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Katy Evans's USA Today and New York Times bestselling series strips away everything you've ever believed about passion—and asks the dangerously enticing question, "How real is what you feel?" Praise for Katy Evans and MINE "Steamy, sexy, intense, and erotic, Mine is one that will have you hanging off the ropes. And begging for more." —Alice Clayton, USA Today bestselling author of Wallbanger "SEDUCTIVE, WILD, AND VISCERAL." —Christina Lauren, New York Times bestselling author of Beautiful Bastard
Praise for Katy Evans and REAL Remington Tate, the unstoppable bad boy of the Underground fighting circuit has finally met his match . . . in Brooke Dumas. "A scorching debut." —Christina Lauren "I have a new book crush and his name is Remington Tate." —Martini Times "Remy is the king of the alpha-males." —Romance Addiction "I loved this book. As in, I couldn't stop talking about it." —Dear Author "Kudos are in order for Ms. Evans for taking writing to a whole new level. She makes you FEEL every single word you read." —Reality Bites "Remy was complex and his story broke my heart . . . made me cry! Katy Evans had me gripped and on the edge of my seat through the whole story. . . . Without a doubt I absolutely fell in total LOVE with Remy." —Totally Booked "Edgy, angsty, and saturated with palpable tension and incendiary sex, this tale packs an emotional wallop. . . . Intriguing." —Library Journal "Unlike anything I've ever read before. Remy and Brooke's love story is one that has to be experienced because until you do, you just won't get it . . . one roller-coaster ride that you'll never forget!" —Books over Boys "Some books are special. . . . What a rare gift for an author to be able to actually wrap your arms around your readers and hold them. Katy Evans does just that." —SubClub Books "Wow—Katy Evans is one to watch." —Wicked Little Pixie
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to my husband, you know the million reasons why
REMY PLAYLIST "IRIS" by Goo Goo Dolls "I LOVE YOU" by Avril Lavigne "KISS ME" by Ed Sheeran "WILL YOU MARRY ME" by John Berry "EVERYTHING" by Lifehouse
PRESENT SEATTLE There will be hundreds of days in my life that I won't remember. But this is one day that I will never forget. Today I marry my wife. Brooke "Little Firecracker" Dumas. I promised her a church wedding. And a church wedding is what she'll get. ♥ ♥ ♥ "I swear if you frown any harder at the door, it's going to collapse under your stare," my PA, Pete, calls from the couch. I swing around to where he and Riley have been watching me pace around the living room of Brooke's old Seattle apartment. Apparently those two are amused as fuck by me. Dipshits. I don't see what's so amusing. Turning back to the bedroom door, I continue pacing. For the life of me, I can't imagine what's taking her so long. It's been exactly fifty-eight minutes since she locked herself up in our bedroom to get ready, when Brooke—my fucking Brooke—usually gets dressed in five. "Dude, it's her wedding day. Chicks take a lot of time to get prepped." Riley thrusts his arms out in the air in a gesture that implies That's life! "Like you're an expert now," Pete jabs. "It's the dress!" Melanie, Brooke's best friend, says, exploding out of the master bedroom with a trail of white stuff that looks like a veil. "It has all these buttons . . . and what are you three doing here anyway? Remington, I talked to Brooke about it. You guys should leave and we'll meet you at the altar." "That's fucking ridiculous," I say, laughing. But when Melanie keeps staring at the three of us, and especially me, with an expression someone might use on a couple of dogs they want to scat, I scowl and head to the bedroom door. I curl my fingers around the doorknob and speak through the closure slit. "Brooke?" "Remy, please don't come in here!" "Come to the door, then." When I hear shuffling, I press closer to the edge and drop my voice so the dipshits on the living room couch don't hear. "Why the fuck can't I see you right now, baby?" All this entering and exiting the room by Melanie, with me separated by a locked door from my soon-to-be wife? I don't like it. And separated despite the fact that she's supposed to be getting dressed for me. "I guess because I want you to see me walk up to you," she whispers. God, that voice, right there. Makes me want to throw the door down and kiss the hell out of her, then do stuff to her under that dress she's trying to put on—the things that husbands do to their fucking wives. "I will see you walk up to me, baby, I just want to see you now too. Open the door and I'll do your buttons." "You can undo them later and then do me." The cheeky statement is followed by a soft "Gaaah," like someone—a very little someone—is amused about something on the other side of this door. "Excuse me, Riptide," Melanie says as she returns, and waves me away from the door. "You boys
should head out to church. We'll see you there in thirty minutes." I scowl when she slides inside the bedroom like a goddamn worm through a tiny slit, preventing me from so much as glimpsing Brooke. Using much the same method, the much-larger Josephine steps out with something squirming against her chest. My son looks at me from the crook of her arm and falls still; his lips are curled in such a way that he almost wears the same amused expression Pete and Riley do. He takes the hand he's got stuck inside his mouth and slaps it flat and wet to my jaw. "Gah!" he says, then squirms and flings himself to me. Catching him, I nuzzle his stomach and growl, which elicits another "Gaaaaaah!" When I lift my head to look into his eyes, he's fucking delighted. And so am I, but I growl again like I'm not and grumble at him, "You think I'm funny?" "Gaaah!" His eyes are all mischief. His head is smaller than my palm as I cup it and buzz the fuzz on the top of his head. My four-month-old, Racer, the son Brooke gave me? He's the most perfect thing I've ever done in my life. I never thought I'd have something like