Mine

with my free hand.

“A plum,” I repeat.

“So little,” he says tenderly, sliding one big hand to the small curve of my stomach.

“So little,” I breathe, curling into his big warm body with a sigh, listening to him finish my apple and letting him lick all the juicy drops that fall on my skin.

FIFTEEN HOW TO TAKE DOWN A TREE

Remington is absolutely in love with my four-month-pregnant belly. I’m starting to really show and it excites him. No, it more than excites him. I’m excited too—I freaking love my pregnant belly! I feel amazing. No more nausea. And I do somehow seem to “glow,” but I think it has to do with the way Remy makes love to me as well as with the baby he put in me.

He measures my bump every morning with his hands when I’m standing studying myself in the full-length hotel mirror. Whatever he’s doing (out of the shower, brushing his teeth), he comes up to me to survey me as well, his gaze glimmering with pride as he cups me and measures me. His voice is gruff this morning. We just woke up and he’s naked, behind me, his lean, large body perfectly visible in the mirror behind mine as he ducks his dark head to nuzzle me. “You think you’re eating enough?” he whispers in my ear, right before he presses me back to him and brushes his lips to the hollow at the base of my throat.

“I’m not going to start eating like you!” I accuse as I turn in his arms and link my fingers at the back of his neck, grinning up at him like the love-struck fool he’s made me. Playfully, I poke his dimples. “We’ve established you have issues. You just want everyone to know I’m pregnant and taken.”

He lifts me off my feet so our mouths are aligned and he plants a big kiss on my lips, squeezing me. “That’s right!”

Today at the gym he wants to show me how to throw him—or, more especially, anyone threatening me— down. Now that I’ve been walking, then trotting a little, with full doctor approval, I feel like a million bucks. But what most makes me feel good is the way Remington looks at me. Hot-ass proprietary, this is my woman, this is my kid. I read that it’s completely normal to be hot and bothered when you’re pregnant, but I really can’t smell him without burning with the need to tear his clothes off and jump his sexy bones. Which I’ve been doing at least twice a day, to his complete male delight.

He hasn’t been black in the two months since I got here, but he’s been plotting something with Pete and Riley. The fact that the three of them are so secretive about it worries me. I think it has to do with Nora, but when I told him, “Remy, Nora sent me this note. She doesn’t want us to do anything about it and I might just wait until the final to talk to her,” he just chuckled and said, “Leave it to me now, all right?”

But it’s not all right.

I’m scared shitless.

This morning, he had a strange reunion with Pete and Riley in our living room. He looked at me and quietly asked me, “Can I talk to the guys alone for a moment?” Since then, I’ve gotten all worried about their plans.

And that’s the only part about being pregnant I don’t like. I despise being treated like an imbecilic, weakling, delicate little flower.

No, sir. And today I will prove it at the gym when I, in fact, succeed in throwing Remington Tate—pregnant belly notwithstanding.

I watch him do full sit-ups, his breaths fast and even, in and out, in and out. I watch him do three rounds of jump rope and three rounds of shadowboxing—swing, punch, swing, punch, guard, duck . . . his chest sweaty male perfection, the intensity with which he works out getting me all worked up. Coach yells at him from the sidelines, and Riley times his speed and makes notes on a clipboard.

By the time Remington is soaked and beckons me forward in the ring, I’m worked up to a lather of complete and total lust.

“Ready?”

Nodding, I climb into the ring with him.

I’ve got one of my catsuits on, one with a zipper right in the middle. His eyes suck me up in it and I swear they heat everywhere they touch. He pulls his gaze back to my eyes. “Ready?” his voice is gruffer.

“You have no idea how ready I am. I’m going to kick your ass and it’s going to feel amazing.”

“Kick my shin first, and then my ass—” He pulls me closer, his breath hot and warm on my ear as he whispers, “The key to throwing me is to take me off balance. If I or anyone heavier than you is balanced, you won’t ever knock them down.”

“Okay,” I say as he sets me aside, because the one thrown off balance with his nearness is me.

“You kick my shin, I rock off balance, then you sweep your leg out like you did last time and kick the weakest part of my heel—watch how you do it now! So rock me, then knock me down.”

Nervous butterflies take flight inside me, and I groan and roll my eyes. “I feel like I’m going to get hurt again. You’re still a tree, Remington.”

“With a fucked-up shin.” He waves me over, his lips curled in amusement, his dimples sexy and playful. “Come on. Keep your balance and throw me off mine.”

I look into his playful, glinting blue eyes while all my heart feels is about a ton of love, sitting right on me. “Hurting you goes against my every instinct,” I say dramatically, as if I truly believe I could nick him.

“You won’t hurt me one bit,” he says, laughing.

Then I seize him by the jaw and kiss him square on the lips before I draw away and stretch my legs. “All right, my pride says this must be done. What if you were Scorpion?”

He scowls. “You throw him, baby, and I mean now. Come on, rock my world, my little firecracker.”

I do. I kick his shin, putting all my weight into it until he says “ouch”; then I swing my leg so fast, I catch the back of his leg and feel him topple the instant I connect. But he’s still Remington Tate, and he naturally seems to stabilize. He plants himself back up, taking me off balance when he does. I squeak as I start falling, and he instantly grabs me and throws himself on his back, breaking my fall.

He chuckles as we straighten.

“You let me win,” I accuse, narrow-eyed.

He shakes his head. “No, you did that on your own,” he assures me.

“You’re a big, incredibly fit liar,” I say, shoving him.

He chuckles and sits up straighter with me on his lap, brushing my ponytail to the back of my head. “It wasn’t that hard, was it?” he asks me, stroking my cheek.

“No,” I breathe, then say softly so only he can hear in his ear, “but you are.”

He looks at my mouth, and I shift on top of him. He ducks his head and smells me, and I feel tingles rush all over my skin when his nose connects with the back of my neck.

“Do you like sparring with me?” I ask silkily as I prop my arms on his shoulders, getting all excited and worked up because of his massive erection under me.

“Hmm,” he says as he lifts his hand and seizes the back of my neck. “I like it when we spar like this. . . .” He kisses me softly and pushes his tongue into my mouth, and I feel electricity rushing from his tongue to my whole body. He’s wet from his workout and tastes hot and thirsty, and I feel even hotter and thirstier as I clutch his chest, his muscles slick and hard as I straddle him.

He fists my ponytail in his hand, holding me in place as he lifts his head slightly and gruffly says, “Riley . . .”

“Yeah, I’ll tell Coach.” Riley can’t conceal the laughter in his voice as he brings over some towels and drinks before he crosses toward the exit.

“Remington . . .” I chide.

His lips curl deliciously at the corners as he fingers the zipper of my catsuit and Riley yells over to Coach, “Hey, Coach, we gotta hit it so the guy can have his way with Brooke!” They disappear through the gym doors, and as they lock shut, Remington works his lips heatedly up my neck. “It’s not possible for anything to be this