Seized by a new determination, I sit up and angrily grab his jaw and start scrubbing my palms and fingers furiously over the marks. When I can’t remove much of them, I grab his white T-shirt and pull it up to wipe him. He stands there, breathing harder than he does when he fights, looking at me like he’s begging me for something—for me—as he patiently lets me wipe him clean.
My fingers tremble. His eyes are brilliant in the shadows of the suite as I scrub, but I still can’t get the lipstick off, and I can’t stand it.
I lick my finger and then rub saliva on the lipstick marks, then pass his T-shirt over the damned spot.
He grows frustrated and shoves his fingers into his mouth, then starts rubbing the places I am, our fingers bumping as we scrape our saliva all over his jaw. I lift the T-shirt and scrape again, going breathless as it finally starts coming off.
I stop when there’s nothing left, only his hard jaw, a little raw, my body on fire with need and my heart on fire with love and every inch of me burning with jealousy. And I grab his hair and lean over and set a kiss right there, where another kiss used to be, desperately trying to erase anything before. And I set another kiss there, and another where another mark used to be. He grasps my h*ps tight as I drag my lips along his jaw and head for his mouth, and I kiss it, fast and almost as if I don’t want to, and ease back, sucking in a breath as I let go.
He raises a brow. “Done?” he asks in a haggard voice, and I don’t think I’m breathing when I nod.
His chest expands as he grabs the stained T-shirt and lifts it in one single, fluid move, tossing it aside. “You and I are going to make love now. We don’t have to wait a second . . . longer . . . to be together.”
Shivers run through me, and my voice is raw with emotion. “I can’t stand seeing their lipstick on you, Remington—I won’t let them kiss you. And this isn’t some pregnancy craziness talking or my insecurities! I told you a long time ago that I won’t share. I won’t share you.”
“Shh, baby, I neither expect you to nor want you to.” He eases my tattered dress off my shoulders, then lets it spread out beneath me on the table. He urges me down and then looks at me splayed for him, with my knees folded back. He touches me everywhere—my legs, my arms, between my br**sts—as he leans over. “Coach was tying up my hands, I had my headphones on. I didn’t see them coming until they were all over me. It won’t happen again. I kiss no one. I kiss no one. But my little firecracker.”
He ducks to my br**sts and licks one nipple through my bra, sliding his thumb under the plain white cotton, easing the fabric down and hooking it beneath the rising swell. “I am going to lick these and I am going to suck these and I am going to do whatever I want with these.”
My heart pounds hot blood through my veins as he lowers the fabric on the other side and licks the sensitive peak, sending bolts of pleasure everywhere in me. My br**sts are bigger, thrust out, the ni**les darker and puckered, and he cups them as if exploring new territories that delight him. The sound that rumbles up his chest causes me to make a small little sound of my own as I squirm needily. His eyes lift to mine when he hears that sound, and he grabs my h*ps and drags me to the edge of the table, my butt flying off the very edge, and he jerks loose his sweatpants. Suddenly I feel how hard he is, his heavy erection brushing against my soaked entry as he leans over to lave and lick my br**sts again, his hardness nestling into the apex of my legs.
“Sensitive?” He presses one nipple in with his thumb, then the other, his hands rough but gentle. I arch and mew softly. I want a bruise, I want to ache, I want to ache in my skin and my muscles like I ache inside with love for him.
“Yes,” I gasp and there’s a lump in my throat and tears of need in my eyes.
He takes my lips in a voracious kiss, then ducks his head and groans into my neck, “Brooke.” He caresses between my legs and pushes his thumb into my body as he turns his head and strokes my tongue with his own. My insides tremble when he draws back to observe how debauched I look as he thumbs me.
I see the raw need in his face as he watches; then he lifts his hand and licks his glistening wet thumb. Oh god, I see him—primal and male, still with that boyish charm and that disheveled crazy black hair, and I squirm and moan because I want him, I want him, I WANT HIM.
“You’re restless, what do you want?” The ragged need in his voice makes me tremble as I say, “I want to lick you like you lick me,” and he nods and bends over and gives me his tongue first; then he cups the back of my head and presses me to his neck.