“They’re worried about you.”

“Me or my money?” I quietly ask. Another day I might not ask this. But I know they’re worried about my stupid bet. One black fucking night, I bet all my cash and savings on my win this year. Pete and Riley are worrying about it, especially Pete, who’s in charge of the finances.

“You. And your money.”

I smile at her. “I’m going to win. I always do.”

Her lips form a small smile too, and my mouth is drawn to that mouth of hers that tastes like peaches dipped in sugar. My blood heats when I notice how swollen and red her lips are from all our kissing, and the need to take that mouth in mine runs through me when she shudders.

So, she knows what I’m thinking about?

I swear I don’t even want to be here today. Only because of her did I manage to get out of my suite today and into this plane. But I don’t feel like doing anything except her.

“Do you want to run today? To get ready for tomorrow?” she asks.

I shake my head no.

“You’re tired?” she prods.

Nodding, I whisper, “So fucking tired I could barely pull myself out of bed.”

When she nods that dark, little head of hers in understanding, all the heaviness in my chest lifts for a moment, and she’s like a little sun in all my gray.

She leans back on the seat, her shoulder up against mine, and she looks so badly slept because of me, I slide myself lower on the seat so my shoulder is close to where her head is. And she can rest it on me.

She does.

Quietly, I pass her my iPod so she can hear Norah Jones’s “Come Away with Me.”

She listens while lazily leaning her head on me, and I duck my head to try to listen with her.

Jerking as if she’s just thought of something, she grabs her iPod, finds a song, and passes it to me. Then the Gym Class Heroes’ song “The Fighter” begins.

Her eyes are glued to my profile as I listen, and if I’ve kissed her for four fucking days straight and she’s playing me a song about fighting, I’m fucking not doing something right. “You play me a song about a fighter?” I ask her in disbelief and annoyance at myself.

She nods.

I toss her iPod aside with a scowl and then grab her by the hips and lift her onto my lap, hearing her breath catch when my erection bites into her juicy, little bottom. Bending my head down, I place my lips close to her ear. “Give me another one,” I demand.

She shudders, and suddenly she starts shaking her head. “We can’t keep doing what we’re doing, Remy. You need your sleep.”

I whisper. “Give me another song, Brooke.”

My heart kicks when she obeys me and reaches for her iPod, and I feel like I’m finally getting a bone today. Taking it from her, I click PLAY and listen intently when the familiar song of “Iris” begins.

God, this woman kills me.

I lift my head to meet her gaze while my heart beats fast and hard in my lap and in my chest. “Ditto,” I say.

“To what?”

The team up in the seating area is quiet, but they’re not looking at her and me. I slide my fingers in her hair and draw her head down so I can hungrily drag my lips along the seam of her lips. “To every lyric.”

She pulls back from me with a shudder that clearly tells me she doesn’t want to. “Remy . . . I’ve never had an affair before. I just won’t share you. You can’t be with anyone else while you’re with me.”

God, I’m so wild about her, I can’t even think of anything else anymore. Dragging my thumb along the lower lip I just licked, I look into those golden eyes that seem both pleading and demanding of me and tell her, “We won’t be having an affair.”

She doesn’t react for a moment.

I’m so hungry for more of our kissing sessions that I crush her against me and trace my nose with the shell of her ear.

“When I take you, you’ll be mine,” I promise her, trailing my thumb along her jaw as I gently kiss her earlobe. “You need to be certain.” Her gaze latches onto mine as I warn her, “I want you to know me first, and then, I want you to let me know if you still want me to take you.”

“But I already know I want you,” she protests.

I watch her mouth as it moves, telling me she wants me, and the thought of her not knowing what she’s talking about feels like a wrench in my chest. Slowly, I stroke my hand down her bare arm, my voice thick and tormented. “Brooke, I need you to know who I am. What I am.”

“You’ve had tons of women without this requisite,” she says pleadingly.

I engulf her ass in my hands and drag her deeper into my lap, memorizing the way she looks right now as I look into her eyes and will her to understand me.

“This is my requisite with you.”

Her eyes darken with pain, and she leans close to me and whispers, “We still can’t keep this up, Remy. Not when your championship is on the line. So you either come get me tonight to make love to me, or you leave me alone so we can both rest.”

For a moment I’m not sure I heard right.

She’s telling me I can’t kiss my mouth . . . my woman . . .

She’s telling me I either fuck her and take her all, or I take nothing.

If she were any other woman in the world, I’d have fucked her the night I met her. Maybe I’d have fucked her another time. Then I’d have forgotten her. But she is Brooke Dumas and I am not messing it up with her if it kills me.

“All right,” I say, smiling like I don’t feel as if I’d just swallowed down my own cock.

Suddenly, I can’t have her on my lap. Her bottom lush and juicy and mine—but unavailable. Fuck me. Setting her aside, I reach for my iPod and look for something. Metallica. Marilyn Manson. Something crazy that will shut the fuck up all the protests sputtering in my head and the sensation in my chest of having lost some unknown battle before I even fought it.

PAST

LOS ANGELES

I booked a suite for Brooke and Diane, and one of the ladies doesn’t like it.

My lady, to be exact.

I was caked with sweat and still panting from my workout when she massaged the back of my neck, leaning close enough to whisper in my ear, “Mind telling me why Diane and I are together in a suite, Remy?”

She turned my neck to one side, then the other, her fingers light on my jaw, but I still refused to answer.

“You can’t do this, Remington.”

Biting back a laugh, I turned and touched two fingers to her lips, holding her gaze for a long heartbeat. “Stop me. I dare you,” I told her, then I grabbed my towel and walked away to my suite to drown all my frustrations in a cold shower.

Now I’m in the LA Underground locker rooms, sitting on a bench at the end while Coach wraps my hands, some song in my ears, when I see Pete in my peripherals wave someone over.

I see Brooke heading over to me, at Pete’s insistence, and I immediately hook my finger on my headphone cord and pull them down.

Brooke holds my gaze as she quietly leans over and pauses my iPod, then she walks behind me to seize my shoulders and starts working on my knots.

The instant I feel her fingers on my bare flesh, I groan and feel my body both tense with arousal and relax from the knowledge she’s with me.

I haven’t kissed her in what feels like a year.

I miss her in my bed.

I miss the way she moans and the way her soft, silky mouth swells under mine.

I miss her touch; I want it badly.

“Deeper,” I command her, and she goes in deeper with her fingers, using her thumb to roll over one of the larger knots. Relaxing my neck, I let my head hang and drag in a deep breath as she presses down until the knot disintegrates, and I groan from the pleasure of feeling the heat spread into my tissue.

“Good luck,” she whispers into my ear before she draws back, and my skin feels taut as a drum cover.

I stand and look at her, and I don’t know why she’s so determined to make me fuck her that she keeps her kisses away from me until I do, but I’m going to make her cave in to me before I cave in to her.

I’m not fucking her yet, no matter how ready I am to kill for it.

I’m not touching that sweet pussy until it’s ready to be taken home—permanently.

Behind me, Riley comes with my robe, and I spread out my arms and ram them into the sleeves while I keep my eyes on her.

“Riptide!” I hear the call, and I bounce in place for a second, then trot out into the arena.

I take my ring like I always do, but tonight’s not a normal one. Tonight, I fight—

“Benny, the Black Scoooooorpion!”

I see him charge out of the walkway on the other side. That ugly black tat on his face, he storms out to the general booing of the crowd, but grins nevertheless.

Remembering the club incident, where he dared speak of my girl’s pussy, I remind myself I owe him a beating. The moment he takes the ring, he comes up to center, and so do I, fixing my gaze on his yellow eyes.

His rage and my rage combine to create a powerful effect on the air.

“Fucking pussy needs a woman to defend him now?” he says, spitting on the mat.

I laugh softly. “The bad news is, not even a woman can defend you from me now.”

We tap knuckles, and the fighting bell rings.

We wait it out, both of us inspecting the other, and I want my little firecracker to see this.

I want her to see me beat the living daylights out of this dipshit.

Flicking my eyes to the side, I notice Brooke’s chair is empty.

Scowling, I scan the arena and duck when Scorpion swings, then I come back and punch him, fast and hard, on the jaw.

Then I see her.

She’s calling out to a girl heading to the exit with one of Scorpion’s minions, while another of those motherfuckers holds her—Brooke—by the arms.

My blood runs cold, then hot in fury. I slam my fist into Scorpion’s jaw, shove him aside, grab the nearest rope and leap out of the ring onto the cement floor, leaving Scorpion spitting blood on the mat. The arena erupts with shouts and screams and the announcer yells through the speakers, “The victor, Scorpion! Scooooooorpiooooooon! Remington Tate has been disqualified from this round! Dis-qualified!”

I reach Brooke as she struggles to break free, and she looks tiny and feisty in that motherfucker’s grip, making me livid. I grab the hands on her arms and thrust them back, delivering him a look that promises he will die because of me, then I yank her into my arms and forget about everything but that she’s safely nestled against me.

Still, she fights me.

“No. No! Remy, let me go, I need to follow her.” She twists in my grip and lightly hits my pecs, her expression twisting in pain. “Let go, Remy, let go, please.”

I clench her tighter against me and walk her to the exit, because I don’t think she realizes what’s going on. “Not now, Little Firecracker,” I softly warn her. She stops squirming and peeks over my arm at the angry faces of some of Riptide’s fans, and I use my shoulders to shove through the crowd as they start getting vicious.

“Bitch. It’s your fault, you stupid bitch!”

Her eyes widen in horror as the crowd starts clawing angrily into the air, then she curls into me and lets me guide her out to the car.