Katy Evans - Remy

I lift my gaze to her, and she looks uncertain, as if she doesn’t know whether to be worried or happy. “Come here.” Unable to hold back my smile, I pick her up and lift her into the air, smacking a kiss on her abs, then I toss her down on the bed. She squeals and bursts out laughing as I fall on her.

“You’re a crazy man! You’re the only man I know who throws his pregnant girlfriend onto a bed!” she cries.

“I’m the only man,” I correct her, “as far as I know. There’s only one man in your world, and it’s me.”

“All right, but don’t tell my dad I agreed so easily . . .” she whispers, rubbing my shoulders, gold eyes shining on me. I want this baby to have those eyes. That perfect smile.

“Brooke Dumas pregnant with my baby,” I tell her. In case she didn’t see the fucking test, now she fucking knows she’s pregnant by me.

She grins happily, and that pure little grin feels like a kiss all along my pulsing cock. “My head is reeling. Kiss me.”

I drop my head and trail my tongue in to mate with hers, then I drag the back of one finger across her cheek. “Make it look like you,” I whisper.

“You’re the one who gave this to me,” she counters.

“No, you’re giving this to me.”

“All right, we’re both such giving souls.”

She laughs, and I laugh with her and roll to my side, gathering her in my arms so I can kiss her all over. “You’re mine now, from the top of your pretty dark head to the soles of your little feet.” I caress her face and kiss her eyelids, and I’m so fucking delighted, I swear things are actually moving in my chest. “Don’t even think about leaving me again or I’ll come after you and so help me god, I’m going to tie you to where I am, and where I sleep, and where I eat. Do you hear me, Brooke Dumas?”

She nods breathlessly. “There isn’t a single part of me that doesn’t know I’m yours.”

She seizes my hand and spreads it over the curve of her breast, right over her heart.

I clench her breast possessively so she remembers its mine, and I bend my head and kiss her. “I’m so crazy about you,” I rasp, and I drag my hand down her lovely curves and pet her.

Gah!”

The only sound in the silent church comes from one of the front rows, and it is followed by soft laughter nearby.

“Rem, that boy is priceless. He already feels like he’s the shit and he’s not even one,” Pete murmurs behind me.

I glance at my son and he’s slapping Josephine now, saying, “Gah!” every time he hits her. Brooke says he’ll be just like me, but I hope he’ll be better than me.

The doors of the church swing open, and I straighten and stand in place, like I’m supposed to, the anticipation slowly gnawing at me. I rub my thumb along my ring when a figure in white steps forward—and my lungs empty in a whoosh. Fuck me, look at her. Only Brooke does this to me. The noise inside me stills and I feel whole and content, at peace, the instant my eyes lock on hers. And she’s so fucking beautiful in that dress my collar suddenly chokes me.

Music starts playing. My bride’s music.

When she starts walking toward me, I feel like every step makes me grow inside my suit the way only she can make me, and I’m about ten sizes too large now and burning beneath the fabric. She didn’t hide her face behind a veil. Every step, I see her smile. Her huge, wide, I-fucking-love-you-Remington-Tate smile.

This is my woman pledging her life to me.

This is me, pledging my life to her.

My eyes run over her face, and it’s the same face I look for every morning in my bed, and every moment I’m in the ring, and every second in between. She’s that girl, with the marshmallow mouth that looks soft and inviting, and those eyes, gold as a lioness’s, and yet she tells me she’s no longer a girl. She’s a woman now. A mother. A wife. My wife.

The dress covers her completely, tight around her top and spreading wide at the skirt. She looks so fucking beautiful I want to mate her, take her, right now, slammed by thoughts of grabbing her into my arms, ripping off the dress’s buttons and her panties, then spreading her open so I can claim my wife, every sigh of hers, every inch of skin.

I’m so fucking ready for this, I step off the platform to receive her a couple of steps earlier and I lock gazes with her father when I approach. He’s unsmiling, his eyes wet, but there’s no antagonism in his stare. “She’s all yours,” he tells me thickly.

I’ve already slipped my hand to her small one when I nod and murmur, “Thank you,” then I bring her up with me to the altar. She stands trembling in excitement at my side, and I duck my head and lean over, brushing my nose against hers so she tips her head back to look at me. Our stares hold.

“Ready?” I ask when we hear the priest begin the ceremony.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony . . .”

Sometimes I wonder if it’s me.

If there’s something about me that repels the good. And the pure. Or if I’m just not meant to have a family.

Brooke is having trouble keeping our baby, and now we’re flying in silence to Seattle.

I carried her to the plane; no Pete, no Riley, no Coach, no Diane flying with us. I want her all for me. All for fucking me.

I can’t even talk.

I can’t even fucking think.

My girl. Our baby.

Breathing slowly, I sit on the bench on the back of the plane and stare up at the ceiling, breathing in and out as I stroke my fingers down her soft hair, her head propped on my lap as she lies down the length of the bench. She’s so sad and quiet I can barely take it.

The doctors don’t want her traveling with me.

