Mine (Real #2) by Katy Evans
ONE
WELCOME BACK, RIPTIDE!
Brooke
IT’S BEEN TWO months, exactly sixty-two days, since I returned to him. A thousand four hundred eighty-eight hours of wanting, longing, and needing him. It has been even longer than that since thousands of women, men, and fans across the world watched him fall.
He’s back.
This is it. The first fight of the new Underground season.
He’s been training like mad. He’s put on more muscle. He’s more ripped than ever, and I know this season he’s ready to take what’s his.
The audience in the Washington, D.C., fighting arena consists of about a thousand people, and when the winner of the current match is announced, the crowd grows restless.
We all know it’s his time to be called. His assistant, Pete, sits tense and alert to my right. He’d told me he’s the “draw”—that most everyone in the arena is here for him.
I know I certainly am.
The air is charged with excitement and scented with perfume, beer, and sweat. The two previous fighters are exiting the ring now, one of them assisted by his team, and my heart pounds as I sit motionless in my seat, in the first row, at the very center, just where my man wants me. So here I am, waiting, my body hyperaware and my heart pounding his name. Remington, Remington, Remington . . .
The speakers crackle as the announcer turns on the microphone, and I almost jump out of my skin.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we all remember our crushed souls—our crushed spirits!—when the crowd favorite lost the championship final last year.”
The crowd boos in memory, and my throat clogs thinking about how Remy’s broken body had been carried out of the ring.
“Have no fear, people. Have no fear!”
“REMY!!!!!!!!!” someone screams.
“Bring him out already!” another yells.
“Oh, we will. Have no doubt about it; we will,” the announcer somberly says, painfully drawing it out for the crowd. “After much speculation and many rumors, it’s completely official. The man is fighting this season, and he’s taking no prisoners, people! Here he is, ladies and gentlemen. Here. He. Is! You all know who I’m talking about?”
The crowd roars, “RIP-TIIIIIIIDE!”
“Who??”
“RIP-TIIIIIIDE!”
“One more time, ’cause I can’t hear you!”
“RIPTIIIIIDE!”
“That’s right, ladies and gentlemen! Here’s our favorite bad boy with that infamous smile and those deadly fists, ready to carve R.I.P. into anyone who stands in his way this year. The one, the only, Remingtoooon Tate, your RIPTIIIIIIIIIDE!!”
Wild excitement rushes through me as the crowd stands and roars like never before.
“My god, the fans are thirsty for him,” Pete breathes.
And so am I. My god. So am I.
Across the ring from me, women are waving panties in the air. Panties! Another lifts a sign that reads PULL ME UNDER, RIPTIDE!
My mouth is dry, and a thousand and one winged things flutter in my stomach when I see a flash of red.
And then, he’s closer.
Trotting out of the walkway and to the ring.
To his ring.
My body enlivens with sensations as he breaks through the crowd.
Some fans have escaped their seats and make a grab for him, but he easily shoves his way through the throng, his face shadowed by the hood of his red satin robe. Remy. My Remy. The man I love with every ounce of me.
“Riptide, you put the sex in SEXY!”
“Remy, I want you to f**king impregnate me!”
He climbs into the ring with a fluid jump, and then he removes his RIPTIDE robe, slowly, without hurrying. Hundreds of female screams ring in my ears as he goes to his corner to hand the robe to Riley, his coach’s second.
Riley pats his muscled back with a smile and tells him something. Remington throws his head back as if he’s laughing and then takes the center of the ring, spreads his long, ripped arms out, and starts doing his slow and cocky I-know-you-all-want-to-fuck-me turn.
I’m dying.
I will never, ever, get used to the sight of him in that ring. My heart whams excitedly into my rib cage while all my insides pulse with need, and my chest feels like a balloon about to burst in excitement. Hard, lean, and perfect, he is all dangerous, all beautiful, and all mine.
My eyes absorb every inch of what every other woman here is drooling for, and I helplessly let my gaze run up and down his perfect athletic form. My eyes lovingly caress his tan and kiss the inky Celtic bands over his biceps. I admire his torso and his long, strong legs, his sculptured arms, his narrow waist and broad shoulders. Every muscle in his perfect body is so defined that you would know exactly where one structure ends and the next begins if you trailed your fingers along his magnificent form.
And as he turns even more, I see the washboard abs with eight squares—eight! Yes, it is impossible, but he’s got them . . . and his face.