She shoves it in my line of vision. “From Remy,” the smiling young girl whispers.
Another rose follows, and a different voice proudly states, “From Remy.”
A third one falls in my hand. “From Remington.”
A fourth. “From Riptide.”
“From RT. Sorry those jerks egged you…”
“From Remy.”
My pulse is somewhere near the moon while at the same time, my bottom drops from underneath me. I stare in utter disbelief at the line of people forming before me, easily several dozen, all of them handing me red roses from him. He watches, with that dimpled smile that fairly tells me that I belong to him, and my heart aches so much I want to rip it off my chest and throw it somewhere. Word of what he did in Los Angeles must have gone out through Twitter or I don’t know how, all I know is my arms are full of roses, and they’re all from him.
From a man who fights like crazy, arouses me like no other, is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. From the man who plays me sexy music, gives me his t-shirt to sleep in, protects me as fiercely as a lion, and yet won’t take me when I’m na**d and trembling in his arms.
And suddenly I can’t stand it anymore.
I don’t even glance at him when we ride back to the house. His gaze is glued to my profile, every cell in my body aware of it. I know he wants to know if I’m grateful for my roses, but my insides are so wound up, I’m simmering. All my desire for him has not been appeased, and it has morphed into the sort of anger that will probably give me a disease and kill me.
I’m shaking with it. With need. With pain. With fury.
How dare he.
Make me want him like this.
Offer me the job of my dreams, and then become the center of my very existence, until I’m ready to risk everything for him. Even my job. My family. My friends. The city where I grew up.
How dare he touch me in the shower, and kiss me like he wants to eat me for every meal until he dies! How dare he be my living breathing fantasy, come to goddamned life, and only teases and tortures me until I can’t stand it. I used to feel so damned free and happy that I didn’t have any romantic dramas. I used to hear Melanie rant and rave and I’d tell her, “Mel, he’s just a man. Chin up and onto the next.” And now I’m in knots because of one man, and my own advice is worth shit because there is no other man like him to me.
I no longer even feel free. I’m taken and yet the man who’s emotionally taken me won’t have me. If I weren’t so angry and frustrated, I’d throw the biggest damn pity party of my life after the one I threw in the Olympic trial fallout.
“You were awesome, Rem!” Pete tells him in the car, sighing with pure delight. “Man, what a great night.”
“Great fight, son,” Coach says, sounding the happiest I’ve ever heard the somber man speak. “Never broke form. Never dropped guard. Even Brooke felt the love tonight, huh, Brooke?”
Silence follows, and I hold still in my seat and keep my gaze on the lights flickering out the window as though I’m not even hearing their conversation. I absolutely refuse to gush about my roses or compliment him. Yes, his fans showered me with roses and he fought like a true freaking wonderful champion … my pu**y clenches as I remember the powerful plows of his fists, and now I refuse to think more about that either.
“You totally killed it,” Riley says.
I notice Remington doesn’t answer their compliments. His gaze now feels like a scorching brand on my profile and his energy is becoming as tumultuous as mine. He must have wanted a different reaction to his gesture. He must have wanted me to be all gushy and tell him, “Oh my stars, you’re so amazing!” But I won’t. Because I hate what he does to me. I hate that I want him like this, I hate that I feel so volatile, I want to tear his eyes out and then go cry about it. I want to fling all these roses in his lap and tell him to f**k them now because I don’t even want him to f**k me anymore!
So when the roses are set with water in one of the ice buckets in my room and my anger has festered into gargantuan proportions, I storm down the hall and find Pete in the living room outside the master bedroom. “Remington?” I demand.
“Showering.” He points to his door, and I charge forward, slam the door shut, lock it behind me, and spot him across the room, standing in the threshold of the bathroom.
He’s fully naked, dripping wet, fresh out of the shower with a towel in his hand, and instantly he jumps erect.
His stunned gaze fixes on me, and the towel falls at his feet.
I’ve never had this view of him in the nude, and to see his physical perfection and the most beautiful c**k I’ve ever seen, perfectly working, only enrages me further. The blood rushes like burning lava in my veins as I charge forward and slam my fists repeatedly into his chest, as hard as I can without breaking my own bones. “Why haven’t you touched me? Why don’t you f**king take me? Am I too fat? Too plain? Do you just delight in f**king torturing me senseless or are you just plain damn mean? For your information, I’ve wanted to have sex with you since the day I went into your stupid hotel room and got hired instead!”
He grabs my wrists and angrily yanks me forward, pinning my arms down. “Why’d you want to have sex with me? To have a f**king adventure? What was I supposed to be? Your one-night-fucking stand? I’m every woman’s adventure, damn you, and I don’t want to be yours. I want to be your f**king REAL. You get that? If I f**k you, I want you to belong to me. To be mine. I want you to give yourself to me—not Riptide!”