him. Now my life revolves around this dimpled squirrel, who pukes on all my fucking T-shirts, and my Brooke. And, god, where do I start with her? Pete slaps my back with a loud thunk. "All right, dude, you heard them. And watch it—he's going to get all that baby stuff on your suit!" Clamping my jaw, I pat Racer's head and he grins at me. He has one dimple, not two. Brooke says it's because he's only half mine. I contest he's all mine, and so is she. Smiling back at him, I return him to Josephine, who assures me, "Go peacefully, Mr. Tate, I've got this." She's supposed to be a bodyguard, but I don't know what the hell she is now. She strolls outside with Racer and does some nanny work too. He sticks his fingers into her hair and pulls and she even seems to like it. After a glance at the kitchen clock, I level my gaze at her. "I want her there in fifteen minutes," I say, and she nods. A limo is waiting for my bride, but Riley's got the keys to Melanie's convertible, parked just outside without the top down. We all leap inside. I drop down on the front passenger seat and then stare up at the window of our temporary apartment. I can't understand what the big fuss is about wedding-dress buttons. As far as I'm concerned, I should ride, in the car, with my wife, to the fucking church, where we marry. Period. "Rem. It's not like she's going to leave you standing at the altar, man," Riley says, laughing. "Yeah, I know," I whisper, turning back around. But sometimes I just don't know. Sometimes all my chest feels knotted and I think about waking one morning to find Brooke and my son gone, and dying is too easy to describe what I want to do. "Twenty-eight minutes, she'll be walking up to the altar in white, just for you," Pete says. I stare out in silence. Brooke has been excited about this all month. Wondering if this, if that, if a cake, if not a cake. I'd say yes to anything that made her voice more excited, and she'd kiss me like I like. So now she seems in control, getting dressed, ready for her day, and I feel like a mess because she'd said she didn't mind us driving together to the church. And then her best friend put stupid-girl ideas in her head. I ride alone. To a church I never go to. To marry my wife. She's right behind us, but I'm not good. I'm fucking anxious and this is an anxiety that would have been appeased if she'd opened the door and just looked at me with those gold eyes—my mind would have gone still and all the roiling in my chest would have gone quiet.
But it's not happening. Now I have twenty-seven infernal minutes to go . . . and my mind is playing tricks on me like it does when it starts swinging like a pendulum, and the only way I can seem to stop it is with her. Tapping my foot, I stroke the ring in my hand. Then I pull it off and it helps to see her name on its inscription: TO MY REAL, YOUR BROOKE DUMAS.
PAST THE DAY I SAW HER The Seattle crowd roars as I come trotting out onto the Underground walkway. Far at the end and directly in my line of vision, the ring awaits. Twenty-three feet by twenty-three feet, four ropes parallel on each side, four fucking posts, and that's about it. That ring is a home to me. When I'm not on it, I miss it. When I train, I think about it. Every step I take in its direction pumps me up and gets me going. My veins dilate, my heartbeat works to feed my muscles. My mind sharpens and clears. Every inch of me readies to attack, defend, and survive—and give these people the thrill they're all yelling for. "Remy! I love you, Remy!" I hear them yell. "I'll suck your cock for you, Remy!" "REMY, POUND ME, REMY!" "Remington, I want your Riptide!" Stretching out my fingers, I grab the top rope and jump over it into the ring, taking a look at the people surrounding me. The lights are shining. My name is on everyone's lips. And all their excitement and anticipation spins around me in a fun little whirlwind. They're yelling and waving pink shit at me. They want me up here. Right here. Just me, some asshole opponent, and our fists. I whip off my robe and hand it to Riley, my friend and Coach's second, while people rise to their feet and scream louder as I turn to acknowledge the crowd. They're all standing. All looking at me like I'm their God of War and tonight is the night I will give them vengeance. I fucking love it. I fucking love those yells, the women screaming about the kind of shit they want me to do to them. "Remy! Remy!" a crazy-sounding female shouts at the top of her lungs. "You're so fucking hot, Remy!" I turn in amusement, and my gaze runs down the crowded aisle and snags on her. The one with long mahogany hair, and amber eyes, and pink, plump lips that immediately part in shock. I feel stupefied. My instincts kick in, and I take in the stranger with one quick sweep. She's young, athletic, and dressed demurely, but there's nothing demure about the way she runs her wide, disbelieving eyes all over me. Holy god, I feel like she's just run her tongue all over my cock. When her eyes lock on mine, I raise a brow in a question, silently asking her, Did you just shout at me or not? Her cheeks flood a nice shade of pink, and I realize it was her friend who yelled, her friend who pales compared to her. This one doesn't strike me as the kind to be courting the attentions of someone like me. But she's got all my hunter buttons engaged, and now I want her and I'm going to have her. I wink at her, but I can instantly tell she's not feeling playful. She looks appalled. "Kirk Dirkwood, the Hammer, here for all of you tonight!" the guy with the microphone yells. My lips curl as I turn to watch Dirkwood hop into the ring and remove his cover, and I flex my arms and curl my fingers until my knuckles pop out. My body feels good—every muscle is warm and ready to contract. I know I'm good as fuck, but I want this girl to know it. I'm feeling very, very possessive, and I don't want her to look at anyone but me. I want her to see I'm the strongest, the fastest. Hell, as far as I know, I want her to think I'm the only man in the whole damn world.
