me, “All right. But who are you going to call first if it gets worse? Me. Who are you going to call when you need anything? Me. I’ll be your everything. I’ll be your fucking booty call by phone. Anytime, wherever I am. Am I clear, Brooke?”

“I’m sorry. My mind froze on ‘booty call.’ ”

“It did? What about it do you need me to clear up for you?”

The devil’s lift of one dark eyebrow heats up my body like a live little volcano. The idea of phone sex with Remington makes me both laugh and feel, suddenly, incredibly tingly, and I end up shoving his chest playfully. “I won’t call you for that! I know you’re going to be busy.”

His eyes twinkle. “Not too busy for that.”

“Why that glint in your eye? Have you done it before? I’ll bet Melanie has done it with Riley.”

Smirking, he runs his hands down the back of my head and back, then gently kisses my earlobe, my nose, his voice a little thick. “I want to do it with you.”

My sex grips and my nipples ache, and a hot flush spreads over me. I love our first times. The first time he played me “Iris.” The first time he invited me to run. The first time he kissed me, made love to me. We’ve never had a first of this type before.

“I want it too, but I don’t know if I can. If I touch there . . . with blood . . .”

His lips press into my forehead as he fingers the two top buttons of my top, his voice ten times terser than moments ago, “It’s just blood.”

The scent of him, the pheromones he puts out, spins me into a frenzy. My womb grips with want, and suddenly I throb so fiercely, my already sensitized breasts feel too constrained in my bra. “Remington, god, only you could make me horny right now when I’m so worried.”

His hands spread on my ass, and suddenly I feel his lips sliding over my ear; then he’s tonguing me gently, and a new heat builds between my thighs. “I want you so fucking much.” His voice is a raspy breath as he slides a hand under the waistband of my jeans and palms one of my ass cheeks under my panties.

He cups both my breasts and presses them together as he nuzzles me, side to side, growling against my skin.

“Whenever you want to, I want to,” he tells me, lifting his head and pressing his mouth to mine, his words vibrating against my tongue as I stroke hungrily across his. “Just call me and tell me. Tell me you want me. That you’re hot for me and I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of my woman—whenever she wants. Whatever she wants.”

“Me too. You call me and I’ll take care of you.” I rub my thumb along the hard square of his jaw, then we close the distance between our mouths, and during the rest of the flight, he grabs the sides of my head and kisses me, and kisses me, and kisses me raw and swollen.

* * *

A CHAUFFEUR IN a fancy black Lincoln town car waits for us at the airport, and Remington tells the pilots he’ll be back in two hours. We ride in the back of the car in silence and as close as possible, and I scan the familiar scenery and power on my iPhone. I realize I’m doing anything to distract myself as we approach my apartment. Just like he carried me down the steps from the plane and into the car, Remy carries me out and into my apartment.

I squeeze my arms around his neck. “Stay. Remington, stay. Be my male prisoner. I promise to take care of you all day, every day.”

He laughs a rich male sound, looking into me with those heartbreaking blue eyes, then he scans my place with curiosity, and I feel butterflies when I see his genuine interest. He wants to see where I live. Oh, god, I love him so much it hurts me.

“I’ll give you a quick tour, and then you have to get your fine ass out of here,” I warn him.

He grins. “Show me my woman’s lair.”

With him carrying me around, I spread my hand out and show him my colorful living room. “My living room, Melanie decorated. She’s really good. Eclectic. She’s been mentioned in some local magazines, too, but of course she dreams about being featured in Architectural Digest. Pandora, one of my other friends, tells her she has a better shot at Playboy, though. They’re decorating rivals and like to pick on each other.”

He winks at me, and the wink travels all the way to form a little tingling in my gut as I point to the room adjoining. “And then that’s my kitchen. Small, but it’s only me here. And then the door here takes us to . . . my bedroom.”

We go in, and he sets me down at the foot of the bed; then he takes it all in with quiet wonder. I glance around and look at it through his eyes. It’s simple, the walls in nude colors. Some black-and-white pictures of athletes hang on the walls—close-ups of muscles. There’s a pinup wall with pictures of me, Melanie, Pandora, Kyle . . . some other friends. . . . I have two nutritional charts hanging, speaking of carbs, protein, healthy fats. And a framed quote Melanie gave me: A CHAMPION IS SOMEONE WHO GETS UP WHEN HE CAN’T.—JACK DEMPSEY. She got it for me when I damaged my ACL and was depressed, and I tried to be this champion.

I am looking at one now. Every day I look at one.

He walks to the pinup wall and inspects a picture of me sprinting past a finish line—number 06 on my chest—and runs his thumb over the photograph. “Look at you,” he says with ill-concealed male pride, and I didn’t realize I’d walked over to him until he turns and spots me.

He scoops me up and sets me back on my bed, this time in the center, brushing some escaped tendrils of hair back behind my forehead. “Stay off your feet for me,” he chides.

“I will. I forgot. It’s habit.” I scoot back so I rest against my headboard and pull him to me.

“You should go or I won’t let you leave me,” I whisper in his ear.

He cuddles me for a moment, his hard, solid arms wrapped snugly around my waist as he ducks his head and kisses, licks, and scents my neck, swiftly alternating between the three. He’s never scented me as much as he has in the past two hours. Now, he scents me slowly and deeply, then licks me just as slowly, and I feel his attentions, and lastly, his kiss, right in my sex. “When you tell me you’re in bed, this is what I’ll picture. This is what you see,” he rumbles as he lifts his head.

I’m getting teary, but don’t want to make this any worse, so I nod, but I know there’s no way on earth he could miss the crumpled expression on my face.

His eyes clasp mine as he draws back. “I’ll be back soon,” he tells me, cupping my cheek in his big, callused hand, and I hate that a tear slips out. He smiles at me, but that smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be here soon,” he repeats.

“I know.” I wipe my cheek, take his hand, and set a kiss inside his palm, then curl his fingers around it so that whether he wants my kiss or not, he holds it. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Shit, come here.” He crushes me in his arms, and all my efforts to hold myself in check are shot to hell, and the waterworks begin. I start bawling.

“It’s all right,” he says, smoothing his hands down my back as a series of wrenching sobs take over me. It’s all right, I hear, it’s all right, little firecracker, but I just don’t feel like it’s all right. How could it be? He could need me. I need him. He could be black, and Pete could shoot more shit into his neck. Something could happen in a fight and they could not tell me because of not wanting to stress me and cause me to lose the baby. I feel weak and helpless when all I wanted in life was to be strong and independent. But I fell deeply and irrevocably in love. And now I am ruled by this love, for this man, who sounds like thunder when he talks in my ear, and smells like soap and him and like the ocean, and holds me in the strongest arms in the world—and when these arms are gone, my whole world will be gone with them.

“You need to go,” I say, dragging in a ragged breath as I push him away. Instead he sets his forehead and his nose against mine, and we breathe each other’s air.

We just don’t need to say it. I love you crackles between us and I hear the words as if he were yelling them to me.

He takes my hand, kisses my knuckles fiercely, and then frames my face and wipes my tears with his thumbs. “You okay, baby firecracker?”

“I will be. More than okay,” I promise.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I shakily check the message.

“Melanie is five minutes away.” My voice is raw. Mel knows where I keep my spare key and will burst in here any minute, and Remington will leave.

He will leave.

My eyes blur again. “Please go before I cry,” I beg. Which is ridiculous, because I’m already crying like a baby and feel and probably look like shit. He curls his fingers around the back of my neck and closes his eyes as he leans his head on mine. “Think of me like crazy.”