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I love the feel of his stubble against my cheeks so much, I frame his face and stroke my jaw against his raspy one again. “Remington Tate, my Riptide.”
“Do you want me all over you?”
“Hmm, I want you all over me.”
When I say hmm, it’s supposed to mean I won’t bathe just so I can smell of him and his groan tells me it’s driving him crazy that I said that. But he drives me crazier with the way he calls his se**n “him.” I freaking love how he likes me to feel him on my skin, inside me, outside of me, in my mouth. Hmm . . .
“You asked for me, Brooke Dumas.” He pins my arms up over my head and clamps his fingers around my wrists as he drags his c**k along my pu**y lips, stroking my cl*t just right. He watches me in the same mesmerized, love-struck, lust-struck way that I watch him, memorizing him like he seems to memorize me. My neck arches as he slows the rocking motion, keeping me on the brink of ecstasy for a couple of delicious minutes as our bodies grind. And here we are. The rustling sounds of flesh against flesh, the slapping noises of our bodies, my moans, his groans, all I am aware of.
I whisper his name when I come, and my eyes spring open in that minute where everything tenses before it explodes, and I see him over me, closing his eyes tight, his jaw ground as he spurts all over my abdomen and convulses with me, his fingers clenching my wrists. I want it to bruise, the way he holds me down as he’s coming and I shudder, both of us groaning, long, drawn-out sounds of relief.
When we sag, he pulls me up to his side and gruffly murmurs, “I’ve waited for this for thirty-nine days.”
“And five hours.”
“And a little over thirty minutes.” Smirking in satisfaction, because obviously, I’ve been impressed to silence, he drinks in my face. He runs his thumb briefly along my jawline. “I think about you. Constantly. Day. Night.”
He uses his thumb to tip my face back and looks at me like he wants to eat me; then he bends down and does just that. He kisses me like I’m both precious and edible, treasuring and devouring me all at once. He slides his hand up and down my back. The feel of his calluses on my skin makes me shiver.
He looks at me, his hair a charming mess, standing up wet. “You’re so f**king beautiful.”
“I looked ridiculous.”
He laughs softly, then tweaks my nose. “Ridiculously beautiful.”
Fastening his gaze back on my face like he reveres the sight of me, he then bends and kisses my stomach and sets his head there.
“Are you mad I came to see you?” I ask, setting my hand on his hair.
“No.” He licks my belly button. “I know what I’ve got, and you’re a little handful of trouble, that’s who you are.”
“Me? You invented trouble. You were born and instead of ‘it’s a boy’ the doctors said, ‘Ahhh, it’s trouble!’?”
His chuckle is low and throaty, then it trails into silence and he looks at me, his eyes sober, almost tormented. “God, how I need you.” He props his forehead on mine and drags in a coarse breath. “How I go crazy thinking of you. The whole flight on my way here I listened to the song you’ve played to tell me you love me.” His hot mouth takes me again and we kiss feverishly, and he pulls back to bend over and kiss my stomach again. His breathing is rough. He can’t stop breathing me in. Touching all my body. Reminding me he owns it.
For hours we can’t stop kissing and murmuring and making each other feel good, until we lie back and settle and he spoons me. He nuzzles my neck for a brief moment and places a kiss on the hollow behind my ear. Then he caresses me for a while, and when he discovers there’s still some se**n remaining on my skin, he picks it up with two fingers and rubs it into my pu**y.
I gasp.
“Shh,” he says softly. “I need to be here. Right here.” He rubs his fingers inside my channel, licking the back of my neck softly, and I shudder and start coming. He chuckles softly and rubs me more, his warmth inside me, and it’s like having him thrust in me. My eyes burn as I keep trembling, and he pushes the heel of his palm into my sex to drive me higher.
When I’m done, I’m still like a junkie, thinking of having him inside me. “When you make love to me again, I want you to stay inside me. All night, swear to me, part of you will be inside me, just like you promised.”
He turns my face at an angle he seems to want me at and cradles the back of my head as he sucks my tongue like he’s starved for it. “I’m going to f**k you for every night I haven’t f**ked you and then I’m going to stay in you.”
He exhales slowly as if the thought alone got him all worked up, and his breath is warm on my face as he waits for my consent.