Kirk is big and slow as a snail. He throws the first punch, but I can see it coming from the moment he even starts thinking about moving. I duck and come back with a punch that knocks him to the side and rocks his balance. She's watching me, I know it. The heat in her gaze makes me fight harder and faster. Hell, I own this ring. I love everything about it. I know its dimensions, the feel of the canvas under my feet, the heat of the lights on me. I have never lost a single Underground fight. People know that no matter how badly I get beat up, I always get back up and finish the battle on my terms. But tonight? I feel immortal. The crowd starts chanting my name. "REMY . . . REMY . . . REMY." It's my ring. My crowd. My fight. My fucking night. Then I hear that voice again. Not her, but the woman she came with. "Ohmigod, hit him, Remy! Just knock him dead, you sexy beast!" I oblige and knock Kirk down on the canvas with a hard thump. Yells erupt all over. The ringmaster grabs and lifts my arm, and I swing my head to look at her, curious to see the look on her face. I'm panting and possibly bleeding, but none of that matters. All that matters to me is checking her the fuck out. Did she fucking see how I knocked him out? Is she even impressed, or not? She returns my stare, and my gut twists all around. God, she's making me hard. She wears these nice clothes, and I swear she's the classiest thing I've ever seen in a place like this. Still, whatever she's wearing, it's too much and needs to come off. "REMY! REMY! REMY! REMY!" people yell. Their chants grow in intensity while her startled golden eyes devour me like I'm devouring her. "You want more Remy?" the announcer happily asks the crowd. "All right then, people! Let's bring out a worthier opponent for Remington Riptide Tate tonight!" Hell, they can bring out anything they want, man or monster. I'm so primed, I could take a couple at once. In my peripherals, I've got her pinned down, nice and tight. In that frilly shirt. Those body-hugging pants. I've already cataloged her at about 120 pounds and five feet seven, at least a head shorter than me. In my head, I'm already measuring her breasts in my hands and tasting her skin with my tongue. Suddenly, I notice she whispers something to her friend, rises to her feet, and takes off down the aisle. "And now, to challenge our reigning champion, ladies and gentlemen, is Parker 'the Terror' Drake!" I stare in disbelief as she walks off, and a knot coils tight around my gut as the rest of my body tightens in preparation to chase. The crowd comes alive as Parker takes the ring, and all I can do is watch her leave my arena while every molecule in my body screams at me to go get her. The bell rings, and I don't play the little feinting and waiting game that me and my opponents always do. I stare into Parker's face and give him a look that says, Sorry, dude, and go straight for the slam and knock him down. He falls splat and doesn't move. The crowd is stunned into silence. The announcer takes a moment to speak as I wait, frustrated as fuck, my heart pounding in anticipation as I wait for Parker to stay down and the counting to begin. It begins. Come on, motherfuckers . . . I'm fucking winning the championship this year and I won't be disqualified . . . Just call it a knockout and let her hear . . . TEN! "Holy cow, that was fast! We have a KO! Yes, ladies and gentlemen! A KO! And in record time,
our victor once again, I give you, Riptide! Riptide, who's now jumping off the ring and—where the hell are you going?" The crowd goes crazy as I land on my feet on the aisle and their screams follow me all the way to the lobby. They are screaming for me while my body is screaming for me to catch her. "Riptide! Riptide!" My heart pumps like crazy. She's walking fast, but I'm fucking running. Every one of my senses demands I chase, capture, and have this girl. I grab her wrist and spin her around. "What the—" she gasps, her eyes wide in shock. She's so beautiful my lungs freeze. Smooth forehead, long lashes with spiky tips—those gold eyes, that dainty nose, and those marshmallow lips. I need to taste that like yesterday. My mouth waters as a wild, primitive hunger opens up inside me. "Your name," I growl. Her wrist is tiny in my hand, fragile, but I'm not about to let go. Oh, no. "Uh, Brooke." "Brooke what?" I snap, tightening my hold. Her scent works me into a lather. I need to find the source of that scent. The back of her ears? Her hair? Her neck? She tries to pry her hand free but I tighten my hold because she's not going anywhere but my bedroom. "It's Brooke Dumas," a voice behind me says, and then the crazy friend who was with her throws off a number, which my idiot brain doesn't grasp, for I'm still hung up on her name. Brooke Dumas. My lips curl as I meet that pretty gold gaze. "Brooke Dumas," I say gruffly out loud, slow and deep, my tongue twisting around the name as I savor it. Such a strong, classy fucking name. Her eyes widen in shock—and she gives me a hungry, doe-eyed look that lets me see she's a little excited but a little afraid. It makes me crazed. I need to touch, smell, taste, claim. I burn with the need to tell her she should be afraid of me, and at the same time, all I want is to pet my hand down her long hair and promise her I'll be her protector. Yielding to the impulse, I slide my fingers into the nape of her neck, fighting to be gentle so that she won't run, while only one thought remains in my head: Take. Her. My gaze never leaving hers, I set a dry kiss on her lips, slowly, trying not to scare her, but just so she knows who I am, and who I will be for her. "Brooke," I say against her soft lips, then I draw back with a smile. "I'm Remington." Her eyes meet mine, and they're metallic gold and liquid with something I recognize as wanting. My smile fades as I look down at her mouth again. It's so pink and soft I bend my head to take it even more deeply. My blood rushes through my veins as her scent drowns me. I want this woman. I can't wait one more second without tasting her, taking her. One second she's warm and trembling in my arms, quietly tipping her head back for more, and the next, the crowd engulfs us and some fucking lunatic is screaming in my ear. "Remy! I FUCKING LOVE YOU! Remy!" Brooke Dumas seems to snap into motion and quickly squirms free. "No." I reach out to snatch up a piece of her white shirt. But she and her friend wind through the throng like wiggly little bunnies, and I'm in the crowd stuck with two fans who— "Riptide, my god, please let me touch your cock." "Riptide, you can take us both together!" As they rub their hands down my abs, I think, FUCK! and pry their arms away, then I charge after her. When I reach the elevator, the gate is shut and I hear her noisily ascending up to street level.
