“Not as much as it would kill me to lose our baby,” I whisper.
I’ve run my whole life. But right now, I’m scared even of walking, for dread of having the cramps return and finding red in my panties. I swear if I can’t hold the man I love’s baby in me, I don’t know what I’ll do, but I can’t—I refuse to—lose this baby.
“Your parents know you’re coming? Your sister?”
“I let them know I was coming, but they don’t know about us yet. I’m saving that for face-to-face. Only Mel and my two other besties know about it.” He draws my head back so he can look at me, “All right. But who are you going to call first if it gets worse? Me. Who are you going to call when you need anything? Me. I’ll be your everything. I’ll be your fucking booty call by phone. Anytime, wherever I am. Am I clear, Brooke?”
“I’m sorry. My mind froze on ‘booty call.’?”
“It did? What about it do you need me to clear up for you?”
The devil’s lift of one dark eyebrow heats up my body like a live little volcano. The idea of phone sex with Remington makes me both laugh and feel, suddenly, incredibly tingly, and I end up shoving his chest playfully. “I won’t call you for that! I know you’re going to be busy.”
His eyes twinkle. “Not too busy for that.”
“Why that glint in your eye? Have you done it before? I’ll bet Melanie has done it with Riley.”
Smirking, he runs his hands down the back of my head and back, then gently kisses my earlobe, my nose, his voice a little thick. “I want to do it with you.”
My sex grips and my nipples ache, and a hot flush spreads over me. I love our first times. The first time he played me “Iris.” The first time he invited me to run. The first time he kissed me, made love to me. We’ve never had a first of this type before.
“I want it too, but I don’t know if I can. If I touch there . . . with blood . . .”
His lips press into my forehead as he fingers the two top buttons of my top, his voice ten times terser than moments ago, “It’s just blood.”
The scent of him, the pheromones he puts out, spins me into a frenzy. My womb grips with want, and suddenly I throb so fiercely, my already sensitized breasts feel too constrained in my bra. “Remington, god, only you could make me horny right now when I’m so worried.”
His hands spread on my ass, and suddenly I feel his lips sliding over my ear; then he’s tonguing me gently, and a new heat builds between my thighs. “I want you so fucking much.” His voice is a raspy breath as he slides a hand under the waistband of my jeans and palms one of my ass cheeks under my panties.
He cups both my breasts and presses them together as he nuzzles me, side to side, growling against my skin.
“Whenever you want to, I want to,” he tells me, lifting his head and pressing his mouth to mine, his words vibrating against my tongue as I stroke hungrily across his. “Just call me and tell me. Tell me you want me. That you’re hot for me and I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of my woman—whenever she wants. Whatever she wants.”
“Me too. You call me and I’ll take care of you.” I rub my thumb along the hard square of his jaw, then we close the distance between our mouths, and during the rest of the flight, he grabs the sides of my head and kisses me, and kisses me, and kisses me raw and swollen.
? ? ?
A CHAUFFEUR IN a fancy black Lincoln town car waits for us at the airport, and Remington tells the pilots he’ll be back in two hours. We ride in the back of the car in silence and as close as possible, and I scan the familiar scenery and power on my iPhone. I realize I’m doing anything to distract myself as we approach my apartment. Just like he carried me down the steps from the plane and into the car, Remy carries me out and into my apartment.
I squeeze my arms around his neck. “Stay. Remington, stay. Be my male prisoner. I promise to take care of you all day, every day.”
He laughs a rich male sound, looking into me with those heartbreaking blue eyes, then he scans my place with curiosity, and I feel butterflies when I see his genuine interest. He wants to see where I live. Oh, god, I love him so much it hurts me.
“I’ll give you a quick tour, and then you have to get your fine ass out of here,” I warn him.
He grins. “Show me my woman’s lair.”
With him carrying me around, I spread my hand out and show him my colorful living room. “My living room, Melanie decorated. She’s really good. Eclectic. She’s been mentioned in some local magazines, too, but of course she dreams about being featured in Architectural Digest. Pandora, one of my other friends, tells her she has a better shot at Playboy, though. They’re decorating rivals and like to pick on each other.”