He winks at me, and the wink travels all the way to form a little tingling in my gut as I point to the room adjoining. “And then that’s my kitchen. Small, but it’s only me here. And then the door here takes us to . . . my bedroom.”
We go in, and he sets me down at the foot of the bed; then he takes it all in with quiet wonder. I glance around and look at it through his eyes. It’s simple, the walls in nude colors. Some black-and-white pictures of athletes hang on the walls—close-ups of muscles. There’s a pinup wall with pictures of me, Melanie, Pandora, Kyle . . . some other friends. . . . I have two nutritional charts hanging, speaking of carbs, protein, healthy fats. And a framed quote Melanie gave me: A CHAMPION IS SOMEONE WHO GETS UP WHEN HE CAN’T.—JACK DEMPSEY. She got it for me when I damaged my ACL and was depressed, and I tried to be this champion.
I am looking at one now. Every day I look at one.
He walks to the pinup wall and inspects a picture of me sprinting past a finish line—number 06 on my chest—and runs his thumb over the photograph. “Look at you,” he says with ill-concealed male pride, and I didn’t realize I’d walked over to him until he turns and spots me.
He scoops me up and sets me back on my bed, this time in the center, brushing some escaped tendrils of hair back behind my forehead. “Stay off your feet for me,” he chides.
“I will. I forgot. It’s habit.” I scoot back so I rest against my headboard and pull him to me.
“You should go or I won’t let you leave me,” I whisper in his ear.
He cuddles me for a moment, his hard, solid arms wrapped snugly around my waist as he ducks his head and kisses, licks, and scents my neck, swiftly alternating between the three. He’s never scented me as much as he has in the past two hours. Now, he scents me slowly and deeply, then licks me just as slowly, and I feel his attentions, and lastly, his kiss, right in my sex. “When you tell me you’re in bed, this is what I’ll picture. This is what you see,” he rumbles as he lifts his head.
I’m getting teary, but don’t want to make this any worse, so I nod, but I know there’s no way on earth he could miss the crumpled expression on my face.
His eyes clasp mine as he draws back. “I’ll be back soon,” he tells me, cupping my cheek in his big, callused hand, and I hate that a tear slips out. He smiles at me, but that smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be here soon,” he repeats.
“I know.” I wipe my cheek, take his hand, and set a kiss inside his palm, then curl his fingers around it so that whether he wants my kiss or not, he holds it. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Shit, come here.” He crushes me in his arms, and all my efforts to hold myself in check are shot to hell, and the waterworks begin. I start bawling.
“It’s all right,” he says, smoothing his hands down my back as a series of wrenching sobs take over me. It’s all right, I hear, it’s all right, little firecracker, but I just don’t feel like it’s all right. How could it be? He could need me. I need him. He could be black, and Pete could shoot more shit into his neck. Something could happen in a fight and they could not tell me because of not wanting to stress me and cause me to lose the baby. I feel weak and helpless when all I wanted in life was to be strong and independent. But I fell deeply and irrevocably in love. And now I am ruled by this love, for this man, who sounds like thunder when he talks in my ear, and smells like soap and him and like the ocean, and holds me in the strongest arms in the world—and when these arms are gone, my whole world will be gone with them.
“You need to go,” I say, dragging in a ragged breath as I push him away. Instead he sets his forehead and his nose against mine, and we breathe each other’s air.
We just don’t need to say it. I love you crackles between us and I hear the words as if he were yelling them to me.
He takes my hand, kisses my knuckles fiercely, and then frames my face and wipes my tears with his thumbs. “You okay, baby firecracker?”
“I will be. More than okay,” I promise.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I shakily check the message.
“Melanie is five minutes away.” My voice is raw. Mel knows where I keep my spare key and will burst in here any minute, and Remington will leave.
He will leave.
My eyes blur again. “Please go before I cry,” I beg. Which is ridiculous, because I’m already crying like a baby and feel and probably look like shit. He curls his fingers around the back of my neck and closes his eyes as he leans his head on mine. “Think of me like crazy.”
“You know I will.”
Stormy blue eyes hold mine, his voice gruff as he leans over. “Now give me a kiss.”
I do, and he groans softly as his lips connect with mine. Little fireworks explode in me, and I feel his kiss, soothing my mind and my soul and my heart too. He spreads out his hand and fondles the small of my back gently as we kiss, low, deep, savoring, memorizing; then his mouth comes back up to absorb a stray tear from my cheek.