“No,” I tease.
He smiles indulgently and drags the back of that finger down to my chin, back up to my temple, and to trace the shell of my ear. “Someone else on your mind?”
Delirious with the sparks his touch ignites, I still manage to shrug mysteriously. He smiles indulgently again, like he knows there’s no way I can think of anything but him—the center of the universe and the king of the world.
“You taking good care of my baby?” he asks roughly, and he blatantly lifts the skirt of my dress and slides his hand up and up, past my thighs and panties, so he can spread his fingers out on my bare abdomen. “Or have you been stealing out at night with a wig in old ladies’ dresses?”
The team up in their seating area seem to have just asked him something, but he only makes sure the skirt of my dress is still covering the tops of my legs as he keeps his hand inside, and I can’t even think, because the skin-to-skin contact has scrambled my brain. He smiles tenderly down at me as if he knows what he’s doing to me. Then he slides his free hand under the fall of my hair and starts caressing me. An embarrassing purring sound leaves me, and I hear his answering chuckle as he watches me. Two months of abstinence. Of wanting and missing and longing. Now all my cells buzz awake. He’s not even touching my br**sts, which ache and feel heavier than ever. He’s not even touching my sex, which is soaked and clutching with need, but oh god, I feel pleasure from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet.
His hand holds steady over my abdomen, skin to skin, but his fingertips massage my scalp as he works toward my ponytail, and I feel the touch of his fingertips in every part of my body.
His chest expands on a deep breath as he ducks his head and touches his nose to my neck, and I notice he’s breathing me in. Hot liquid need floods me and I almost whimper. Curling my fingers around the back of his muscled arms, under the sleeve of his soft T-shirt, I breathe his name, and before I can finish it, he turns his head to mine and slides his tongue between the seam of my lips. Oh, please, oh, oh.
The moist lap of his tongue comes back again. Pleasure shudders through me as my lips part, while my famished body screams at him to give me more, give me everything I want and love and need right now, right now, please, right now.
He gives it to me, but slowly. He savors me, his hand opening on my nape, his thumb caressing the band of my ponytail . . . killing me softly. . . . I moan and rub his shoulders as he parts my lips wider and delves in to taste, deeper, wetter. We’re moving so slow, it’s like a dream. Then he starts f**king my mouth headily, heavily, savoring every centimeter he gains with his tongue, prolonging the length he withdraws before he once again comes forward to taste me. Heat spills through my body—he’s driving me insane.
He undoes my ponytail and eases back to watch as my hair spills down to my shoulders, and his eyes, so black right now, devour me. He’s manic and he’s hungry, but he seems so happy—almost relieved—to see me, that I can see dozens of brilliant lights shining in his irises.
He slides his hand to the small of my back and pulls me close as he comes back in. His kiss roughens, and my head falls back to the seat from the force. Moaning, I move my mouth feverishly under his and don’t realize I’m clinging until I feel his shirt fisted in my hands.
“I missed you,” I gasp into his moving mouth, and he growls softly and licks down my neck. Every kiss is fire, back up my neck, to my ear.
“Tonight, after the fight,” he tells me, his breath deep and slow, mine fast and labored.
He squeezes me as he stares down at me, surveying the dazed smile on my lips. “Your wish is my command.”
“I command that you’re mine this night again—you’re mine forever.”
He says it so seriously, I laugh, but he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. He’s looking at me as if waiting for me to say, once again, even if teasingly, that his wish is my command. I stroke his stubbly jaw. “What are you going to do to me tonight?”
He breathes in my ear, nibbling me softly. “Kiss you. Stroke and fondle you. Lick you. Pet you. Fuck and love you. Make you fall asleep with me in you.” He moves his fingers, huge and strong and scarred, on my abdomen. “Don’t you remember who put this in you?”
“Oh, I remember. It makes me hot to remember.”
“And it makes me want to put a thousand of these in you. But why don’t you look pregnant by me? Are you eating well?”
“Yes! Why?” I straighten as he withdraws his hand from under my dress. “You want me to blow up? You want everyone to know I’m pregnant?”
He leans back with his elbows on the back of the seat, the move delineating every muscle underneath his T-shirt as he smiles deliciously and nods.
“So everyone knows I’m taken and yours?” I insist.
He nods with an adorable smile that reaches all the way to his eyes.
“My butt is already huge and the girls are bigger too. It only makes sense that my stomach will follow.”
“I happen to like the way the girls look in that dress. And your ass is f**king juicy.”
“So why don’t you count your blessings? I get big boobs, a big ass, and a flat tummy for a while.”
His lids slip down over his eyes as he looks appreciatively at the girls, then a smile twists his mouth as he pulls me close. “Come here.”
“You have a devil’s glint in your eye.”
His smile deepens into laughter. “Come here. I missed you.”
“What are you planning, mister?”
He pats his lap. “I’ll let you choose.”
“Between?”
“Music.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Kissing.”
“You’re making it tough.”
“Petting.”
“Now you’re just being mean.”
“Or all of the above.”
Without warning, I jump up on him, and he laughs, instantly clutching me tight. “I got you now!”
“You had me when you looked at me,” I quietly, smilingly admit, as if his huge ego really even needs another huge stroke from me. “By the time you winked, I was done for, Mister Remington Tate . . . sexy boyfriend, killer fighter, and father of my unborn child. You’ve definitely got me now.”
FOURTEEN
PHILADELPHIA
He’s very speedy, and he didn’t like it when I talked to Pete and Riley on our way to the hotel. He didn’t like it when I had to leave him to go pee in our room, and he paced in our bedroom waiting like some sort of impatient groom, slamming his lips to mine the second I came out and kissing me for just about half an hour until they came to get us for the fight. He didn’t want to let go of me as he headed to the locker rooms, his hand tightening on my h*ps the deeper we walked into the Underground.
I told him that I couldn’t wait to see him fight, and that I would be watching. He clamped his jaw and looked—proprietarily and thirsty as hell—at my lips. Then he nodded and patted my butt as he gave Pete strict instructions not to move a foot away from me during the fight.
Now Pete is attached to me like a Siamese twin.
He’s the Man in Black and is now carrying a stun gun, pepper spray. You name it, Pete’s got it. He even wears an intimidating frown today, like everyone should stay away.
“You take yourself way too seriously,” I joke.
“What the man wants, he gets,” he says with a chuckle.