"Remy!" "Remington!" Growling in anger, I slam my palm to the closed door, then dodge an incoming group of fans and bulldoze my way back into the locker room. I don't know if I'm angry, frustrated, or . . . I don't know. Where the fuck is she going? She was looking up at me like she wanted me to eat her; I don't even understand fucking females and never fucking will. Scowling as I charge to get my stuff, I slam my fist into a locker. "Take care of your knuckles, Tate!" Coach snaps as he gathers all my things into a red duffel. I loathe being told what to do. So I slam my other fist into another locker and dent it like I did the first, then I glare at the old man and grab my headset, my iPod, and a sports drink. Following my crew out to our Escalade, I'm pissed as fuck at myself for letting her go. I try saving her number on my phone, at least the few digits I remember. "That KO was unbelievable, dude, you knocked him down within three seconds!" Riley says, laughing. I stare out the window at the lights of Seattle and tap my fingers on my knee. "All right, so what was that all about? Are we going to discuss the elephant in the car?" asks Pete from up front. "The one with the long hair? You seemed hell-bent on chasing, Rem?" "I want her watching my next fight." The car falls silent when they realize I'm fiercely hung up on her. Pete sighs. "All right, I'll see what I can do. We also got you a couple of girls." "A good assortment," Riley adds. "A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead." And as soon as we get up to the suite, there they are. They're waiting for me. Three girls with different-colored hair, waiting in next-to-nothing clothes, ready to fuck the Riptide. Their eyes light up when they see me. "Get rid of them," I flatly say, then shut myself off in the master bedroom. Showering in record speed, I then pull out my laptop and look up Seattle, Brooke Dumas for the rest of her number. Grabbing my headset, I cover my ears with my Dr. Dre headphones and play loud music while I search, search, search, and then— Bingo. Scrolling down, I scan several articles about Brooke Dumas. One claims she's a sports rehab specialist who interned at a Seattle academy. Prior ones mention her being a track athlete. A sprinter. Odd things happen in my chest. I reread that part, and, yeah. A sprinter. Now I understand why she's so lean, athletic, and fast. But she has some curves, the kind of curves I've never seen on a sprinter before. I curl my fingers into my palm as I replay how her small, perky breasts rose and fell as she looked up at me. My mouth waters as I remember the way she smelled. Fuck me. On YouTube, I find a video of her during some sort of tryouts. My heart starts whacking hard again when I pull off my headphones and click Play. She wears little shorts. Her hair in a ponytail. And I see her long, lean, muscled legs. My cock swells, and I shift uncomfortably and bend to get a closer inspection as she gets into position. The group shoots off. She starts fast— Then one of her legs buckles. And she falls. She lays there, on the ground, and starts sobbing as she struggles to stand. My chest does something weird. Shit, she's crying so much her body shakes with it. Forming fists, I watch her try to hop out of the track on her own, while the asshole spectator who recorded the video just keeps repeating, "Man, her life is over," again and again. Camera zooms in on her tear-filled face, and I quickly pause the screen and stare at her. Brooke
Dumas. She looks just like she did today, but a little younger, and a whole lot more vulnerable. There's a little dimple in her chin from her expression, and those gold eyes are so drowned in tears, I can barely see their pretty whiskey color. I start to read the comments beneath the clip, of which there are quite a few. Iwlormw: Rumors have it she'd been doing cross fit against the advice of her coach and had already tweaked that knee! Trrwoods: That's what happens when you don't prepare properly! Runningexpert: She was good, but not that great. Lamaske would've still kicked the shit out of her in the Olympics. My stomach boils. I watch the video again, and my stomach boils even more. With an angry growl, I toss my sports drink across the room and hear it slam against the wall. I want to destroy everyone making fun of her. She'd stood there tonight in my arena, trying to raise her walls up to me, and she'd looked proud as a warrioress, like she hadn't already endured the world watching her fall once already. My chest twists so hard, I can't breathe right again, and I growl and slam my laptop shut. Pete raps his knuckles on my door and pushes it open a little. "Rem, you sure you don't want to partake?" He widens the gap and gestures at the trio of women behind him, their expectant eyes peering into my bedroom. They collectively sigh and one murmurs, "Please, Riptide . . ." "Just once?" says the other. "I said get rid of them, Pete." I crack my knuckles, then my neck. The door closes and a sudden quiet settles in the suite, until Pete comes back and pries the door open again. "All right, dude. But I really think you should've gone for them. . . . Anyhow, Diane wants to know if you want dinner in here." Shaking my head, I carry my iPad to the dining room and settle down to wolf down the contents of my plate on autopilot while Pete makes some phone calls confirming our hotel reservations in Atlanta next week. While I'm eating, all I see are gold eyes, and parted lips, and the way Brooke Dumas looked at me, like a doe who's just realized there's one predator after her that won't give up until she's caught. I want to make her mine. Mine. I want to smell the fuck out of her 'cause it gets me all cranked up and nothing has ever cranked me up like her scent just did. I want the joy of looking at her and touching her and I want. To make. Her. Mine. Grabbing my iPad, I look her up on the Internet again as I chow, stopping on a picture from her sprinting days. She's like a gazelle, and I'm going to be the lion that catches her. "Pete, you think I need a sports rehab specialist?" I ask. "No, Rem." "Why not?" "You're an asshole, dude. You hardly let the masseuses massage you for more than twenty minutes." "I need one now." Pushing my iPad over to him, I tap the screen and signal to the name below her image. "I need that one." Pete lifts an interested eyebrow. "You do. Do you?" "I need a sports rehab specialist on my payroll. I want her to tend to me every day. In whatever ways they do."
