I know he’s not as verbally expressive as I, but I can feel his burning urgency when he grabs my h*ps and pulls me back to his lap, as though he needs to be inside me as fiercely as I need him to fill me. I’m na**d and he’s still wearing his sweatpants, but I’m dying with love and the need to physically express myself to him.
My whole body clenches when his erection settles hot and pulsing between my thighs, and there’s an overwhelming need in me to give him something I've never given any man before.
Shivering uncontrollably, I slide between his powerful thighs at the same time he yanks down his drawstrings pants and shoves them partly down his hips. I see a peek of his star tattoo and then his erection pops free, and in the instant my knees hit the carpet, my fingers and hands are all over his heat, his hardness, his heavy testicles, all full and primed for me.
“I want to kiss you here…” My voice shakes with desire as I look into his lust-tightened face through eyes that I can barely keep open from the want, “I want to drown in you, Remington. I want your taste … in me …”
A sound of a hungry male being thoroughly pleasured rumbles up his throat when I take him in my mouth, and he skims my hair with all his fingers as he rocks his hips, slowly, up to my mouth, gently giving me what I asked for and taking what I desperately want to give.
My sex burns wet with every drop of escaped se**n that I taste, and I’m so intoxicated with this man, I can’t stop enjoying the raw look on his face as I work my tongue along his enormous hard length.
He’s as undone as me when I add my teeth, suck his tip, then take it down to my throat until I have to suppress my gag reflex, and I’m still dying for more, I will never get enough of this man, and when he’s pumping out of control into my mouth, and his fingers are fisting into my hair, and his muscles are tightening for orgasm, I suddenly notice his eyes are a little less blue as he watches me.
He's definitely speedy.
Super. Completely. Speedy.
Medically, Pete says it is called manic.
And he suspects that this episode might have been triggered the night I went out with Melanie and Riley, for during their financial meeting, Rem apparently asked only three questions of Pete, and none of them had anything to do with the finances he’d been explaining.
At what time did she say she’d be back?
You sure Riley’s getting her?
Why the f**k are they taking so long?
Pete says he closed the money topic and dispatched Remington to his room as soon as Riley texted we were on our way back, and that’s when I found him hearing the loudest rock song I’ve ever listened to, all while wearing a somber, thoughtful expression on his face. Did he think I would never come back?
And is that what he does when his insides begins to spin in turmoil? Listen to hard rock?
I don’t know. All I know now is that he f**ked me four times that night, like he needed to claim me once more, and now Remy has totally gone rogue and appears to run on Red Bull 24/7.
He’s like fully charged.
His usual cocky self to the tenth power.
He attacks me in bed like a lion this morning. “You look especially good, Brooke Dumas. Good, and warm, and wet, and I wouldn’t mind having you on my breakfast platter.” His tongue twirls a wet line between my br**sts with his tongue, then goes all out and licks my collarbone like my lion always does. “All that’s missing is a cherry on top, but I’m sure we have some.”
The mischief in his eyes melts me as he produces a cherry from within his hand, which makes me realize he’d probably fetched it from the kitchen during the night and had been waiting to pounce on me the instant I woke up.
Lord, he is a predator indeed.
Groaning groggily, I roll to my back and look into his heart-stoppingly handsome face. Scruffy jaw. Dark eyes twinkling. Dimpled smile.
God, I’m done for.
“Who’s your man?” he asks gruffly, and he kisses me, rubbing that cherry against my clit. “Who’s your man, baby?”
“You,” I moan.
“Who do you love?”
Tremors run across my limbs as he tortures my cl*t with the cherry and at the same time penetrates my sex with one long finger, and I stare dazedly into his eyes. I can see miniature flecks of blue in their mysterious depths, and oh, I desperately want to tell him, You, I’ve only ever loved you, but I can’t. Not like this, not when he may not even remember. “You drive me crazy, Remy,” I whisper, and brazenly grab his c**k and drag him anxiously to me, so that he can fill me up and rub my swollen sex with his hard c**k and make me smell of him again.
The entire week, he’s on high maintenance mode, and I can barely keep up with him, but I really love it. I'm riding the high with him. His smiles blaze. He needs to take sex breaks now from training. He can’t see me without needing to f**k me. When I go stretch him he wants me as soon as I touch him.
I now notice that when he’s black, his eyes aren’t really black, but a really dark navy, flecked with gray and blue. But his mood is … somehow, black. Not always, but sometimes. It’s either supremely elevated, or super pissy. Sometimes nothing makes him happy. Diane is feeding him shit. Coach is not training him hard. And I’m looking too much at Pete, for god’s sake.
But even as ridiculous as it sounds, these things seem like a very big deal to Remy, and now it seems like my entire day is absorbed by his energy and stamina, and I’m just scrambling to keep up.
“Who are all these people here for?” I ask when we land in New York to find a crowd of spectators have lined up at the FBO where he parks his jet, and they’re barely being held back by yellow chords and airport security.