He growls softly in satisfaction and lowers his head to buzz my mouth with his. Then he cups my ass in his big hand and squeezes me as the elevator climbs the rest of the way. I rub my hands up his chest, over his T-shirt, and keep recklessly tasting him.
“Remy,” I moan. I press my ni**les into his chest and undulate coaxingly, and he chuckles softly in my ear as he clutches my ass harder in his hands.
“Do you want me?” he prods, his breath hot and cajoling against my lips as he presses his mouth to mine.
“Yes . . .”
He slides his hand between my ass cheeks and, from behind, suddenly strokes his thumb over my cl*t through my Lycra pants. My knees nearly fail.
“Are you wet?” he entices.
“Remy . . .” I can only say, my sex aching painfully between my legs.
“Are you wet in your pu**y?” he asks in my ear, sinuously dipping his tongue into the crevice.
“Yes. God, yes.”
“Let me see.” He flips me around so that we’re both facing the doors, then eases his fingers into both my pants and panties and caresses me for a brief second, verifying my wetness, slipping his finger into my swollen entry, making me gasp, rock my hips, and moan, until he says, in a husky and satisfied whisper, “Hmmm.”
Ping.
Hmmm . . .
It’s a sound between us, and when he says it, it means he wants to eat me.
All of me.
About a million cells in my body quiver with need, and my heart rate kicks up as the doors roll open. He swoops me up on his shoulder and grabs my butt on our way to our suite, and I laugh in surprise at the caveman move and kick in the air.
“Diane’s going to be in our room already!” I squeak, but he squeezes my butt like it doesn’t matter and carries me inside, dipping his thumb, once again from behind, between my legs, so it’s swiping over my clit.
My pu**y swells with need, and I fall utterly still, letting him rub me.
My eyes roll to the back of my head as he rubs and rubs, his shoulders hard and strong under my stomach as he carries me.
“Hey guys,” Diane says as he carries me into the suite, and before I can answer, he heads directly to the master bedroom, saying over his shoulder, “We’re not hungry yet—we’ll be out in an hour.”
And he slams the door shut behind us.
SIX
FLYING TO BOSTON
On our way to Boston, I have the opportunity to get better acquainted with the jet’s toilet. Half the flight I spend puking in it.
When I come out after my first round, Remington’s scowl greets me, while Diane ushers me to her seat up at the front where she has a plate of melon, papaya, nuts, and cottage cheese waiting. I love papaya. It’s got fiber and loads of vitamin A, and is great for the digestive system. There’s a lemon wedge on the side, which I usually love squeezing onto the papaya too. My body has a different idea, though, and the scent of papaya . . .
About to barf in my mouth, I shove the plate aside and run to the bathroom, lift the toilet lid, and heave again. Diane immediately appears at the door, and I hear her speak to someone just outside. Of course I have a general idea of who that someone is.
“Don’t let him come in here,” I plead to her between heaves.
Remy has been speedy for over two weeks now.
He called himself the “king of the world” a couple of days ago, followed by “king of the jungle” and then “king of the punching bags” and then, that evening, he asked me to be his queen, and I laughed. But at the same time, he looked so charming and adorable with his dimples that it almost felt like he was proposing.
He’s so energetic. He’s been wearing us all down, but at least Pete—circles under his eyes and all—is happy that he hasn’t switched to depression. Manic Remington fights like a gladiator, and lately, he seems in a very good mood as long as he gets to kick the shit out of people and have a lot of sex—which I am more than happy to provide, since I’ve been about as hot and lusty for him as I always am or—strangely—maybe a little more.
As I flush the toilet and try to breathe again, Diane shoots me a smile that tells me she thinks Remy is adorable for worrying, but her smile vanishes when she takes a good look at my complexion.
I really feel like shit, so I must look like shit. Funny that no matter how old I get, when I feel this sick, I’m flashed back to my soup days and I miss my mom. She would never let us eat in bed, except when we were sick, and then we got a tray with warm soup.
“Could it be a stomach bug?” Diane feels my forehead. “No fever. Would you like some mineral water? Or Alka-Seltzer?” she asks.
“Maybe some sparkling water,” I admit, flushing in embarrassment when I think that the entire team will now know about me and my regurgitating. “Do you have any gum?”
She nods and watches me as I quickly try to rearrange my ponytail. “You should stay in this afternoon,” she suggests.
“Miss his training? Never!” I gasp.
“You look so pale, Brooke.”