Coach whistles and signals him to the speedball, and Remington pulls off a glove so he can hydrate.
His gray T-shirt is plastered to his chest, and sweat trickles down his throat, his torso, and his toned, muscled arms. A Celtic tattoo peeks out from under his sleeve as he lifts the bottle to his mouth, his bicep bulging like a mountain at the move, and he looks so fuckable, my nipples bead. He’s been at it for so many hours, I can almost feel the heat of his body all the way across the gym. My fingers itch to work on him, and I’m not even getting started on the rest of me. Let’s just say that when he’s black, I’m particularly aware of his “needs.” And I can’t wait to tend to them in a very good, girlfriendly way.
I’m already tingling in anticipation when a soft vibration nearby jerks my eyes to my cell phone, which I cast aside along with a water bottle. I pick up and read.
MELANIE: I’m having nightmares of that he-beast on your behalf! You recovered from those insects yet?
BROOKE: No. I can sometimes still feel the legs crawling on me! UGH! But I don’t want Remington to know Scorpion fucked me up like this—I don’t want him to fuck with our heads any more than he already has. But I feel shitty. Like, malaise. I go to the second bathroom as discreetly as possible at night and puke!
MELANIE: But why don’t you want to tell Remy that HE-BEAST MUST DIE!
BROOKE: Mel! Because he WOULD do it!
MELANIE: GO RIPTIDE! KILL THE HE-BEAST!
BROOKE: No, Mel, I have to tell him I’m FINE. I’m trying to appease his caveman.
MELANIE: I know of no other way to appease cavemen but through food and sex, and I just felt bats in my stomach thinking of you getting to “appease” an agitated Riptide!
BROOKE: I know, it’s such a HARD task! ? ?
MELANIE: OMG, where’s my athlete friend, you whore? I miss you, fly me up soon!
MELANIE: Let him show you how much he loves you again by bringing up the BFF—I mean, what’s the matter with him? He’s got you and now he forgets about impressing you by flying the BFF in?
“Stop looking around and focus! She’s not going anywhere, Tate,” Coach barks as I text Melanie a farewell; then I hear the sounds he makes on the speed bag.
Thadumpthadumpthadump . . .
Today, we aren’t alone in the gym.
Two gymnasts are training at the far end, and my stomach has not been too happy as they blatantly ogle him. They watched him when he was jumping rope. Then, they watched, their eyes almost popping out of their heads, when he was doing his pull overs, mountain climbers, and his upside-down ab work. My beast looks so sexy when he trains, those two have been gaping all morning and afternoon. One even fell on her butt for all the staring she was doing.
And I guess the problem with me now is that with every pretty woman I catch admiring him, I remember the groupies or whores and feel sick to my stomach again.
Exhaling as I lean forward into a downward dog yoga position, I hold it for a moment, then pass on to a cobra stretch—where I’m spread facedown on the mat with my back and neck arched backward—and I get a glimpse of him at the speed bag. There he is, punching and punching, a walking advertisement for sports and sex, his every muscle hot and engaged, powerfully striking. He swings his fists so fast, the ball never stops flapping.
He’s sans T-shirt, and I can see all his muscles as they contract and relax. The sweatpants ride low on his hips, gifting me with a peek at his sexy star tattoo—god, it just drives me crazy. I start thinking about the way his erection somehow rises to tease it, his cock so tall it covers the ink when it’s fully standing, and the memory pierces through me and heats me up in more ways than I’d like to be heated up right now. Aware that my nipples are beading with want, I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment.
Exhaling, I force myself to slide and stretch my legs out on the mat, first one and then the other, and once again.
Coach snarls, “You training or ogling today, Tate?”
Snapping my head back, I see Remy turn back to his bag, take position, lift his gloves, and slam so viciously hard that’s it’s the only thing I can hear in the gym. His punches.
“That’s what I’m talking about! Who’s that motherfucker you’re killing?” Coach demands.
My skin tingles when Remington’s voice explodes across the room as he yells back, “You know damn well who it is!”
“Who’s that fucker you’re going to send into a fucking coma?” Coach continues.
“He’s fucking DEAD!”
“That’s right! He took what belongs to you! Messed with you! Messed with your girl . . .”
Remington roars hard and he hits the bag, sending it crashing to the ground. He kicks it, and it launches into the air before it collides with the wall with a boom!
Riley chuckles as he comes over. “Would you say he’s a tad pissed, B?” he teases me.
My stomach tangles when Remington looks up and straight at me. His chest jerks on each breath, his eyes bore into me, and I feel a little bit naked under that stare. I’d bet my life on the fact that, right now, Remington is fucking me in his head.
“In two more weeks Scorpion fights the same evenings we do. We could bump into him. You nervous?” Riley asks, briefly surveying the gymnasts as he talks to me.
Just the name Scorpion spikes my adrenaline and makes me want to run to the hills. I drop my face and do a pigeon yoga pose to open up my hips, then I switch legs and repeat the exercise. “Yeah, I’m nervous. I should say extra nervous, since I’m nervous every fight, but with that asshole around, let’s make it ten times my normal nervous.” I roll my eyes at myself, and Riley chuckles.
