“Did you like the fight?” he asks in his quiet, deep voice as his powerful hands glide smoothly down the outside of my legs, up the inside of my thighs, rubbing my pu**y. He goes around then, soaping and massaging the flesh of my ass cheeks and in between.
The pleasure of his sure, familiar touch is so complete, I bite back a moan as I watch him wash me.
One of his eyes is a little swollen, and the gash above his eyebrow still looks bright red. His plump bottom lip is still cut at the center. He’s hurt, but getting hurt is nothing to him. He wanted my attention and would do anything to get it, and even if I want to hit him for being so reckless, the urge to kiss every cut and gash is stronger than anything.
Remington has been abandoned his whole life. Parents. Teachers. Friends. Even me. Nobody has ever stuck with him long enough to show him he’s worth it. What he did, just to get me to touch him and give him some love, makes me burn to drown him with my love until he never, ever, has to ask for it.
“I refuse,” I whisper in a fervent voice, “to sit there and watch you getting hurt on purpose.”
“I refuse to let you push me away,” he says with equal fervor, filling one large, soapy hand with the weight of my breast.
Shaking my head with a frown, I let my eyes drift shut when he tilts the showerhead to my face. The spritz washes away my shampoo, and when he slides his hands down my hair to help the soap trickle down my body, I can barely keep it together.
Taking action before I lose it, I seize the soap and make lots of bubbles, then I reach out to the slick muscles of his chest and rub my soapy fingers over his hard, smooth flesh. His chest jerks at my unexpected touch, and when my eyes flick up to his, my knees almost give. All of my body clenches as I hold those starved blue eyes, my fingers rubbing wetly up his thick arm, down his chest, across his eight-pack. My voice, thick with emotion, is barely heard above the trickling water. “Is this what you wanted? When you were out there, recklessly letting yourself be hit?”
Gently, he grips my face in one hand, his voice stern and passionate as he enunciates every word. “I want you. I want you to touch me, to put your lips on mine—like before. I want you to love me. Stop f**king punishing me, Brooke. I love you.”
He presses his lips to mine, testing me with a fast, rough kiss, withdrawing to look at me with panting breaths.
His grip tightens on my face. “Is my girl going to let this break her? Is she? She’s stronger than that. . . . I know she is, and I need her to live. I need her to fight for me and I need her to fight with me. As far as I’m concerned, that never happened. Only you happened, Brooke. And you’re still happening, aren’t you, firecracker?”
Our gazes hold, and I don’t know who is hungrier, needier, or more desperate. His gaze claws into me, he looks so starved, and I feel rabid. My chest starts heaving, my heart hammering, and before I know it, my fingers push into his hair and I pull him to my lips at the same time he slams me back against the shower wall and crushes his mouth with mine.
I gasp as his taste zings through me as he forces my lips apart, sliding one of his hands up to frame my face, locking me in place as he opens me up with the force of his mouth, making me groan and claw at his scalp as I anxiously seek out his tongue with mine.
But he finds me first. No. He does not find me. He plunders me, his tongue rubbing and f**king mine. A low, pleased growl runs through his chest as he lifts me up in the air to align our mouths better. His closeness, the touch of our flesh, exhilarates me. My skin prickles where we touch as the need builds between us. I feel roped to him in a way that makes me certain that nothing can ever pull me back.
I suck hungrily on his tongue as he turns off the shower and carries us outside. He drapes a towel over me while I continue clinging, sucking his tongue, nibbling his lips, my blood rushing fast through me like an awakened river as he walks us to the bed.
He lowers me over the comforter, and he drapes the towel over my body, lightly rubbing it over my skin while he ducks his head and whispers, “Let me go get dry.”
I moan in protest when he leaves me. I’m so hot, but so wet and cold, my teeth chatter as I watch his muscled bu**ocks flex in the sexiest way a man’s bu**ocks can flex as he disappears into the bathroom. Even as every inch of my body pulses, I shakily tuck my towel tighter around me and absently dry myself, my eyes fixed on the bathroom door.
Ohmigod, I hurt like a motherfucker, too.
When he finally fills the threshold with those magnificently broad shoulders and that beautiful eight-pack, rivulets of water still slide from his hair, down his throat, to his chest and down to the towel draped around those narrow hips. My breath goes. I can see he’s run a towel over his head and his dark hair is standing up and spiked, those blue eyes shining greedily as he makes sure I’m on the bed as he left me. Suddenly all the love and painful jealousy I feel rushes through my bloodstream like lightning.