He smirks. "They don't do blow jobs, I'll tell you that." "If I wanted a blow job, I could have had three just now. What I want . . ." Once again, my finger taps over her name. "Is this sports rehab specialist." Pete's eyebrows fly up to his hairline, and he leans back and crosses his arms. "What exactly do you want her for?" I chomp down the rest of my food, then take a long gulp of water so I can speak. "I want her for me." "Rem . . ." he says in warning. "Offer her a salary she can't decline." Pete answers me with a puzzled silence. He seems taken aback and is trying to make sense of me. He's looking into my eyes, and I can tell he's observing whether they are black or blue. I'm not black. So I wait quietly. He sighs, slowly jots down her name, and speaks cautiously. "All right, Remington, but let me say, this has Bad Idea written all over it." Shoving my plate aside, I lean back and cross my arms. My head betrays me half the time. One day, it tells me I am god. The other, it tells me that I not only rule hell, but I invented it. Does Pete think I give one fuck about what his own head thinks about my idea? I don't listen to my head anymore. I listen only to my gut. "I want her watching me fight Saturday," I remind him as I get up and shove my chair back under the table. "Get her the best seats in the house." "Remington . . ." "Just do it, Pete," I say as I cross the living room back to the master. "I already have the tickets ready to go, dude, but it's hard enough keeping Diane from knowing of your . . . er, issues. It's going to be even harder to keep it from someone like this sports rehab specialist." I prop my shoulder at the threshold of my bedroom and think about that. I lower my voice. "Make her sign a contract, so I have guaranteed time with her. And stabilize me the instant I start losing my shit." "Remington, just let me get some other girls—" "No, Pete. No other girls." I shut myself in my room and grab my headphones, then just lie there with my iPod in my hand, staring at it. What will it be like if I make her mine? I don't delude myself into thinking that she will accept me, but what if she does? What if she can understand me? The way I am? The two parts of me? No. Not two parts. Every. Single. Fucking. Part. Of me. My gut tightens as I remember the way her eyes shone when she looked at me. The way they softened after I kissed her and she looked into my eyes, wanting more of me. I have never seen a look quite like that before. I have been wanted by thousands of women. Nobody has ever looked at me with such open, frightened longing as her. She was not frightened of me. She was frightened of "it." This same thing clenching my gut that has me all tangled up. Every cell in my body is buzzing with awareness. Every inch of my skin is awake. My muscles feel primed like they do when I'm ready to fight. Except I'm not ready to fight now. I'm ready to go get my mate. God help her. ♥ ♥ ♥
THE SEATTLE CROWD is wild tonight. Backstage, the noise reverberates between the walls, bounces off the metal lockers in the room where I prepare with some of the other fighters. I watch Coach bandage the fingers of one hand, and all I can think of is how Brooke Dumas is out there among the spectators, sitting in one of the seats I bought for her. I'm so jacked up I feel like I'm plugged into a fucking electrical outlet. Blood pumps heady through my veins. My muscles are loose and warm and ready to contract and strike anything in my path. I'm ready to put on a fucking show and there's one girl, one lovely girl, that's got me tied up in knots, that I want to see me fight. I hand Coach my other hand and stare at my bare knuckles as he shoots off the same instructions he always says. My guard . . . patience . . . balance . . . I zone out, letting his words slip through me and into my subconscious, where they belong. Right before a fight, I find a calm. I can hear all the noise but listen to nothing. A clarity comes with fighting. Every detail sharpening in your mind. This sharpness and awareness makes me lift my head to the doorway. She stands there like out of some childhood dream, looking at nobody but me. She wears a pair of white jeans and a pink top that makes her skin look even tanner than it is and so damn lickable my tongue hurts inside my mouth. Neither of us so much as twitches as we stare. Hammer steps into my peripherals, and when I see him head straight for her, my anger ignites. With deadly calm, I grab the tape from Coach and throw it aside as I stalk over to her. Then, I position myself directly behind her and to her right, taking my spot in a way that lets the dipshit Hammer know I was born to be here. Beside, behind, and by her. "Just walk off," I warn him, my voice low but lethal. He doesn't seem inclined to listen, instead narrows his eyes in contest. "She yours?" he asks with narrowed eyes. Nodding, I narrow my eyes and let my gaze burn into him. "I can guarantee you, she's not yours." The asshole leaves, and I notice Brooke doesn't move for a long second, as if she doesn't want to step away from me in the same way I don't want her to go anywhere. Holy god, she smells good. I drag her scent to my lungs like a junkie, and suddenly every inch of my body wants to cup her hips and draw her into me so I can scent her more. She turns her head to mine and softly murmurs, "Thank you," but quickly leaves. I duck my head and haul in as much as I can before she walks away. I remain standing there, feeling dizzy, my shorts ridiculously tented. "Riptide! Hammer! You're up next!" Exhaling as I hear my name, I glance narrowly at Hammer across the room, who seems amused as fuck that I am clearly in deep shit with this girl. He's in even deeper shit with me. "Remington . . . are you listening to me?" I whip around to Coach, who's fixing that last bandage he couldn't secure. I keep glaring at Hammer as Riley extends my satin robe, and as I ram my arms into the sleeves, I decide Hammer better be prepared to vacation in a coma for a while. "I said don't let that bastard get to your head." Coach knocks his knuckles to my temples. "And that girl neither." "That girl's been in his head since the first fight here," Riley tells him with a smirk. "Hell, he wants to carry that girl around with him like an accessory on tour. Pete is drafting the contract as we speak." Coach pokes a finger into my chest and I feel it almost bending. "I don't give a shit what you're planning to do tonight with the girl. You keep your head in the fight going on right now. You got
