Real

Page 18

I pick at my salad and keep hydrating with natural fruit juice, merely because my temples have been throbbing all day. I just know my liver is not used to the kind of abuse of the likes it received yesterday. I’ve always treated my body kindly. Today it’s just angry at me for alcohol overload, bad food choices, and unfulfilled lust. “Does it happen frequently?” I ask, looking up from my lettuce with vinaigrette to her.
She nods.
“I see,” I say, weakly, and set my fork down. “Is it because he doesn’t handle alcohol well or is it some sort of anger issue?”
“I’d say it’s an anger issue but I don’t know for sure.” Lifting her iced tea, Diane leans back and shrugs. “I’m the one who knows least about it. All I know is Remy is a handful.” She nods meaningfully, and sips through the straw. “A handful. Which is why I really, truly want you to reconsider before you … well, of course, unless you already …?”
“Nothing happened, Diane.” I rub my forehead and ask for the check.
We sign off and she invites me over to her room to check recipes, but instead I go to the suite, which I notice Pete or Riley kept closed with the “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging from the doorknob. I slide my key and head inside to quietly start cleaning up the worst of the mess.
It takes hours to get the room into a semblance of order, and once I’ve got all the glass in piles near the door, I call housekeeping and request a dozen plastic bags to haul it all out. Once that’s done, I jump in the shower.
I’m still sleeping in the presidential suite, no matter that Diane offered me to room with her tonight. I just … can’t go anywhere else. I wanted to sleep with Remy, and now that we’re sharing a room for the first time, I’m not moving out and leaving him alone here.
Especially if he’s unwell.
But at night, the suite feels so deathly quiet, my heart won’t settle as I stare wide awake in my own bed, thinking of him, of everything that’s happened. I want to ask Pete and Riley about what’s wrong, and on the other hand, I want Remington to tell me.
I don’t know how long passes, but the bedroom door opens when I’m still staring bleakly at the wall. I’m groggy, but I sit up and see his silhouette. He must have taken a bath. A pair of pajama bottoms drape low on his narrow hips. His tan torso glistens, and his hair is all wet and spiky, not a strand falls on his proud forehead.
My heart shudders. I think the sedative has worn off, since he stands perfectly upright, with only one hand braced lightly on the doorframe, maybe for support. I straighten up higher on my arms. “Are you all right?” I ask, my voice concerned and cottony.
His voice is gruff and craggy. “I want to sleep with you. Just sleep.”
My stomach turns.
He waits for me to reply, but I can’t. I want to cry and I don’t know why, but I attribute it to being hung over and dangerously close to falling in love with a man I don’t even know.
He comes over, lifts me, and carries me down the hall, back to the master room, to the wide, unmade king bed.
He sets me down, and when he slides under the covers and gathers me close so that my face is on his chest and his nose is buried in the top of my head, I don’t understand the overwhelming amount of oxytocin hormones that my body makes, but this … him … being in this bed with him … makes me feel way too good. Too safe. Too happy.
I desperately want him to tell me what’s wrong. What happened? Can’t he control himself? Why did they react like this? Does he have a problem with violence and unresolved anger issues? Who the fuck hurt him? I think of why he was kicked out of boxing, how he’d been angered with Scorpion at the club, dangerously close to sabotaging his career again. But I don’t think he wants to talk right now. He seems lazy and gentle, and the darkness, the silence, feels so holy, I don’t want to break it.
Instead, I lie next to him while every pore in my body screams for us to physically connect. I try not to want it, because I know that this is not the moment. I don’t know what kind of sedative he was given, or how long it lasts, but I know that later he might not even remember that he’s here with me. Even I might not remember. I’m so tired and hung over I don’t trust my thoughts at this point.
“Just sleep, okay?” I whisper at his throat, even though I swear I ache for this man somewhere beyond my body, beyond even my heart.
“Just sleep.” He pulls me closer to him, and I can feel his erection between us, fiercely hard and pulsing with life, making me shiver inside. “And this,” he murmurs.
He cups my jaw and puts his lips on mine with such gentleness that all my cells seem to fuse with his. I moan and part my lips, sliding my hands into his hair, feeling a little crazy as I push my breasts up to his chest. Suddenly I want his hands on me, I want his tongue all over me. When he brushes it, slick and hot, against mine, I feel like I vanquished the impossible. Trembling, I clutch his face, kissing him harder.
He slows me down with his tongue, his fingers twined in my hair, guiding my head to the slow, drugging rhythm of his mouth. God, I want him to touch me in all the parts where he can fit. Everywhere. Anywhere. I’m so swollen and lubricated, I thrum, and he’s so hard between our abdomens, I know how much he wants me too. But we said just “sleep” … and “this” … and now I don’t want “this” to stop.
He kisses me so slowly and so deeply that I run out of breath. He only unlatches my mouth to allow me to catch my breath, and then, he brushes his tongue back against mine, stroking my lips, the roof of my mouth, and my teeth. He suckles, sucks, turns, twists. I fall in love with his kiss so fast, that soon I don’t know where my hands are, where I’m lying.
My entire body is consumed by the way he fucks my mouth until my lips are raw and swollen and it hurts to kiss him back even though my frenzied body demands more. When I’m sure I’ve tasted blood from either his lips or mine or both, I draw back to breathe and pant, noticing his cut has reopened. He’s the one bleeding from kissing me. I moan softly and lick him gently, and he groans with his eyes closed. He sifts his fingers down my hair and pushes my face to the crook of his neck, cuddling me, his chest rising hard and fast under mine.
The sheets are somewhere at our feet but he’s so hot and warm that I press as tight as I can to his body and fall asleep. When I stir during the night, I’m awakened by the odd, novel sensation of a powerfully built arm tightening around me and settling me back against the spot I’ve warmed against him. My extremities tingle when I peek up at his shadowed face and realize I’m in bed with him. He’s sleeping or at least he appears to be. Then he turns his head, his eyelids parting open, and when he sees me, he kisses my lips again, licking them softly before he draws back to press his nose back into my hair, tucking me back into him.
Come away with me
We’re flying to Denver now.
Pete and Riley ride up front with Diane and Lupe, and I’m in the back of the plane with Remington. He’s with his beats on, but I’m not, and instead I try to listen to Pete and Riley’s heated conversation. Remy hasn’t trained in four days, even when Riley woke us up that morning. I went to change and waited downstairs, but Remy never appeared. He didn’t come out of his room any of the following days either.
Except for me.
There’s something going on between us, and I’m afraid to give it a name. For the past four evenings, he’s come get me from my room and carry me back to his, and on this last one, I even stayed the full day.
We kiss each other like it’s all we’ve been waiting for during the day, which in my case is the complete truth. Melanie has texted after my drunken message about having sex with Remy. She wants to know if I’ll be popping out little Remys soon. And I just don’t know what we’re doing, but the way he kisses me feels like I’m his crack and he gets high on me. As soon as we hit the bed, his mouth fuses with mine and doesn’t let go. His arms hold me pinned to his body as if I ground him. I feel like his anchor, and he feels as powerful and exciting as a free fall.
“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 fucking asshole 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.