“And now, Joey ‘the Spider’ MANN! Who has terrified his opponents tonight!”
Before the Spider-Mann can take the ring, Remington looks at me, his blue eyes burning hot. Desire swells between my legs. Last night flashes through my head. I know what he’s thinking of—I can feel it inside me. I don’t know what connects me to him, but something does, and as the testosterone spins through his body I can tell that he’s primed to fight and thinking of me watching him. And it turns him on. And he’s going to fight, like he does, and then f**k me right after. Like he likes to. Oh god, I can’t even wait. I can blame my pregnancy all I want, but the one who is truly to blame for setting me on fire with the merest look is him.
“That motherfucker gets high on you,” Pete says.
“He’s got this,” I answer. Remy tells me that a fight is half head, half body, and maybe he’s right, but when you see Remington fight, I’d bet all of myself on the fact that he fights with his whole heart. My heart whomps harder just now because of him as I watch him tap gloves with his opponent as they both get ready.
The fighting bell sounds with that familiar ting and the public goes quiet. It doesn’t really matter how many times I’ve seen him fight, I’m always mesmerized by the way he moves. They both go to center, warming up. I know Remington’s strategy is different with every opponent. He plays with some. He goes straight to the punch with others. Sometimes he tires them out and saves his swings for the heavy-handed opponents, but today he starts hitting fast, so fast, I hear the popping sounds go poo poo poof?! sending Spider-Mann—the man who’d been terrifying his opponents tonight—stumbling back within the first minute.
“We love you, Riptide!!” the R-I-P-T-I-D-E! girls scream. “Knock him out for us!”
“Although every time you’re here, he fights like a lunatic,” Pete adds.
“Lunatic” is not even the word. He’s a machine.
The fight is in full swing and my tummy’s twisting motions hardly let me pull in a good breath. His muscles ripple as he hooks with his left, then covers. Spider-Mann misses, and Remy counterattacks. He jabs several times with both right and left, then finishes off with a straight punch that slams into Spider-Mann like a fast-moving wall.
Spider-Mann rocks.
Remington bounces back and lets him breathe.
The other man charges.
Remington feints and his hapless opponent swings and swings, missing every time as Remy ducks and comes back up to punch him in the gut, the ribs, then the jaw. By the time he uses his most powerful punch and hooks with his right, Spider-Mann is sweaty, bloody, and dead tired. He stumbles.
I watch Remy wait for him to get back up, and I’m sure that all the females in the stadium are screaming and ogling the same thing I am. How drops of sweat slide down Remington’s muscled torso. How the vine tattoos on his arms glisten with a thin sheen of perspiration, and they look as inky black as his hair. How those sexy dimples flash as he smiles to himself every time he rocks his victim’s center.
The R-I-P-T-I-D-E! girls talk to each other in between their screaming, like Mel and I do when we see him fight. Two of them, the P and the T, are jumping together, hugging each other because I’ll bet the lust is just too much.
Oh, god, it’s even too much for me. And supposedly, he’s mine. But I just can’t believe it. I see him, I touch him, I kiss him, I love him, and ninety-nine point nine percent of me can’t believe someone as elusive, complex, and male as him could belong to anyone—even if he loves me.
One right hook and a noisy splat on the canvas later, Remington’s arm is being held up in the air by the ringmaster. Chest heaving, hungry blue eyes see me, eyes that singe me down to my very bones. He doesn’t smile. His nostrils flare. My heart pounds and my entire body prepares for what I see coming in his eyes.
“Do you all want more?” I hear yelled through the speakers. “Are you ready for MORE?”
The public screams, the R-I-P-T-I-D-E! girls scream, and Remington keeps looking at me as he catches his breath, his eyes brilliant blue and stripping me in my seat, and I’d bet everything that I own on the fact that he’s f**king me in his head. My sensitized br**sts grow even heavier, and when he takes on his next opponent, my sex floods and grips as I see his muscles flex, the way he strategizes with that brain of his.
I’m dying to have him all to myself tonight, his tongue in my mouth, doing the things it does, him inside me, riding me hard and fast or slow and deep. . . . I just want to cuddle with my lion and give him all the love nobody in the world ever has given him but me.