that?" I don't answer, but obviously I get it. I don't need to be told these things. Half a fight is in your head. But Coach likes feeling useful, so I just roll with it and trot out. I've fought all my life to stay sane. To keep focused, driven, and centered. But tonight, I fight to show one woman my worth. I climb onstage and go to my corner, and I can hear the crowd going wild. Makes me smile. At my corner, I yank off my robe and hand it to Riley, and the public goes even wilder when my muscles are on display. They shout my name and I let them know I fucking love it, chuckling with them as I stretch out my arms and let them know I'm soaking it in. Every second it takes for me to do my turn, my heart pumps, and pumps, and pumps in exhilaration, because I feel gold eyes on my back, almost burning through me, making me want more. More than what I get here, from this wild crowd. More than what I've ever been given in my life. Dragging in a breath, I keep turning in her direction, my gut already tight with the sheer anticipation of looking into her eyes. I want her to be looking at me when I turn. I know it's going to give me a rush. Her attention gives me a rush. The way she smelled in the locker rooms—so fresh and clean—still heats the blood in my veins. I don't know what it is about this woman but all I've been able to think of since the first moment I spotted her is hunt. Chase. Claim. Take. "And now, I give you, the Hammer!" I smile as Hammer is announced, and finally, I slide my gaze to where it wants to go and there she is. Jesus. There she is. And she's just like I wanted her, looking at me. She sits there, tense and lovely, with her hair down her shoulders and her eyes wide and expectant. I know she was waiting for me to turn. I can almost see her pulse quicken—mine does. I don't know what this is. If it's fake. If it's real. If she's real. But I know I'm leaving this city soon, and I won't be leaving without her. Hammer comes into the ring—my ring, where I've never let any other motherfucker finish standing —and I jab a finger in the air toward him . . . and then I point at her. This one's for you, Brooke Dumas. Her eyes flash in disbelief, and I want to laugh when the blonde friend beside her starts screaming. The bell sounds, and my muscle memory takes charge as I position my guard, bounce on my toes, and do my thing. We go toe-to-toe. I feint and Hammer swings, opening his side. So I jab his ribs, feel the satisfying punch race up my arm, and we bounce apart. Hammer is stupid in the head. He falls for all my feints and never covers right. I ram him hard enough to make him bounce on the ropes and drop to his knees. He shakes his head and hops to his feet after a moment. I love this. My heart pumps slowly. My every muscle knows where to move, what to do, where to send my power—right from my center, up my chest, shoulder, down the length of my arms, to the tips of my fucking knuckles that hit with the force of a charging bull. I take him down, and then I do the same with the next foe. And the next. A powerful energy takes over me as I fight, and I fight knowing that Brooke Dumas watches me. If there's anything in my head other than winning, it's that I want her to think inside that lovely round head of hers that she has never, ever, seen a man like me. By the time the tenth guy falls, sweat coats my chest, and as the ringmaster raises my arm, I'm anxious to see the look in her eyes. I want to see that she liked it, that she—like everyone else in this room—thinks I'm the shit. Our eyes lock, my gut goes hard and twisted and wild with desire, and I smile at her as I try to catch my breath. When the ringmaster releases my arm, I cross the ring, jump over the cord, and land in the aisle, watching her part her lips in shock as I come over.
People go crazy when I go outside the ring, and they're losing their shit right now. The whole room screams with their applause and cheers. And I know they all can see where my gaze rests and where I'm headed. "Kiss his heart out, woman!" "You don't deserve him, you bitch!" "You go, girl!" I smile down at this woman who has stolen my thoughts, and as I wonder if she wants me to, she looks pleadingly up at me, almost begging me not to kiss her here. My blood simmers as I remember her lips on mine, but it won't be happening again. Not until you're ready, Brooke Dumas. I bend to her and scent her hair, whispering at her temple, "Sit tight. I'll send someone over for you." I back off before I lose it, and climbing up into the ring, I steal one last look at her. My chest does all kinds of strange things when our eyes lock. "Riptide, people!" the announcer screams. The yells feed me. I suck them in with a smile, full of pride and satisfaction. I can see in every one of these people's eyes that I'm the man. But I want to see it in her eyes. That. I'm. The Man. The man who wants to be Hers. ♥ ♥ ♥ THERE'S NO TIME to wait for Coach to rehash what I did. I pummeled ten dudes to the ground and I'm fucking tired. But—at the same time—I'm wired as hell. "Well done, boy. I'm gonna send a pair of masseuses to work on you," he says once we're in the locker room, and slaps my back. In silence, I grab a pair of Gatorades to replenish my minerals and head out to the car with my duffel, knowing Pete and Riley will bring her to me soon. I want her. At the hotel suite, my cock is hard and fully standing when I shower and I have to turn the knob to cold—ice-cold—as the water runs down my body. Dragging in a breath, I close my eyes and plant my hands on the wall as the water calms me. But, god, the way she looks at me, the way she smells . . . Come tomorrow, when she works for me, I can smell her anytime, if I want to. And I want to. When I come out of the shower in a towel, a pair of massage therapists have been let in by Diane. "Food's hot now, Remy," she calls from the kitchen. "Not now." I grab an ice pack from the fridge and several more Gatorade bottles and then settle down at the foot of the bed, my muscles worn. My face hurts and I slap the ice pack on the sore as the women start working me. They massaged me last time and immediately get to work on my arms and shoulders while I intently wait for a certain signal from out in the living room. And then I hear it. Anticipation curls around my gut and I train my eyes on the bedroom door. Pete strolls inside in his best PA mode, and something tangles in my chest when I see her following him. Brooke Dumas. God, she scrambles my head. Her legs look lean and endless in those tight jeans she must use butter to slide into, and the soft- pink top she wears is the same exact shade of her lips. I like the shade of her hair, dark and seductive and sun-lightened with just a hint of copper, and I like the small earrings on her ears. She's wearing hardly anything fake. No watch. No bracelets. Just
