Katy Evans - Mine

Remington seems to take pity on her and seizes her hand. He buzzes his lips across her knuckles, and she begins to scream hysterically. I laugh, but then a snake of jealousy curls around my gut. He looks up at me as he releases her, and then, in that lithe way he moves that reminds me of large deadly cats, he swings down from the ring.

Complete stillness settles over the arena until all I can hear is my heartbeat.

Remington . . . Remington . . . Remington . . .

He walks up to me, the smile on his face telling me he thinks he’s all that.

“You’re jealous,” he says in that deep, toe-curling voice of his.

“A little,” I say, laughing at myself.

He doesn’t laugh, but he smiles a smile that sparkles in his blue eyes as he slides his fingers up the side of my throat, then I feel the pad of his thumb gently stroke across the flesh of my bottom lip. The butterflies in my tummy awaken. His eyes are at half-mast as he surveys my mouth. He does it slowly, from corner to corner, and then, because he seems to think he owns this mouth, he swoops down and takes it.

His lips fire me up. My stomach spins as he forces my lips apart, and when his tongue flashes, hot, damp, and powerful, to take a quick and heady taste of me, I trap back my moan.

“Don’t be,” he roughly tells me as he looks down at my kissed mouth and appreciates his handiwork for a moment. He presses his lips to my forehead for a fraction of a second, and then he heads back to the ring in that graceful way he walks, relaxed and almost ambling.

Behind me, I hear breathless voices.

“Holy shit, I want to do that ten ways till Sunday.”

“Ohmifucking god he was right here!”

I lick my lips, and I can still taste the sexy fucker, which only makes my nipples bead and my sex swell with complete possessiveness of him.

As his next opponent is called up to fight, Remington flexes the muscles of his arms, down to the tips of his fingers. His smile flashes at me from the ring, and very clearly, his two dimples tell me how much he enjoys leaving me in a puddle of love and longing. The devil.

A fighter I remember from last year, Parker Drake, “the Terror,” gets up in the ring to face him. And the bell rings.

Ting.

The crowd quiets as the fight begins, and both men start swinging and hitting. Remy’s punches are powerful, and you can hear the sound of his fists landing, deep, strong, and fast as lightning. Poom poom poom! Squirming in my seat, I watch and listen, alternating between thrill and worry, when Parker crashes to the ground. I shoot to my feet and scream “Riptide!” in chorus with all the other people, knowing that this is the first of many times I will be here watching Remington reclaim everything, every single thing, that he gave up for me.

I’ve only spent the night with one man in my entire life. I love bumping into his muscles while we sleep. I love how the sheets smell of him, of us, and how his shoulders have become my favorite pillow, even though they’re hard as hell and I can’t understand why I like sleeping on them, but I do. They come with his arm around my waist and his scent, and his heat, and I love it all, every bit of it. Especially when he ducks his head to tuck his nose into my neck, and I bury mine into his.

The problem is that his side of the bed seems to eject him exactly at ten in the morning, and my side seems to have no eject button.

Today I feel like a deadweight, while I can tell he’s not even in the room.

The air is different when he’s not near. He charges it when he’s nearby, like a slow, powerful vibration around me that makes me hyperalert and feel both safe and excited.

I’ve really fallen for him.

Six months ago, I wanted a one-night stand—to have a little fun after dedicating my years to my career. Instead . . . I get him.

Unpredictable, infuriating, sexy him . . . the man everyone lusts after and I didn’t want to. I ended up not only lusting after him, but falling face-first in love with him. And now, loving him is the most exhilarating roller coaster I’ve ever ridden in my life.

Sitting up on the bed, I rub my eyes to shield them from the streaming sunlight and wish I had Red Bull and Monster running through my veins like Remy does. We hardly slept doing our favorite sexy stuff, and he’s already raring to go. I even see his suitcase by the door, ready for us to leave for the next tour location, while I still need to pack.

Squinting again as I slide out of bed, I go to the small closet to find something to wear when I spot the letter on his nightstand next to his iPhone—which he rarely even powers on except for music-listening purposes. The sight of my letter brings a rush of awful memories to me, I have to quell the urge to grab it, tear it, and flush the pieces down the toilet.

But Remington would be so mad. He treasures that stupid letter I’d left him when I left.

Because in it, I tell him what nobody had ever told him before.

I love you, Remy.

My legs start shaking, and I close my eyes and tell myself I’m not perfect. I’ve never been taught to do this. I never dreamed of love, a partner . . . I dreamed of sports and the latest running shoes. Not of spiky black hair and blue eyes. I’m trying to learn. To be the woman a man like him deserves. And I want to spend the rest of my life showing Remy that I deserve him, and the rest of my days making sure he takes back what he lost because of me. If anyone in this world deserves to be a champion—it’s him.

“He’s a pussy, just relax,” I hear his gruff, manly voice outside the master bedroom.

I laugh at my own body’s response to hearing Remington say “pussy”—my womb clenches and I feel instantly a little warm. Whore.

Grinning, I search through his stuff in the closet, then have to go to his suitcase. I know that he likes it when I wear his things. I think it makes him feel like I’m his property, and it’s insane how much I like to pick on his alpha tendencies. When he’s blue-eyed, he’s possessive, but when he’s black, he’s downright territorial.

It delights me when he gets all growly you’re-mine and it delights him when I wear his stuff.

