“Dude, he’s coming to the ring! Some chicks are coming over, but he’s pushing through. He’s a god, Brooke. Oh my god . . .”

And then I see him at last, and my heart literally stops and my stomach immediately constricts with emotion. I love him I hate him I love him.

He comes into my line of vision, a flash of red, and swings up into the ring, so lithe and muscled, so sleek and agile. The lights shine down on him as he gets rid of his red robe, and suddenly he’s there. So masculine and raw. Every woman’s fantasy and my real.

I will never forget the way he looks in his boxing attire, every muscle of his ripped torso hard and cut, tanned and glistening. I will never forget the way he smiles for his crowd. I. Am. Dying. He looks amazing. Perfect. Radiating male strength and vitality. Like he’s been on a fucking beach and I’ve been in hell. It even feels like all the lights above rush down to kiss his suntanned skin. His rock-hard arms spread out, muscles taut as he starts slowly turning around. The arena almost trembles under my wheels—the screams are deafening.

“Fuck them over, Riptide!” people scream behind me.

“And then fuck me!”

His dimples flash for them, his eyes glint for them. He looks so blatantly happy I want to hit him. In fact, I want to go up there and crush his mouth with mine while I hit him.

“Brooke, I feel like such a bad friend that I lust over your man, but please tell me you understand!” Melanie says anxiously.

I groan in disgust at myself. I have been abandoned, and here I am, chasing after him like some groupie. Lusting after him because he is mine.

MINE.

“And now, laaaadies and gentlemen, we welcome the Mother of All Monsters, Hector Hex, Herculeeeeeees!” the announcer cries, and Melanie mutters, “Hooooly shit.”

The moment the Mother of Monsters takes the ring, I swear I almost see the floor caving in with his weight. I’ve never seen this one before, but he looks even bigger than Butcher, and the knot in my stomach tightens tenfold. The new fighter looks like some sort of Paul Bunyan–enormous giant.

“What galaxy did that piece of meat come from?” Melanie asks, as perturbed as I am.

Remy taps boxing gloves with him, then he draws back and flexes his arm muscles, and I watch the tattoos between his shoulder and biceps ripple. And all my body ripples in remembrance of how his feels.

Ping.

They go center. My heart hammers inside me as the Mother of All Monsters slams Remington’s ribs, and Remington comes back with a triple punch that is so fast and so powerful, it knocks the guy back three steps.

“Brooke, ohmigod!” Melanie says. “OH. MY. GOD!”

The giant comes back with a swing that strikes Remy straight in the gut. I hear the sound of the punch and wince, but suddenly I hear the sounds of the way Remington hits back. Fast and hard. PAM PAM POOM! The giant falls on his ass. Remington circles the ring as he waits for him to get up, sinuous, graceful, my powerful blue-eyed lion.

All my body remembers the way that lion moves over me. In me. The way his hips push with perfect precision. The way his hands coast all over me. Squeeze me. Tease me. The way his tongue rasps against me, tastes me, licks me.

The monster slowly gets up and shakes his head, as if he’s confused, and before he can get in another punch, Remington hooks him with his right and knocks him back down—splat on his back.

Melanie jumps and screams.

“YES!! YES! REMY, YOU’RE THE KING OF THE FUCKING JUNGLE!” she screams. And he turns with that smile, and I freeze when he spots us. He’s smiling indulgently at us, his fans, facing in our direction, when suddenly his stance changes—and his body seems to reengage. His dimples are still in place, but his eyes narrow just slightly as he surveys us, like a predator in hunting mode.

The bottom drops out of my world.

“I think he recognized your voice, you idiot!” I hiss under my breath, tugging Mel’s skirt so that she sits back down.

But he’s not looking at Mel. Oh, no. Remy is staring at me. Feet braced apart, his chest heaves as he suddenly lasers in on me. Me and only me.

His blue eyes bore into me, curious and questioning, and I am suddenly excruciatingly aware of everything I am wearing. The kohl around my eyes, the ridiculous red lipstick, the plastered-on makeup . . . I pray, quietly and fervently, that it’s enough to shield me from him.

I expel a breath when his eyes slide to my right, to Melanie, and she adjusts her wig and breathes, “Shit on a fucking stick.”

And if I thought I was free and clear, I completely, completely, underestimated him.

He looks at me again, and then, slowly, he shakes his head.

My heart clenches so hard I think my chest will have some permanent interior damage.

He drags a hand through his hair and restlessly paces around for a moment; then he lifts his head again, and when his eyes sear into me and he shakes his head again, this time with a sudden flash of his beautiful dimples, I think I come.

Electricity courses through me as his eyes darken with heat, his lips curl sensually, full of that male knowledge of his that I, contrary to what any of his fans say, I am his number one fan.

He knows exactly who I am. I can see chastising amusement in his eyes and can almost hear him say . . .

You little shit, I know who you are.

I see you.

I fucking see you!

I want to rip off this stupid costume, and just run up to him and climb him like a tree. Grab that hard jaw in my hands and kiss his mouth and drown him with my kisses and all the love I have for him that’s been drowning me for weeks.

He curls his fingers at his sides when another fighter is announced, and as he takes the ring, Remy keeps looking at me, clenching and unclenching his fists, and the heat in his gaze, I can feel it burn in every part of my being, down to my toes.

The bell rings, and Remington winks at me, a wink that makes the crowd roar.

Melanie squeaks and squeezes my hand. “Tell me again how much he doesn’t want you, you dopehead!” She points at herself. “This girl right here is horny on your fucking behalf! Ohmigod! He’s completely doing you in his head!”

