Mine (Real #2)

Mine (Real #2) Page 3

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.

I like my more than two hundred pounds of reckless, but his reckless still worries me even if he doesn’t seem in the slightest perturbed by Pete’s warnings.

Instead of answering his PA, he turns to me and threads his fingers at the hair on my nape. “Do you want breakfast?” he asks me.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I lean over and drop my voice to spare Pete. “You mean aside from the one that walked out of my bed?” He pinches my nose and now leans to me. “Business called your breakfast out of bed today.”

“I actually feel strangely hungover this morning, I’m not hungry at all.”

“Hungover from what? My mouth?” he asks, his eyes dancing.

I look at his mouth and it is so full and perfect. The way he uses it is perfect. Every measured word he speaks is perfect. Sexy bastard. Of course he gives me hangovers, the kind I’d never met until him.

“You know,” Pete interjects, “I’d feel less concerned about him and what he plans to do if he didn’t know your Kryptonite now.” He nods at me.

“He’s not even getting near my Kryptonite. I’ll break him first.” The quiet conviction with which he says this makes gooseflesh jump on my arms, and I think I’m a little nauseous.

Last season’s final match is my worst nightmare.

“Yet I can totally envision him finding ways to reach out to your Kryptonite already,” Pete says. “Finding ways to push your red button, get you all bothered and reckless.”

Remington turns to me, then he shoves my hair aside and tips my head back to study me, like he knows I can barely hear that man’s name—much less hear them talk about it.

The Black Scorpion is my own personal Voldemort. That asshole hurt my sister, then me. And worst of all, he hurt Remington. At that season final. He hurt him because of me. God, I fantasize killing the bastard.

“He’s gonna tease you, torment you . . .” Pete continues in an ominous tone.

Remy watches me in silence, his chest bare, his neck tanned and strong, and when he turns his attention back to Pete, his voice is more somber.

“Pete, he hasn’t even made a play, and you’re losing your shit,” he tells him.

“’Cause I’m the one left to fix things when you lose it.” Pete smoothes a hand down his black tie. “This season could get downright nasty. We want you strong and prepared, dude. We need to head to the airport in a half hour, tops, but I warn you, Phoenix might not be as calm as we anticipated.”

“I’ll keep it together. Just double our scouts,” Remington says, serious now, then he takes one last swig of his sports drink and sets the empty bottle aside.

“All right, let me call in some more. . . .” I watch Pete head over to the kitchen and punch his cell phone pad.

Now Remington’s voice deepens as he gives me his undivided attention. “You overslept,” he murmurs, cupping my face as he smiles down at me. “Wore you out last night?”

His voice oozes all kinds of sex and tenderness. As I nod, I feel myself go warm inside. “I hear sex gods do that,” I tease.

He laughs softly and strokes my lips with his thumb. “That’s right. You ready to go?”

I nip his thumb and smile as I nod.

“I missed you in bed this morning,” I whisper.

“God, me too. I need to be the first thing those pretty eyes see every morning.”

He presses me to him and buries his face in my hair, and all the tension from hearing the word “Scorpion” and the nausea leaves me when I smell him. I tuck my nose into his chest and inhale him as he inhales me, and the room falls, and the world falls, and in this moment nothing matters. Nothing matters but him, his arms around me and my arms around him. I think a part of him still can’t believe I’m in his arms again, because he’s squeezing me so tight I can hardly breathe, but I don’t want to breathe. I’m so affected by his scent, the feel of his powerful arms around me, when just two months ago I’d stupidly given up on him, I can barely take it.

“I love you,” I whisper, and when he doesn’t respond, I open my eyes and shiver when I see his fierce gaze trained on me. He rubs my bottom lip with his thumb again, then tucks me back into his chest as if I’m precious. He lowers his head, his lips to my ear: “You’re mine now.”

THREE

FLYING TO ARIZONA

The private jet is Remington’s biggest toy.

The team always takes the first section of seats at the front of the plane, while Remington and I like the bench in the back, which is closest to the enormous wood-paneled bar and flat-screen TV, even though we rarely use either.