Brooke thought it so ludicrous, she laughed when the last one left our hotel suite, then she looked at me, not laughing anymore. “You can’t seriously be thinking of sending me back? Right? Remington, I’ll lie down. I won’t fucking move. This is your son. He’s going to hang in there! He will. I don’t see how being sent away will stress me any less. I don’t want to go home. I’ll stay in bed all day, just don’t take me back!”

My god, I felt like someone was whacking my chest with an axe, especially when I slowly spoke to Pete, who was quietly standing nearby, and I watched her face crumple when I told him, “Get the plane ready.”

She cried all night, and all I could do was hold her. “You can’t protect me from everything,” she whispered, sniffing.

“I can try.”

Now we’re flying in silence, heading for Seattle.

Where I won’t touch her, smell her, or see her.

Bending down to my lap, I kiss the top of her ear, her earlobe, the center of her ear, and there, I whisper that I’m going to miss her, that I’m going to need her to be good, to take care of herself, that I fucking need her.

She doesn’t want to talk. She’s sad and I don’t even know how to make it better. She’s my woman and how do I make her smile again? How do I protect her from the child I gave her?

Quietly, I pull out the extension of my credit card I just got her. “Use it,” I whisper.

She stares at it in stubborn silence, but she doesn’t take it.

“Brooke,” I warn, placing the card into her palm. “I want to see charges. Daily.”

She looks unimpressed by the fact that I want her to spend whatever she fucking wants, and put it on me. I smile down at her, while Brooke looks somberly up at me, not smiling.

Reaching up, she drags her fingers along my 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?”

I brush her dark hair behind her face, surveying her for a moment. “We’re going to be all right, little firecracker,” I tell her. I glance at her flat little stomach and spread my hand out, trying to encompass as much as possible. “We’ve got this.” I rub her gently and look deep into her eyes. “Don’t we?”

“Of course we do,” she says, but she studies me as if she’s not certain. “It’s just two months, right?”

I tweak her nose. “Right.”

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

“Exactly right.”

She sits up and starts massaging my shoulder. “Let your body rest. Ice yourself after your workouts. Warm up properly.”

Fuck. Her warmth. The sound of her voice. I dip my nose into her neck and inhale, listening to her breathe me in. I pull her closer and lick her neck, then whisper, so she understands, “I can’t let anything happen to you, Brooke. I can’t. I had to bring you back.”

“I know, Remy, I know.” She runs her fingers through my hair and looks at me, as tormented as I feel. “We’re going to be all right, all three of us.”

“That’s the point of all this,” I whisper, reminding myself as well as her.

“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 she whispers, “I left some arnica oils in your suitcase. If you have any muscle soreness or any pain.”

“Are you still seeing blood?” I ask, and when she nods, my concern and frustration feel like a spiked ball in the middle of my chest.

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

Soothing a hand down her back, I press a kiss to her 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,” she whispers.

We ride in silence toward her apartment, and I scoop her out of the car and carry her into the building. She clings to my neck as we walk into the building, up the elevator, and into her apartment, and she feels so right in my arms, I don’t even know how I’ll let go of her. “Stay. Remington, stay. Be my male prisoner. I promise to take care of you all day, every day,” she whispers.

I laugh softly, and I look into her laughing, pleading gold eyes, and I don’t even know what to do with her, I want to sink in her and live in her.

She gives me a tour of her place, and then we go into her room.

I take in our surroundings as I set Brooke by the foot of the bed. Her room has earth-toned walls. Framed photographs of biceps, triceps, and abs. A nutritional chart, and a framed quote that says:

A CHAMPION IS SOMEONE WHO GETS UP WHEN HE CAN’T—JACK DEMPSEY

There’s a big wall with pinned photographs. And there she is, sprinting past the finish line with a number 06 in her chest.

I reach out to run the pad of my thumb down the length of her running figure. “Look at you,” I say, turning. She’s right behind me. Standing, like she shouldn’t be. I scoop her up and set her on the center of the bed, brushing some escaped tendrils of hair behind her shoulder. “Stay off your feet for me,” I chide.

“I will. I forgot. It’s habit.” She scoot backs on the mattress to make room for me and then she pulls me over her, whispering in my ear, “You should go or I won’t let you leave me.”

Instead, I cuddle her to me, my arms wrapped around her waist as I scent her, slow and deep, then I lick her slowly, then kiss her and murmur, “When you tell me you’re in bed, this is what I’ll picture. This is what you see.” Her eyes glisten with tears as she quietly nods.

“I’ll be back soon,” I assure her, curling my palm around her cheek as one lone tear slides down her cheek. I try to smile. “I’ll be here soon,” I repeat.

“I know.” She wipes her cheek, turns her head, and kisses the inside of my palm, then she forces my finger closed around her kiss. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Shit, come here.” I crush her in my arms, and she trembles and starts crying for real.

“It’s all right,” I whisper, rubbing her back, but she sobs harder. I whisper it’s all right, but the way she cries guts me. It’s not anything close to right. She needs me. She fucking needs me and she will be here, without me, struggling to keep our baby. Our baby that might just end up being like me, and instead of making the woman I love happy, our baby will hurt her, just like I do. It pains me. Maybe the child I put in her isn’t right. Maybe it’s not strong. Maybe it’s just like me, and everything I don’t want her to have to struggle with.