“His points can’t keep him in first place forever,” Riley mutters now, and there’s no mistaking the impending doom in his voice. “He’s already down to second, verging on third. He can’t lose a single night and he can’t miss a fight anymore.”
Unlatching my seatbelt, I make my way to them with a frown. “What’s wrong?” I remain standing on the aisle and prop a shoulder on the back of Diane’s seat.
“Remy can’t miss any more fights. It’s all about points in this championship, so if we’re going for first, then he can’t miss any more fights and he certainly can’t afford to lose.”
“He’s not eating,” Diane says ruefully.
“He’s not training,” Coach adds bitterly.
“And his eyes are still black.”
I scowl at that last from Pete, and realize, that yes … for the past days, Remy’s eyes look really dark. But we also haven’t slept. We’re just kissing like maniacs all night and our bodies are haywire, and we’ve been ordering room service because I can’t seem to get him to agree for anyone from his team to come into the suite. I stare at their bleak faces, and Riley shakes his head.
“If he goes out with those devil black eyes to fight, one little part of him disagrees with what the referee says, and he might take the f**king ass**le out.”
I scowl. “Don’t be ridiculous. He knows the rules. And he’s not a machine to train 24/7. Let him recover. He trains even Sundays, he’s dangerously close to being overtrained. Every athlete needs downtime.”
“Rem is not every athlete, if he doesn’t train he gets speedy,” Pete tells me.
I roll my eyes, sick of the term already. “Anything doesn’t drive him speedy?”
“Actually, yes. Peace and quiet. But he’s not turning into a monk anytime soon, is he?”
Seriously I don’t see what’s so wrong about him taking time out. Some of my athlete friends get completely depressed and crash after competition. What comes up so high has to come down, and neurotransmitters sometimes get a little wacky. “Look, your body can only be pushed so far, especially the way he pushes. So he missed a fight? Big deal. His strength will likely improve with a couple days’ rest and he’ll kick ass in Denver.”
They fail to respond and study me in silence, and I know they’re wondering what the hell is going on between us since Remington is acting really possessive of me, glaring at Pete when he talks to me, even Riley when he offered to help with my suitcase only hours ago. Remy just grabbed it instead and asked him if he had nothing else to do other than stare at me?
Yes, they seem desperate to know what’s going on between Remington and I. But since even I don’t know, I guess we’ll all have to remain wondering.
Sighing at the silence, I turn to go back, and when I do, awareness shoots through me when I spot him watching me.
There’s something very male in his eyes as he watches me return. It’s a dark, possessive look, and it triggers a little ripple to slide along my nerve endings. I’m flashed back to the four nights we spent in the presidential suite, where we locked out the world. I feel like Beauty and the Beast, except I willingly locked myself in with my beast so he could kiss me senseless, and he’s the beautiful creature who tortures me with wanting him.
I almost moan as I remember. Remy’s hand sliding up my throat. His eyes half-mast as he looks down at me. Our ragged breathing. His mouth hot and damp and shamelessly kissing me. He only kisses my mouth, my throat, and my ears. He licks and tastes, and triggers all kinds of sensations in my body.
I remember moaning. Remember the way he smiles against my lips at the drawn-out sound, and the way he turns very serious and intense as he comes back to taste me and sucks my lower lip and then bites and suckles the skin at my throat. I remember his body pressing against mine and my pu**y throbbing with the nearness of his erection. Our tongues. Hot and desperate, flicking and probing. I want him so much it’s all I can think about. I think I begged him last night, “Please…” but I was so drugged with lust I’m not even sure. What I do know is that he stops sometimes, when his breath is crazy fast, and takes a cold shower.
But he comes back, wearing drawstring pants or tight sexy boxers, and once again envelops my body with the sheer size and protective shield of his, only to bend that dark head to mine and continue torturing me. He f**ks my ear with slow, deep flicks of his tongue. He does the same to my mouth. Laps and tastes my throat. My collarbone. He gets me so hot, my teeth chatter from the way the air feels so cold on my flesh. Arousal drips down my thighs. My ni**les become hard as diamonds. He works me to a lather, to the point where a mere sip of his mouth makes me moan from deep inside, like I’ve just been penetrated.
He’s taking it so slowly with me I feel like a teenager and a virgin, though I certainly am neither. But I feel claimed, and bonded to him like animals do. I feel like I’ve been already caught and trapped and he’s merely priming me, leaving me to simmer in my juices, anxiously waiting for the moment when he takes his first bite of me.
I seriously can’t stand it and am wet even now.
We don’t talk much when we “bond” in his bedroom. I sense he’s been in his man-cave these days, and I understand it. Yesterday, he didn’t even let me come out, and kept me pinned down in his bed, a helpless slave to his kisses.
When we need to stop, sometimes we hear music, turn on the TV, or eat, but most of all, we kiss. I sometimes hear nothing but the slick sounds of him kissing me, and our fast breaths, tearing one after the other. The night before the last, I was so primed by the time he came to fetch me from my room, I almost jumped into his arms. By the time we sank into his bed, my hands were already in his hair, my tongue desperately pushing into his warm, delicious mouth, and when he responded with an animal growl and a powerful kiss that sucked my tongue feverishly, I felt each of his pulls on my tongue ping little bolts of pleasure to my sensitized little clit. It swells and throbs when we kiss, and I get delirious remembering. Now just the tiniest look from him swells me up. When he glances at my lips. When he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I know we’re just sending our adrenals to hell, doing this. Keeping the output of this lust is just not healthy, but I can’t stop him. In fact I want more. I want him to stop because we’re suffering and I want him to go on until I lie dead in his arms, burnt to ashes from my want of him.