“Take me home,” I breathe, clinging to his neck as he lowers me to the ground.
“My pleasure,” he rasps, engulfing half my face in one big hand. His forehead falls to rest on mine as he angles his lips to mine, and we hear Mel yell, “Remy, take care of her! She plays a tough little cookie, but her melted chocolate center is for you, you know!”
He laughs and goes to thank her. Riley hops off the plane and heads directly to Mel. “Hey, friend,” he calls.
Melanie “hey friends” him back as Riley pats Remington’s shoulder. “I’ll get her suitcases.”
I watch as Remington comes back to me, his body moving sinuously in his loose jeans and a gray T-shirt that is supposed to be loose but hugs all the right muscles in the right ways, and I’m not even breathing when he scoops me up in his arms and looks down at me with eyes that blaze two words: You’re mine.
He carries me into the plane as if we’re a bride and groom and the threshold of the plane is the door to our new home. Diane squeals and Coach and Pete start clapping when he sets me on my feet inside.
“Yay! There she is!” Pete says.
“Ooooh, Brooke, you look so beautiful pregnant!”
“Now at last my boy can keep his head in the game,” Coach grumbles, almost groaning in relief. With a soft laugh, I reach out to hug them, noticing that Remington tightens his hold on my waist and has trouble releasing me so that I can.
Riley climbs the plane then. “Damn, that girl looks good all the time. And so do you, B! You shine like a star!”
I hear a low growl behind me, and I think Remington has had enough of me hugging everyone. Before Riley can take a step forward, Remy grabs me by the hips and takes me, half carrying me, toward our seat in the back, and I know he’s extra possessive when he’s black, so I just settle down and lift his hand to lovingly kiss all his bruised knuckles.
“All right, Rem. She’s back, so no more throwing hotel stuff! We need you fully concentrated,” Pete says, in full business mode as the plane begins to taxi.
“As soon as we check in, I need your ass at the gym. I’ll be damned if I’ll let you face that motherfucker unprepared as we head to the semifinals,” Coach says.
“I’m always at my best—it’s my fucking ring he’s in,” Remington answers, but he’s only half listening, his expression fiercely protective as he watches me kiss each of his knuckles.
“Thatta boy! That’s what I like to hear,” Coach says.
Remy turns his hand in mine so that his thumb can scrape my bottom lip. Liquid black-gray eyes rake over me, and the male appreciation in his gaze only confirms that this white linen dress was definitely the way to go. I’m three months pregnant, but I swear, just the way he looks at me now makes me feel like a virgin.
He reaches out, and I hold my breath in anticipation of his touch, of his hand, warm and strong, the calluses on my cheeks. I can’t breathe as I feel the back of one lone finger curl and slide softly down my jaw. “Have you been thinking about me?”
“No,” I tease.
He smiles indulgently and drags the back of that finger down to my chin, back up to my temple, and to trace the shell of my ear. “Someone else on your mind?”
Delirious with the sparks his touch ignites, I still manage to shrug mysteriously. He smiles indulgently again, like he knows there’s no way I can think of anything but him—the center of the universe and the king of the world.
“You taking good care of my baby?” he asks roughly, and he blatantly lifts the skirt of my dress and slides his hand up and up, past my thighs and panties, so he can spread his fingers out on my bare abdomen. “Or have you been stealing out at night with a wig in old ladies’ dresses?”
The team up in their seating area seem to have just asked him something, but he only makes sure the skirt of my dress is still covering the tops of my legs as he keeps his hand inside, and I can’t even think, because the skin-to-skin contact has scrambled my brain. He smiles tenderly down at me as if he knows what he’s doing to me. Then he slides his free hand under the fall of my hair and starts caressing me. An embarrassing purring sound leaves me, and I hear his answering chuckle as he watches me. Two months of abstinence. Of wanting and missing and longing. Now all my cells buzz awake. He’s not even touching my breasts, which ache and feel heavier than ever. He’s not even touching my sex, which is soaked and clutching with need, but oh god, I feel pleasure from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet.