“I even offered him to take care of it,” Debbie adds, “but he was like, just drop it, I’m fine, and got away, telling us to do his friends, and then he went to his room and locked himself in. Pete wants to make sure that doesn’t happen again tonight.”
I stare down at my lap and an overwhelming feeling of possessiveness I never knew I could even experience flits through me. “Why does he have to get laid every night?” I ask them, unable to hide my annoyance.
“Are you kidding? He’s Remy. He’s like, used to getting a lot of it. Daily.”
Scoffing, I wave my hand and turn to stare at the empty ring, not really wanting to think how much of “that” Remington is used to getting, but a visual of his beautiful body entwined with anyone else’s makes my stomach grip so uncomfortably, if I had eaten anything recently, I’d be in danger of losing it.
Ten minutes later, I hear his name shredding through the speakers, “And noooow, ladies and gentlemen, say helloww to the one, the ONLY, Remington Tate, RIPPPPPTIDEEEEEE!”
A stream of sensations shoots through my body as he comes trotting out, and I instantly feel the liquid heat gushing into my panties. God, I hate how many times during the day I look at him and want to make him mine. I want to touch him, to know him.
He climbs into the ring, with that shiny robe that contrasts completely with his utter manliness, and the instant he bares himself to the crowd, everyone screams. Just like my heart does as I take him in like I need my fix. His dark hair is perfectly recklessly up today, those tanned muscles flexing as he extends out his arms and does his little turn. And here I am, my breath caught between my lungs and my lips as he turns around and scans the crowd. As soon as he spots me, his eyes come alive, as alive as I feel when he smiles at me. He holds my gaze while those dimples flash, and I swear he stares at me in a way that makes me feel that I am the only woman here. Every time he’s in the ring, he’s completely in character. And his eyes just … take me. I know it’s not true. I know I’m seeing only what I want to see.
But for a little second, I just want to sit in this stupid chair and believe there is this sort of magic between two people and I can be this prized someone to this sexy, raw, primitive man who’s so strong, mysterious, and playful to me, he compels me like nothing in my life ever has.
I can’t stop thinking that he didn’t have sex with the girls Pete and Riley had brought him, and that’s all I can think of as I watch him take on his first opponent, delighting not only me, but hundreds of other women with the power and grace of his perfectly trained body.
Breathless, I watch him take his second, and his third, and I feel such a rush of pride for him every time the word “victor” is attached to his. He works so hard, trains so hard, and I now know boxing terms and can see exactly what he does. I see his one-two punches. His jabs. His hooks. And suddenly he blocks a right-handed power punch with his left arm, then steps inside and buries a left hook to his opponent's ribs and follows that with a right cross to the jaw that knocks the man out completely. His opponent tries to get up, and slumps back down, bloodied and exhausted.
The public roars as his name takes over the entire room.
“RRRRRRIIIIIIPTIDEEEEEEEEEEE!”
My god. He fights like a true champion, and he deserves to be the champion at the end of it all. Heart knocking wildly inside me, I watch as the ringmaster heads over to raise his arm, and I wait in a strange mix of anxiety and anticipation for the moment he’s declared victor, for I know that in this instant his gaze will swing to mine, like it has done in every single fight since my first.
“Our victor, ladies and gentlemen. Riptiiiide!!”
By the time those electric blue eyes seek me out in the stands, my heart throbs fiercely in my temples, and my insides bubble with emotion when he spots me. He stares straight into my eyes, and his eyes are only mine, and his smile is only mine, and for this fraction of an instant, nothing else matters but us.
Tonight I really miss Melanie. Melanie who would have been shouting at him at my side, and telling him everything I would like to say but I’m such a coward to say them out loud. But in my mind I hear her and I wish she’d come visit so I could scream to him like she does, and tell Remington Tate he's so f**king hot I can’t stand it.
We climb into the car over an hour later, and both Riley and Pete seem to be traveling in a separate car with Friday and Debbie, while a hotel chauffeur drives Remington and me in a black Lincoln. I don’t know who arranged this in such a way, but I’m told to wait in the black car and suddenly he slides in next to me into the back seat, and my chest grips in nerves and excitement because he’s showered after the fight, and changed into drool-worthy black denim and a black button shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, and the scent of his soap instantly makes my lungs feel achy.
The seat is spacious, but somehow as we wind into traffic, I realize Remington sits close to me. Too close. I can feel the back of his hand against the back of my hand. I should probably move my hand, but I don’t. Instead I gaze out the window at the night lights dotted across the city as we approach the club, but I’m not seriously seeing anything. My body is honed in on the part where our bodies touch.
Why is he touching me?
I think he’s watching me, measuring my reaction, when he moves his thumb and traces it along the top of mine.
I want to shiver. To close my eyes. Just absorb him. I can’t forget what the girls told me, and the little candle of hope they lit up for me is now blazing like a torch inside of me. I need to know. If he wants me. Does he want me?