the small earrings, and her lips are shiny with something. The rest of her is fresh and natural as a flower, but not even flowers smell as fucking good as her. She's checking out my bare chest, and I concentrate on not blinking in order not to miss the way her cheeks heat up and her eyes fill with lust. My body tightens with need. I haven't had anyone in days, and I'm not used to any sort of abstinence. It's simple to me: if I want it, I indulge. Hungry? Eat, asshole. But all I want to eat now is her. I wish her hands were the ones on my shoulders. . . . No. I want my hands on her small shoulders. But I want them most on her clothes, ripping them away so I can see her. When Brooke stares at me, and then the therapists, in slight confusion, I slap the ice pack down, finish my Gatorade, and toss it aside. "Did you enjoy the fight?" I ask. She startles slightly at my voice, which is gruff with dehydration and exhaustion, and my lips curl into a smile. I want to run my fingers over her skin. She was a runner, and that flesh has seen the sun. It looks as warm as her eyes and the faint light streaks in her beautiful dark hair. She's silent as she contemplates the question. Like it has an answer other than the one I've always received, which obviously is yes. Isn't it? "You make it interesting," she finally answers. I'm slightly thrown. So, she's not a fan of mine? "Is that all?" I prod. "Yes." The hands on my back and shoulders become annoying, and I roll my shoulders to jerk them off. "Leave me," I command the women. The women head out—and she's alone with me. In my suite. My bedroom. Inches from my bed. Inches from me. Once again, I'm hard as stone. I remember she'd been sitting with two women and a man who seemed protective of her. Yeah, thanks for protecting her, dude, but I'm taking it from here. "The man you're with . . . Is he your boyfriend?" Amusement sparks in her eyes and I think I see a slight curl to the corners of her lips. "No, he's just a friend." "No husband?" I keep prodding. Possessively, I study her ring finger and see how slim and delicate her hands look. "No husband, not at all." The air is static. My entire body is ready to fuck her. Just being near her feels sexual. "You interned at a private school rehabbing their young athletes?" She looks surprised, her eyes sparking with curiosity and disbelief. "You looked me up?" "Actually, we did." Pete and Riley come into the room, and her attention swings away from me. But mine doesn't shift. I know what they're going to say already. I told them what, exactly, they would propose today. Miss Dumas . . . I'm sure you're wondering why you're here, so we'll just cut to it. We're leaving town in two days and I'm afraid there's no time to do things differently. Mr. Tate wants to hire you. . . . She looks so surprised that I smile inside, even as my insides go tense. I don't want her to say no. She surprised me today, denying she liked my fight. If she says no to this too, I'm not going to take it so well. The tension escalates when she frowns after Pete's explanation that I want her to travel with me
from site to site. I don't like the way her eyes darken. "What is it, exactly, that you think I do? I'm not an escort," she says. Okay, so she doesn't look as excited about the job as I'd thought she would be. Wary, I settle back down on the bench seat and watch her, torn between amusement and frustration at the way things are developing. Both Pete and Riley burst out laughing at her comment; I don't. "You're onto us, Miss Dumas. Yes, I admit when we're traveling, we find it convenient to keep one or several special friends of Mr. Tate's to, shall we say, accommodate his needs either before or after a fight," Pete laughingly explains. Her left eyebrow shoots up and now I want to laugh at how these idiots paint me. But, hell, if she thinks my being friendly with the ladies is something bad, then wait until she hears about the worst part of me. Suddenly, this whole scene is just not amusing at all. If I go manic before I can ever get close to her, I'll be completely fucked. But I also can't just take her to bed and let her go; I don't want to let this one go. "A man like Remington has very particular requirements, as you might guess, Miss Dumas," Riley tells her. "But he's been very specific in the fact that he's no longer interested in the friends we had secured for him during our trip. He wants to focus on what's important, and instead, he wants you to come work for him." She glances at Riley, then Pete, and then at me, and she looks puzzled, which is cute. Pete flips through the folders. "You interned at the Military Academy of Seattle in sports rehab for their middle graders, and we see you've graduated only two weeks ago. We're prepared to hire your services, which will cover the duration of our eight cities we have left to tour, and Mr. Tate's continued conditioning for future competitions. We will be very generous with your salary. It's very prestigious to tend to such a followed athlete and should be impressive in any résumé. It might even allow you to be a free agent if in the future you decide to leave." She blinks and seems completely disconcerted. "I'll have to think about it. I'm not really looking for something away from Seattle long term." She glances at me, somehow hesitantly and even confused. "Now if that's all you wanted to say to me, I'd better get home. I'll leave my card on your bar." She swings around and heads for the door. For a moment, I stare at her retreating back, disappointed as fuck. I've been planning this for days. I've been wondering what it would be like to have her with me every day. I've been stone-hard to the point of pain imagining what her hands on me will feel like. . . . "Answer me now," I say, my voice harsher than I anticipated. "What?" She pivots around in surprise, and I pin her down with my eyes and silently will her to fucking understand that I'm trying to do a good thing here, to get to know someone—to get to know her—and I don't want her pissing on it like it's nothing. Like I'm used to doing this sort of shit for anyone. "I've offered you a job, and I want an answer." A leaden silence descends. She stares at me, and I stare back just as fiercely, the air charged around us. I've wanted nothing but to kiss her since the first night I saw her. I only gave her a peck, just so she knew I was going to have her. Now I wish I'd stuck my tongue inside so I could have appeased this wild craving to know what she tastes like. I want to know all of her, every scarred little piece of her knee, to the perfect contours of her face, to the way she thinks. And whether she wants to or not, I want her to know me. She seems to drag a breath for courage before she starts nodding. "I'll work with you for the three months you have left to tour, if you include room and board and my transportation, guarantee me
references for my next job application, and let me promote the fact that I've worked with you with my future clients." Her answer takes me aback, and when she swings around to leave, I quickly stop her by saying, "All right." When she turns, I glance at the guys. "But I want it on paper she's not leaving until the tour is over." I get up and head over to her. She watches me approach with those alarmed doe eyes again; they are soft as a deer's, but far prettier. Her breasts rise and fall, and I like that she knows. She knows something is going on here. She's confused that I didn't pursue her like she'd thought, but that is all right. Because my pursuit will be slower now, and deeper, so that in the end I can take her, fast and hard, like I'm used to taking everything in my life by force. But she's so special, I want to reach the very core of her being before she's mine. And when I'm there, and she's soft and yielding to me, I'm not going to let her go. Holding her gold gaze, I squeeze her hand gently, whispering, "We have a deal, Brooke."