There’s excitement in the air today as we board. The season is officially on—and after a taste of Remington’s fight last night, the team is pumped. Pete and Riley even bumped fists with the pilots as soon as we jumped out of the Escalade.

“Things are so much better with you here,” Diane tells me as she settles in her plush, better-than-first-class seat. “I get so excited seeing you two together again.”

“I have to say,” Coach Lupe jumps in, and honestly, since the man is a grumpy-fest all week round, it’s almost odd to see that smile on his bald head, “you motivate my guy more than anything I’ve ever seen. I’m not only glad you’re back, but I secretly prayed for it, and I’m a goddamned atheist.”

I laugh and shake my head as I keep heading down the aisle, and before I can reach the back, Pete seems to have boarded and calls to me, “Brooke, did you see our new Boss suits?” he asks.

Frowning, I swing around to look at Pete, and see that Riley is also already on board. Pete grins at me and smoothes a hand down his black tie as I scrutinize his appearance, and Riley grins and spreads out his arms as though to let me have a good look. I had no idea their suits were new.

They are basically all these guys wear, and today, like every day, they are both ready to be cast in Men in Black XII—or whichever it’s up to by this point.

Pete, with his curly hair and brown eyes, would be some sort of intelligence geek. Riley, with his blond hair and that surfer look, would be the one who accidentally kills demons while slowly opening a car door or something.

“What do you say?” he prods.

I make sure I’m wearing a wow look on my face when I answer. “You guys look sexy!” And squeak when I get a squeeze on my ass, and Remington hauls me by the waist down the rest of the plane’s aisle to our seats.

He settles me down and plops down next to me, his eyebrows drawn low over his eyes. “Say that again about another guy.”

“Why?”

“Just try me.”

“Pete and Riley look sooooooo—”

His hands fly out and he tickles me under my armpits. “Try that again now?” he prods.

“Ohmigod, your men in black are so fricking—”

He tickles me harder.

“You won’t even let me say the word ‘sexy’!” I squeak, as he stops.

Blue eyes gleaming, Remy’s lips form the most tantalizing smile I’ve ever seen, and coupled with that scruff on his jaw and the dimples, my toes are definitely curling. “Would you like to try that again, Brooke Dumas?” he huskily prods.

“Yes, I would! Because I think Pete and Riley look amazingly—”

He tickles me so hard I kick and flail in the air, and then I gasp for breath and somehow finish up half-sitting, half-sprawled on my seat, my breasts pushing into his hard pecs with every harsh breath. Our smiles fade as a delicious sexual awareness starts crackling between us as we stare deep into each other’s eyes.

Suddenly, he reaches out, and uses his thumb to tuck a loose tendril of hair behind my ear, his voice thickening as one dimple disappears before the other does. “Say it when you say my name,” he says, and a shiver goes through me as he runs the back of a finger down my jaw.

“Your ego not big enough?” I whisper breathlessly as I memorize his face. The square jaw, the spiky hair, the sleek dark eyebrows over those piercing blue eyes, that watch me with a little mischief and just enough jealousy to make my pussy clench.

“You could say it shrunk sizably when my girlfriend ogled those two dipshits.” He eases back to let me sit up, and as I do, he leans back comfortably in the way sexy guys sit, with his legs spread out and his long, corded arms outstretched on the back of the seat as he watches me with a half frown.

“What was I supposed to say?” I taunt with a smile. “That they don’t look good in the new suits? They’re like my brothers.”

“No, they’re like my brothers.”

“See? And I’m yours, so it’s the same thing.” I shrug and pull my skirt down to my knees. “Now you know how I feel when a thousand women scream at you,” I add smugly as I strap on my seat belt.

He takes my chin and turns me to look at him. “Who cares what they scream when I’m crazy about you?”

Thud. My heart did that. “Same with me then. You don’t have to growl when guys look at me.”

His eyes darken, and he drops his hand at his side and clamps his jaw into a firm line. “Be grateful I have some control in me and I don’t pin them to the nearest lamppost. I fucking know what they’re doing to you in their heads.”

“Just because you do that doesn’t mean that others do.”