Holding me protectively in his strong arms, he brushes my hair back as his lips buzz along the bare curve between my neck and collar, his fingers sliding up my neck as he once again, like a chant, nuzzles my ear and tells me, “Mine. Tonight.”
“So are you.” I cup his jaw and search his darkened gaze when, suddenly, he’s plucked by four men who swiftly swing him up in the air once more.
“Remy, Remy…” they chant, bouncing him in unison. Laughter fills me, and bubbles of happiness pop inside my chest. I’m happy for me. For him. For this night.
Nearby, Pete and Riley watch the scene with faces so bleak and pinched, it feels like they’re burying a cadaver tonight.
“Have fun, guys!” I say laughingly as I approach. Very possibly both my grandfathers party better than these two. But they just shake their heads and keep looking positively glum.
“He’s getting speedy,” Pete mutters, mostly to Riley.
“I know, man. Shit.”
“Yeah.” Pete scratches his curls. “Did I actually instigate this whole party?”
“Prepare for crash landing,” is all Riley returns, and then he heads down the hall, tossing his head side to side.
Confusion hits me. “What’s wrong?” I ask Pete.
“Nothing. Yet.” He glances at his watch, then at Remy as he’s carried back to the bar. “But anything goes off in a way he doesn’t like, then we’re going to be in trouble. Big. Trouble.”
Glancing around, I see there’s only smiles and laughter while crazy rock music from Remy’s iPod bursts from the suite speakers. I truly don’t know what these two are worrying about. Everyone is having fun, and Remington works as hard as anyone I’ve ever known. He deserves to let loose. Yes, he’s a little hyper, but to me it’s obvious that he’s got a rush from the fight and it’s been added to the same thing that has been having us both, Remington and I, feel coiled like hungry cobras, for weeks.
All day today, when we came up to settle our suitcase in our suite, and went down to lunch with the team, and he prepared before the fight—every instant of these moments, our eyes have been wildly searching each other, and as soon as they lock, the sparks leap between us in arcs so powerful the need to be with him cuts me like whiplashes. Even at the fight, when he turned to look at me before it began, his blue eyes simmered with a fierce appetite to have me. I know that he feels the same hunger I do now, as I wait, fevered in anticipation of this evening. My body hums in arousal, and after such an amazing fight, I know Remington is buzzing like crazy. He’s all jacked up. Stoked and primed.
His energy is so powerful tonight, it actually pulls at every cell and atom in my body, bathing me in pure female awareness of his hot masculinity.
Now I watch as he pours some tequila shots behind the bar, and a striking blond at his side squeezes lemon juice on her cle**age and adds a dab of salt, then she squeezes a shot glass right between her tightly squeezed tits. She tugs on Remy’s wrist and signals for him to come get it. Jealousy clenches all my inner muscles, only loosening when Remy grabs the nearest man around and pushes his face into her boobs, laughing, loud and manly, as he grabs the two shots he’d poured and starts to come back to me.
His eyes lock to mine, and they go dark and wild. As dark and wild as the fluttering in my insides. He seems to want to party with no one but me, and the knowledge hits me square in the knees. Between my thighs, I’ve grown sensitive, wet, and swollen.
He carries a salt shaker and lemons in one of his palms. “Come here,” he says, gruff but soft as he sets the shot glasses on a console by the entry. He sucks the lime wedge between his lips, and bends his head to pass it to me. I open my mouth and the lime juice spills into me, from his mouth, then he draws it away and sticks his tongue in with mine. He groans, we both do, as we linger and kiss, licking each other, until he groans once more and steps back to hand me the shot glass.
I’ve never gotten drunk with someone, and suddenly I’m just glad it’s with him. Reckless joy courses through my veins. I feel wicked and impulsive, doing everything I’ve never done. Taking the glass between my fingers, I toss back the liquid and feel it burn a path down my throat, and when he hands me the lime again, I’m absolutely crazy with excitement.
Repeating the same thing he did, I stick the lime wedge into my mouth, and he ducks and sucks the lime juice from me. A moan escapes me when he tugs the lime away and replaces it with his tongue. Need rips through me, and my arms go around his neck.
The empty shot glasses crash to the ground as he grabs my ass, boosts me up to the console, slides between my legs, and thrusts his tongue into my mouth.
He shoves his h*ps and hardness against me, the desperation in the move shooting lightning bolts through my body. “You smell so good…” he rasps into my ear. His hands clench on my thighs as he rubs his hardness against me. His mouth grazes a path down my temple, to my chin, and his lips my buzz, fast and fevered, over mine. “I want you now. I can’t wait to get rid of these people. How do you like it, Brooke? Hard? Fast?”
“Anyway you want it,” I murmur, intoxicated with the feel of his arms, his mouth, the scrape through our clothes of his sex against my sex. I think my words make him remember the song I played, for he groans and ducks his head to lightly nibble on my lower lip.
“Wait here, little firecracker,” he says, and he makes his way back to the bar.
We have a second set of shots, and then he goes off for rounds three and four, and I’m definitely woozy by the fourth. I’ve never really drunk before, and I don’t think my system is equipped to handle it. My head spins as I watch him go for round five with a dopey smile. Some of the men once again grab him and shoot him up in the air, shouting, “Who’s the man? Who’s the man?”