So this morning, why not have the both of us be delighted? I take his RIPTIDE boxing robe and slip it on, then I hurry into the bathroom, brush my teeth and wash my face, wrap my hair in a ponytail, and pad outside.

I hear his laughter in the living area, more like a soft chuckle over something Pete murmured, and my insides do all the stuff he makes them do as I round the corner.

My god.

I can’t believe what he does to me. I can’t even explain this shivering-shuddering-twittering combination inside me, but it’s ridiculous.

“He’s checking up on you, dude, I don’t see the amusement here,” Pete says, in alarm. “His scouts have been asking all around the hotels to know where we’ll be staying next.”

“Just relax and keep watch, Pete,” Remington says, and I just stare for a moment, hearing a catch in my breath.

My blue-eyed lion.

His black hair stands up devilishly. The inky Celtic bands across his muscled arms flex as he slowly sips on an electrolyte drink. I see his glorious tanned torso. Those sweatpants riding low on his narrow hips and revealing just the tip of his star tattoo. His bare feet. He looks hot, strong, and cuddlable, and the pulsing energy that seems to radiate from his very being feels like a magnet to me.

“Brooke, good morning!” Diane Werner, his chef and nutritionist, says from the kitchen.

Almost lazily, Remington turns and slowly, ever so slowly, stands, his muscles rippling with the move. Brilliant blue eyes rake over my body, taking me in in his red robe, which drapes all the way down to my ankles, and a territorial gleam sparks in his gaze in a way that makes every single womanly part of me tighten with wanting.

“Well, hello there, Miss Riptide,” Pete jumps in, his brown eyes glowing in amusement.

I smile. Because I not only want to wear my Riptide’s clothes, I wish he’d ask me to wear his name even when I’d once told my best friend I would never, ever, marry because my career would always come first. Snort!

“Hey, Pete and Diane,” I say in a sleepy voice, but my eyes are on Remington, and my heart won’t stand still.

Will it ever stand still when I’m around him? As I stare at him this morning just like every morning for the past few months, I tell myself I am not dreaming, he’s not a fantasy, he is real. My REAL.

He saved my sister from the claws of a man I can’t even name. Remington threw last season’s championship fight in exchange for her freedom—without even hesitating. Without even telling me. He lost his title, a huge amount of money, and could have lost his life, all to rescue my sister, Nora.

But I didn’t know it was for me.

All I knew was that suddenly he was at the last season’s fight. Losing. Being beaten. Battered. Falling down. Getting up. Spitting at Scorpion.

I wanted to die.

My fighter, always so driven, persistent, passionate, and determined, refused to fight.

God, I was so, so wrong.

He wasn’t punishing me—he was saving my sister for me.

If he hadn’t come back to my hometown of Seattle, with Nora delivered back safely, I’d have made the biggest mistake of my life, and I’d have paid for it for the rest of my life.

I’d have lived the rest of my days loveless, smileless, and, worst of all, Remyless. Like I would have deserved.

As I struggle with the thousand pounds of remorse this memory gives me, his dimples flash, and if I thought I was happy moments ago, nothing compares to this avalanche.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“So my little firecracker lives,” he says with a devilish glint in his eye.

“Only barely after you.”

He bursts out laughing, and Pete coughs. “Guys, I’m kind of still here, and so is Diane.”

My smile fades, but although Remington’s doesn’t, his smile softens, and so does the look in his eyes. Suddenly, he makes me feel shy. Virginal. Like he stripped me naked last night and this morning I am without all my bravado, without any stitch of protection, wearing only something that belongs to him.

Still using those dimples like lethal weapons against me, he comes over.

My body is all over the place as I force myself to walk and meet him halfway, and I bite back a squeak when he reaches out one muscled arm, hooks one finger into the sash of my robe, and pulls me the last distance to him. “Get over here,” he rumbles.

He bends his head and sets a kiss on the back of my ear as he spreads his hand open on the small of my back, stroking up to the RIPTIDE letters on the back, as if to remind me they are there. I’m breathless when he ducks his head to my neck and drags in a long, deep inhale of me. Shit, he kills me when he does that, and between my legs, I feel a painful little clench of need.

“Remington, are you listening to me?” Pete asks.

Remington growls my name softly, low and deep, in the way he does when he fucks. “Good morning, Brooke Dumas.” My tummy clenches in response to that, and with the soft kiss he sets on my ear, my knees going buttery, because he always does this to me, and as Pete’s voice repeats what he just said, I start stepping away, but Remington won’t let me.

He kicks the chair farther out and drops down, hauling me with him. Then he shifts me to one of his thighs so he can grab his sports drink from the table and finally looks at Pete, his voice low but firm. “Double our scouts and follow theirs.”

His fingers trace down my back as he downs the bottle, and Pete is left scratching and shaking his head in complete confusion.

“Rem . . . dude . . . the fucking bastard cheated to win, and he knows he’s going to lose as long as you’re fighting this season. He’s spying on us now, and he’s going to do his best to sabotage you this year. He’s going to try to screw with your head. Provoke the shit out of you!”

I’m barely wrapping my head around the topic, but whatever it is, “provoking” Remington is not a good idea. He’s got a temper, usually. He’s hardheaded and insistent and stubborn, but especially, he is Bipolar 1, and you don’t want to rouse his black side unless you’re prepared to deal with more than two hundred pounds of reckless that doesn’t sleep.