When I nod, he smiles his lazy, heavy-lidded smile at me; I smile back.
I feel happy. Complete. Like the world is spinning in the right direction tonight.
He takes some extra time grooming and petting me, doing all his fun stuff with me that makes all the butterflies in my tummy have trouble letting me settle down. I’m so weak I only moan and whisper how good it feels, and he whispers how good I taste, and how good I feel.
When he’s done bathing inches and inches of my shoulder, throat, and ear with his tongue, and done petting his hand down my side, he spoons me with his bigger, harder body and our legs entwine like pretzels, and I sigh as we fall asleep. In the middle of the night he sometimes shifts his nose until he buries it in my skin. I reach behind me and caress his hair groggily, turn in his arms so I can smell him, absorbing every sensation of being back in bed with the only man I’ve ever been in love with.
And it feels like home has finally come to me.
TWELVE
HERE WE GO
Two days later we’re still in the same hotel room, and I wake up with the most delicious sense of well-being when I notice that he’s watching me. He’s propped up on one arm, his muscles bulging. His sexy black hair is fully standing and he wears the lazy, sensual smile of a man who’s been satisfied to a near-coma, and he looks so sexy in bed I want to eat him with a spoon. I make a purring noise as I roll to my side to face him.
“I don’t want to leave this bed,” I whisper, sliding a fingertip along one of his Celtic tattoos.
He strokes a hand down my arm, and the feathery tenderness in the caress is almost unbearable. He kisses the hollow of my ear. “Who do you belong to?” he asks softly. Again, his eyes tell me I’m his.
“You.”
Reaching out, he squeezes me so hard against him, I gasp. “That’s right!”
An odd little laugh leaves me, and it kind of sounded like a giggle. “You will never stop asking me that, will you? Oh, I hate you! Did you hear that? You made me giggle.”
Laughing, he rolls me underneath his big body, and I hit his chest with one fist.
“You f**king made me giggle, and you didn’t even say anything funny!”
“I f**king loved it. Giggle again now.”
“Never!” I laugh, and it sounds like a goddamn giggle.
I hate giggling, but the genuine delight in his dancing blue eyes fills me with so much happiness, my chest feels like a detonated grenade as he laughs, and I continue to freaking giggle.
When he’s sober, he surveys my face, feature by feature, and as the air shifts between us, our smiles fade. His body is crushing mine. His pecs smashing my br**sts. His weight trapping me. I love it so much, even when it hurts to take a full breath.
His eyes turn liquid with love as he leans over and presses his lips over mine for three delicious heartbeats. We use no tongues, only the pressure of soft, dry lips, so full of love I could almost levitate.
My hands roam up the muscular planes of his back. “When do you leave?” I breathe.
“As late as possible and still be on time for the next match.”
My hurt and disappointment seem to show on my face, for he tightens his hold on me as he eases to his side and brings me with him.
“Are you happy here? Are you treated well?” He nuzzles my temple.
“Nobody treats me or understands me like you. Except Mel.”
“And your parents?”
“They love me” is all I say. I’m about to say they may not be too thrilled about our circumstances right now, but then I look into this man’s eyes and realize he doesn’t have parents who support and care about him, and I realize how very lucky I am. “Did you feel unloved when your parents didn’t come back?” I ask him.
“Not unloved. Misunderstood.”
He speaks casually, like it’s truly nothing to him but a bland fact. A fact that breaks my heart every time I think about it.
“Oh, Remy. I’m so sorry. I hate them for doing this to you.”
He gets up and grabs his lounge pants and I know he’s going to want to go eat—of course. “Why? I didn’t hurt. Why are you sorry? I’m still going to be a good father.” He winks at me. “It’s because they were so shitty that I will be a good father.”
His eyes are brilliant, and I want to cry as we both stare down at my abdomen. We are really happy about this baby even though we didn’t plan it. Maybe we are young and stupid, young and in love, but we are just so hopeful about having a family together. About just being together.
A banging on the suite door makes me frown. He scowls too, then points a finger at me. “Stay.” He goes to open the door and I bury my face in his pillow, loathing that today he leaves me again. I talked to my doctor and she insists that I not travel until the first trimester ends, so there are at least two and a half weeks to go.