We’ve seemed to “make peace” by strategically avoiding talking about “it,” even though I am actually dying to ask him and Pete what exactly went on. But do I want to know any more?
No.
We were broken up. I have no right. He doesn’t even remember, with his bipolar disorder, and it’s gone. It’s over. I am his and he is mine.
“Heck, even I’m nervous, B. Scorpion’s message was pretty clear,” Riley tells me with a smirk. “It’s on—out of the ring, and in it. And Rem’s message only told the bastard his days are numbered. Nobody messes with his firecracker.”
I straighten up at that; then I look at those sad surfer eyes, and I swear there’s some enjoyment in there. I laugh. I just laugh. Because, honestly, these are full-grown men here. Men. But they are still . . . boys. And when I look across the impressive gymnasium at Remy, he’s the biggest, sexiest, and strongest boy of all.
“Riley, you need to help me make sure that whatever happens, Scorpion does not mess with Remington’s head. Both you and Pete need to watch out for that too. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, saluting like an army cadet. “Now go earn your keep.”
“Ha-ha. I work just as hard as you do,” I say.
“Yeah, but I don’t get the royal treatment you do.”
“Because you suck, and I rule.”
“I’m not even going to answer that. I value my face too much.” He smiles at something past my shoulder.
A tower of brawn right behind me, pulling the tapes off his hands. “I’d be happy to break it for you,” he murmurs.
“I’ll take a rain check on that, if you don’t mind.”
As Riley goes to help Coach clean up, Remington trains his black eyes on me, and I notice his nostrils flare as if he can scent me without even ducking his head, just looking at me.
“Ready?” He speaks in his I’ve-worked-out-for-hours-and-am-sexy-as-hell dehydrated voice as he strokes his fingers up the small of my back, and I’m not immune to any of it.
“Born ready,” I say, a little breathlessly. I don’t know what it is about the times he’s manic, but I’m extra aware of the energy crackling around him when he’s black. He’s a powerhouse, but when he’s black he feels like two. We both head to the small rehab room at the back of the gym. And when he puts his hand on my ass, I say nothing, but feel everything. Then, when he squeezes, it takes every effort in me not to turn around and grab his hard ass and squeeze that massive rock-hard flesh back.
“Up on the table, Riptide,” I command. I just like ordering him around because he gives me this whatever look of amusement. Like he does now, like he’s supremely entertained by me. He lies down on the table, which is much like a massage table, at the center of the small room. Nearby there’s also a refrigerator, for meds and cold items which I’ll raid later for his ice massage.
He spreads facedown first, and his body temp is so high after his workout, I can feel his heat before I even touch him.
“You feel okay?” I ask, my gaze caressing up the line of his spine. “Anything knot up? Bothering you?”
“I’d like to have my hands on you as soon as possible,” he whisper-growls at me, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
“All right, but like they say, ladies first.”
He groans. “Don’t torture me, baby, I want to fuck you already.”
I bend over and set a kiss on his ear. “It’s not torture, try to relax,” I whisper, and I really want him to relax, to focus on his body, so I curl my fingers around his shoulders. The breath hisses out through his teeth, and I also quietly hold my own—but our contact does that to me. Exhaling softly, I acclimate to him and start massaging with my fingers. He also acclimates to me and I know he’s starting to relax when he groans softly.
We’re so connected, I can’t touch his skin without feeling delicious little ripples radiate through me. It sometimes feels as if I am tapping into that powerful source that makes Remington Tate Remington Tate. Every centimeter of my body becomes cognizant of his muscles and skin under my fingers—and of everything else about him. The way he smells right this second, of ocean and soap, and just him. The way his chest expands with his exertion. The way his hair is spiky and rumpled and wet.
I love working on him with my hands.
This is my job, but this is also my love.
I can’t think of anything better than this.
I feel each muscle, one at a time, seeking their heat, digging deep into the belly of the muscle so that there is perfect blood flow into every part of his body. I massage and separate the fascia, kneading the muscle tissue with my fingers to provide good nourishment to the area. When the muscle is loosened, his blood, ripe with every nutrient of his healthy way of living, enters to help repair and grow that muscle.
Once I’ve rubbed him down on both sides, I go to the fridge so I can give him an ice massage. Ice massages are perfect for any knot or injury, but Remington loves them, and I sometimes give him one to speed general recovery.
There’s a Styrofoam cup already in the freezer. It contains a frozen block of water inside, and I rub my palm over it several times, to smooth out the ice and make sure it won’t nick his skin. Then I run it all over his muscles while I hold the back of the cup, almost like I’m sliding roll-on deodorant over his skin.
He lays there and lets me tend him, his sexy male pheromones clinging to his skin like sweat, his body so hot, the ice immediately begins melting. I watch the rivulets of water zigzag playfully along his broad back, and when he flips over, those rivulets do the same down the front of his hard chest.
