The pillow rustles as he nods, and I slide my hand over his speed bump abs and rub him gently as I peer up at him, unsure whether he wants to do this right now. “Can we even talk about it?”
My touch seems to make him close his eyes, his voice velvety smooth as he cups the back of my head in one big hand, and he presses me down against his neck, cuddling me to him. “You might like talking to Pete about it.”
I’m sticky with our desire and I like it, run my hands through him and know that he’s sticky too. The thought of taking a bath with him, washing “him” off, and then getting sticky all over again makes me want to moan. “Why don’t you talk to me about it, Remington?” I ask, softly.
He sits up and twists his feet off the bed, then he drags his hands down his face. “Because a lot of episodes I don’t remember what I do.”
Shit. I made him pace now.
“All right, I’ll talk to Pete about it, but come back to bed,” I say, quickly relenting when I notice the tension in his stance.
He stares out the window, his body perfect. So perfect. Legs braced apart, arms crossed, his muscles perfectly fed, formed, and taut. “I remember you.” His voice roughens. “In my last episode. The tequila shots. The way you looked. The little top you were wearing. The nights you slept in my bed.”
To think he notices what I wear does something tingly to me. I’m almost sure when he turns around I’ll be a pool of lava on the bed, already waiting for him to come f**k me.
He seemed so happy that day, with the shots, his energy was like that of a sun.
And then it flipped into night within hours.
“I wanted us to happen so bad,” I painfully admit.
He turns. “You think I didn’t? I’ve wanted us to happen since…” He comes back to bed and drags me to him, kissing my lips fiercely. “Every second I want us to happen.”
I touch his jaw. “Have you ever hurt someone?”
Grief flicks into his eyes again, and he looks haunted, dropping his arm from me. “I hurt everything I touch. I destroy things! That’s the only thing I’m good at. I’ve found whores in my bed I can’t remember bringing back with me, and I’ve tossed them na**d out of my hotel room, pissed like hell because I don’t remember what I did. I’ve stolen shit, vandalized shit, woken up in places I don’t even remember getting to…” He drags a breath and sighs. “Look, since Pete and Riley alternate days off, there’s always someone to knock me out for a day or two when I get out of hand. I hit a low, and then I’m back. Nobody gets hurt.”
“But you. Nobody gets hurt but you,” I sadly whisper, and I reach out and snatch his closest hand within mine merely because I’m afraid he’ll get out of bed, and I don’t want him to. It feels like it took me a lifetime to get him here with me in the first place.
“Remy, do they have to knock you out like that?” I lace my fingers through him as I ask the question.
“Yes,” he says, emphatic. “Especially if I want … this…” He signals to me, and to him, with his free hand, and clenches me with the other. “I want this. Very badly.” He nuzzles my nose with his. “I’m trying not to f**k it up, all right?”
“All right.”
He kisses the back of the hand that is holding his, his eyes sparkling once more. “All right.”
My internal clock just won’t let me sleep past six a.m., even after a night such as the one I spent with him. Tickles of delight rush across my skin as I remember all the ways we made love to each other last night. My gaze lands on his big body on the bed, and the immense proprietary sensation that overcomes me is so powerful, it’s all I can do not to attach myself permanently to his big body of sin.
Quietly and with a dopey smile that won’t leave my face, I slip out of bed, knowing Riley and Pete will not let him oversleep much, and definitely not beyond ten a.m.
Pete is already in the kitchen, pouring himself some coffee, and since there are a thousand things I want to ask him, I join him. Curling my legs under my body on a chair in the small breakfast table, I watch him view the morning paper as I take a few sips of my coffee, then I clear my raspy throat and say, “He told me.”
For a moment, the only emotion on Pete’s face is shock. “He told you what?” Now he looks dubious.
“You know what.” I set my coffee down and arch an eyebrow.
Pete lowers the paper, not smiling. “He never tells anyone.”
His words make me frown. “Don’t look so alarmed. He told you once. Didn’t he?”
“He didn’t tell me, Brooke, I was his nurse. At the ward. At least for his last year.”
My mind spins in confusion as I try to envision Pete in scrubs and taking care of my big bad fighter in a ward. I just didn’t see this one coming. At all. The image is so incongruent I have trouble holding it in my head. “You were with him at the ward?” Okay, I know I sound stupid, but that’s all I seem to be able to ask.
Pete’s lips clench tightly as he nods. “It pissed me off.” He scowls darkly at his coffee, then shakes his head. “He’s a good dude. A little reckless but it’s Not. His. Fault! He never picked on anyone. He was as closed off as a damned wall, that kid. He just ran like hell out in the yard and did his pull-ups on a tree outside, all day wearing his headphones and blocking everything out. They had him all drugged ever since one time he got speedy and told everyone they should escape. They all followed, and there was a big mess, and from then on, no one would even give him a chance to get speedy again, they just kept shooting shit up his veins and sparing themselves the trouble.”