PAST TO ATLANTA There's an image in my head of Pete and Riley arriving at the airport without Brooke Dumas, and I don't like it. Pacing the length of my jet, up and down, I ram my hands into my jeans and peer out the window, but there's still no Pete or Riley or Brooke Dumas. I pull my hands out and crack my knuckles. "Save it for the ring, boy," Coach grumbles, flipping through a sports magazine, and I flex my fingers and inhale deeply. I need to train. I've needed to train longer, harder lately. I'm horny as fuck and just thinking about her gives me a hard-on. From the bar, I grab a bottle of water, down it slow and cold, trying to relax. Then I go take a seat on the bench and put on my headphones. I scan my songs and look for something fast and hard, select it, and let it blast in my ears—then I see movement up in the front of the plane. All my insides go still. Nothing does that to me but looking at her. And, yep, I'm looking. My eyes feel out of control as they run up and down her body while Pete introduces her to Coach and Diane. My heart starts pumping blood to the south of my body, and the music blasting into my ears is forgotten. She doesn't see me yet, but I see her. Every inch of my rapidly swelling cock is aware that she's near. Her round butt is encased in a knee-length skirt. My eyes run down her lean, toned calves and her pretty ankles to her feet in plain ballet-type shoes. An image of those ankles locked at the small of my back as I thrust into her body flashes through me. I fist my hands at my sides and force myself to exhale, but my blood is still prepping me to mate with her. I watch as Pete finally directs her in my direction, and every primal instinct inside me stirs as she starts down the aisle toward me. A blush reddens her pretty tan skin. It colors her face and spreads down her throat and dips into her cleavage, and I want to pull open the buttons of her top and see if she's blushing all the way to the tips of her pretty little tits. God, I want to hold those little tits and take them in my mouth, and most of all, I want to see the expression on her face while I do so. Pushing the thought aside, I pull off my headphones, turn off my iPod, and stare at her face. She's not only beautiful as fuck, but she's excited, her eyes shining into me. "You've met the rest of the staff?" I ask her, my voice gruff with arousal. "Yes." She smiles, a genuine smile that goes all the way to her eyes as she takes her seat and neatly straps on her seat belt. Her soft, smoky voice has a strange, calming effect on me. But my dick is still pressing hard against my zipper, and I have no idea what I'm going to do with it for the next couple of hours. "Did you hire me for a particular sports injury or more as prevention?" she asks. More so I could claim you. "Prevention," I whisper. She chews on the inside of her cheek as she surveys me, and she has no idea that as she measures the breadth of my chest, my arms, and my torso, I'm struggling hard not to lean down and kiss her lips. "How are your shoulders?" she asks, looking quite the professional little thing. "Your elbows? Do you want me to work on anything for Atlanta? Pete tells me it's a several-hour flight."
Yeah, it will be, and I'll probably have blue balls by the end, but what the hell. I want her to touch me bad enough that I stretch out my arm and offer her my hand. She seems slightly surprised but takes it in both of hers; I don't expect the way my gut tangles at the contact. Her body warmth blends with mine when she opens my huge hand with her little fingers and starts rubbing my palm, searching for knots. Her fingers are strong, but soft, and her touch is torture to my libido but too close to heaven to stop. "I'm not used to such big hands. My students' hands are usually easier to rub down," she tells me animatedly. Soft fingers scrape across the calluses in my palms as we talk about her students, and how I condition eight hours a day. "I'd love to stretch you when you're done training. Is that what your specialists also do for you?" she asks. I nod, and my mind instantly goes to the YouTube video I've been watching nonstop. I really fucking wish I'd been there so I could crush the asshole woman's video camera with my hands. "And you? Who pats your injury down?" I ask as I signal to the knee brace that peeks from under her skirt. "No one anymore. I'm done with rehab." She raises a brow and looks alarmed. "You googled me too? Or did your guys tell you?" I googled you, and I wanted to punch my fist through a wall, then go get you and carry you off that track and lick your tears dry. Pulling free of her hand, I realize I'm the one who wants to do the touching here, so I signal at the knee. "Let's have a look at it." "There's nothing to see." She doesn't seem delighted about the attention, but ends up lifting her knee anyway. I seize it with one hand and rip open the Velcro, instantly spotting the scar cutting across the joint. I hold her knee in my hand, and I stroke my thumb across, noticing her slim, muscled thighs, the tightness of her quad muscle. She's strong and lean, but lithe, like a cheetah. I want her. Refusing to stop touching her, I explore her marred skin and she bites her lip and exhales. "It still hurts?" I gently ask. She nods and explains that it's a double injury. She tore her ACL first six years ago, and then again two years ago. "It hurts not to compete anymore?" I prod. Her expression softens when she holds my gaze, and something, something invisible, tugs me to her even as I watch her lean the slightest fraction closer to me. "Yes. It does. You'd understand, right?" Slowly I lower her leg, and instead of nodding, I stroke my thumb across her knee, so she knows that I do understand. More than she knows. We both watch me caress her, and, god, it feels so right I want to drag my finger up the inside of her thigh and under her skirt, so before I follow the impulse, I pull back and stretch out my free hand, gruffly telling her, "Do this one." Testing the territory, I slide my arm along the seat behind her as she takes my hand and starts working it. My nostrils twitch at our closeness; she doesn't pull away. She smells . . . of soap and some sort of berry shampoo, plus her own female scent is sweet and warm in my nose. She probes and searches and I open my eyes and watch her face, soft and yet concentrating. My heart pounds faster. She moves to my wrist, and she twirls and then probes into my forearm, and when she closes her eyes with a look of utter concentration and pleasure, I want to groan and tease and laugh at her and kiss her all at the same time. She looks young and innocent, and my hunter-gatherer instincts are in full force. I've hunted her and now I want to gather her to me. . . .