Mine

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.

My eyes follow them while my brain swims with thoughts of licking each of them up with my tongue, especially the ones that slide into his belly button, the ones that curl around his nipples. While I watch and mentally lick every beautiful inch of him, he watches me work on him, his gaze hot and tender and, somehow, grateful.

“I love the way you work out,” I whisper.

“I love the way you work me.”

* * *

BY THE TIME we ride up in our hotel elevator, we’re both tired—and I’m especially so. I just haven’t recovered from the fucking Gift and I’m tired enough to skip dinner and head straight to bed.

After eight hours of working out, Remy has punched most of his speedy energy off for now. He leans back against the elevator wall with an arm loosely draped around my hips, while I half stand, half sag against his side, resting part of my head against the side of his throat.

“Cold shower, eat a cow, see you tomorrow,” Coach says as he exits on his floor.

“I’m on it,” Remington answers in his low and powerful voice.

“Good night, Coach,” I say.

And as soon as we’re alone in the elevator, Remington ducks his head to scent me.

The press of his frame against my back is all hard, hot muscle. He exhales warmly against my skin, then licks the back of my ear, and an electrical jolt surges through me. He then nuzzles his way across the back of my head, to the back of my other ear, and he scents me there too. My nipples bead painfully against my top, and at the first lick of his tongue across the back of my ear, need rips through me. He holds me snug against his big body, and whispers into my ear in a thick, appreciative tone, “I watched you stretching. Were you doing it for your muscles’ sake or for mine?”

As his words run through me like a sexual caress, he slides one open hand down the front of my body, and I shudder as he cups me over my Lycra pants. “Brooke? Was it for your sake or mine?” He licks and sucks a bare spot of skin on the back of my neck, igniting a painful thrumming inside me.