I almost moan when the fight begins.

Remington looks invigorated. He punches the new fighter repeatedly, jabbing, hooking, ducking, and he turns to me in between punches, just to see that I’m looking.

I am.

I see him.

I feel him.

I want him.

I fucking love him more than anything or anyone in this world.

The man doesn’t stand a chance against him, and I watch in utter and complete fascination.

All these weeks, with all these hormones, missing him like crazy, wanting him like crazy, loving him like crazy . . . He’s as close as I’ve ever had him in weeks, and I am dying for him so badly, I’m gripping my chair so tight my knuckles are white. I want him inside me like I want my next breath. Right now it’s all I can think of—all I can think of is that he is mine, and I am his, that I am not letting him go, that I will make him want me again if he ever stops wanting me, and that there will never be a moment of my life when I will let go.

With every win, his name is called, his arm is raised, the crowd roars, and those blue eyes find me in my ridiculous outfit and his jaw tightens and his body tenses, as if he can’t stand to see me without touching me. My entire body responds and I tremble in my seat with the way he looks at me. I may look awful, but he still wants me. Lust burns in his eyes, and the promise that he’ll take me dances inside those irises. My heart throbs. I remember him.

I remember his skin, his calluses brushing over me. His breath. I see his body up on display, glistening with sweat, every cut and ripped inch perfect, and I can almost taste it, feel it slide against mine.

All night I am a mass of happiness, excitement, nerves, and quaking, overwhelming need.

“Mel, I don’t want him to come see me in this costume,” I tell her, for the first time regretting my clothing choices. I look ugly, whorish, unclean, and ridiculous, and this is not how I wanted Remy to see me tonight.

“All right, let’s get you home and make him come to you,” she mutters. She starts pushing me, and suddenly I hear the voice bursting through the speakers. “KNOCKOUT! Yes, ladies and gentlemen! Our victor this evening, once again, I give you, Riptide! Riiiptiiiiiiide!!!!!!!!”

His name echoes around me as the public chants, “Riptide! Riptide!”

“Of course you’d do the exact opposite of what I asked you to,” a guttural, insanely deep and sexy voice whispers behind me; then I see a muscular torso move in front of me, and I’m lifted into a pair of deliciously sweaty arms.

Remington turns to Melanie instead of to me, and I hear him tell her, almost growl, “I’m taking care of this fireball. Riley can give you a ride home.”

His scent spins around me and completely disarms me. I want to hit his chest and tell him to let me go, because I’m still a little angry, but my fingers have linked at the back of his strong neck in my fear of falling, and I’m motionless in his hold—absorbing the feel of his arms around me. Good. Scary good. His bulging biceps pressing into my sides, his thick forearms glistening with a sheen of perspiration, like the rest of him. The rest of beautiful, infuriating, complicated him.

“Have fun, Brooke,” Melanie says with a twinkle in her eye as she comes to pat my shoulder, whispering in my ear, “Dude, in my life, I’ve never seen that glimmer in a man’s eyes before; he’s going to fuck you so bad.”

In the locker rooms, Riley greets me with a beyond-thrilled grin on his face. “Hey, Brooke! Since Rem’s got you tight, I assume you are Brooke?” he says as he hands Remington a small duffel bag.

Remy nods and whispers something to him, then he carries me outside and summons a cab and, instead of taking me home, gruffly tells the driver the name of a hotel two blocks away. He’s dehydrated, and he unzips his duffel, takes out a smartwater and starts gulping it down as he uses his free arm to haul me onto his lap.

His grip tightens around my waist when I try to move from my spot, and my heart hammers crazily in my chest when he tucks the water back into his bag. He ducks his head, and takes the deepest, longest inhale of me he’s ever taken. Lust spirals through me. I’m still a little bit angry, but between my thighs, my clit pulses to the point of pain. He grabs my face, turns me, and nips my earlobe, breathing heavily, completely aroused under my butt as if he wants me. As if he desperately wants me.

“God,” he rasps into my ear, his arms clenching around me as he fucks his tongue into my ear. A tremor of need races up my body and makes me bite back a moan. I’m torn between hitting and kissing him because he’s killing me. My panties are drenched, my breasts hurt, my heart hurts, every part of me hurts as he dips his tongue into my ear, outside the shell, behind it, with that same desperation I feel.

When we arrive at the hotel, I’m stewing in my own anger and at the same time simmering with lust because of the way Remington has worked himself into a crazy arousal in the back of the taxi. Rubbing his hands on me, licking and nipping me. Scenting me like he’s starving for air.

He picks up a key from the front desk and then we’re riding up in the elevator, and I say, “Put me down,” in a thick, alien voice.

“I will soon,” he murmurs back at me, his eyes flaming with heat as he looks down at me.

Even with those blue eyes taking me in in the most unsexy dress in the universe, in the worst makeup possible, with awful hookerish red lipstick, the primal lust in his gaze sprints through me like little lightning bolts of pleasure.

I feel like a simmering volcano, my blood stewing in my veins from an overpowering mix of anger and arousal. But the arousal, I hate how it’s quickly winning as his scent keeps reaching my lungs. My tongue hurts in my mouth. I want to lick his throat and take that sexy mouth with mine and make him show me he still wants and loves me.

My heart whacks fiercely into my ribs as he slips the key into the slot and carries me inside, heading to the end of the hall, where the master bedroom usually is.

He sets me down on the foot of the bed.