When I hit the bed, Diane murmurs “hello” then continues reading a recipe book, while I just say “goodnight” and close my eyes and try to pretend I’m not roasting inside my skin.
But I ache so bad I’m squirming under the sheets, haunted by what I heard Pete tell Remington. Haunted by his full, sexy mouth with its recent cut on his lower lip, wrapped around that electrolyte pack as his tongue squeezed the last of the gel from it. I think about what it would have been like to be that gel pack, and feel his lips sliding over my tongue, gently suckling, and the thought draws a fresh pool of moisture to gather between my thighs.
I’m desperate to give myself some relief from the continual, exhausting hormonal rampage of being exposed to him. Like radiation, there’s something I should be able to take to protect myself, but I just can’t figure it out. His face, his scent; it makes me crazy. He's my client, but he’s also … like a friend. And I just need to touch him. I know I can’t kiss him full on that sexy mouth, but I can at least stretch him.
He must be warm from our run, and fatigued after his fight, and I crave the contact of his skin like a drug addict. Before I know what I’m doing, I slip into a velour pantsuit, head for his suite, and knock on his door.
I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t know anything except I will probably not be sleeping one wink until I see him and at least offer to ice his upper thoracic injuries, or just rub him down with an anti-inflammatory, or I don’t know.
Why did he ask me to run with him?
Why did Pete think he was getting purposely injured so I would touch him?
Did he want my touch so bad?
Riley swings the door open, and past his shoulders, I spot a woman in see-through lingerie dancing sexily in the middle of the living room coffee table, and another female voice in the background speaking. “… birdie told us you wanted to play with us, Remy…”
“Yeah?” Riley asks me, and I just stare like an idiot, my stomach sinking because, of course, these are the whores that … I duck my head and frantically think of something to say. “Did I leave my pho … oh shit, I got it.” I glance at my cell phone in my hand and roll my eyes, like I’m so stupid.
Which I am.
Shit, I really, really am.
“Never mind. Goodnight, Riley.”
I hear Remington’s deep voice. “Who is it?”
And I run to my room and shut the door, feeling numb inside. This time when I slip back into bed, I’m pretty sure every inch of arousal has fled my system, but I still can’t sleep. Because now the woman Remington is kissing in my mind so hungrily with that full, beautiful mouth of his, the woman who gets to lick that scarred cut on his lip that I got to put salve on, is unfortunately, not me.
Remy is sparring today the way Coach thinks he should have fought yesterday.
He’s knocked out two of his sparring partners, though, and now Coach is pissed once more.
“These are sparring partners, Tate. If you’d only stop knocking them down and just have fun and work on your moves, you’d still have someone to train with today … now we’ve run out and you have no one to spar anymore.”
“Then stop giving me little pussies, Coach.” He spits off the ring. “Send Riley up here.”
“Ha. Not even if he were suicidal. I need him conscious tomorrow.”
“Hey, I know how to spar,” I tell Riley from where we watch at one outside corner of the ring.
His blond head swings to mine, and he suddenly looks impressed. “You did not just offer to go up with this guy?”
“Sure I did. I can show the guy moves he hasn’t even seen,” I boast, but frankly, I just want the opportunity to kick the shit out of Remington for being such a womanizing shithead that makes me fantasize day and night. And for licking the electrolyte packet after I did. What a flirting dickwad.
“All right, Rem, I’ve got a little something for you,” Riley calls, clapping to get his attention. “I know for sure he’s not going to knock out this one, Coach,” he calls out to Lupe at the other corner, and he signals laughingly at me.
Remington sees me, and tosses the head gear on the floor as he watches me hop onto the ring, in my tight little black one-piece tracksuit. His eyes rake me, like they always do. He’s such a man, he can’t help checking me out every time I walk toward him. But as I approach, his eyes glint in amusement, and slowly, his smile appears, and it just pricks my irritation.
He’s been moody today, from what I—and his fallen sparring partners—could tell. But my own grumpiness rates about a solid ten too. Not even coffee lifted my spirits this morning, and yet I know this will. Even if I lose, I just want to freaking spar with someone.
“Don’t smile like that. I can knock you down with my feet,” I warn him.
“It’s not kickboxing. Or are you going to bite too?”
I swing out my leg high in the air in precisely a kickboxing move, which he deflects, very gently, and cocks a brow.
I try another one, and he deflects, and then I notice he’s standing in the center of the ring while I’m basically circling him. I know I can’t stand a chance in strength, but my plan is to dizzy him and then try to knock him down a peg. Riley calls what I’m going to do “weaving.” Which is just turning and twisting around your opponent so he misses. So I weave a little, and he’s clearly very entertained by me, so I try a test punch. He easily catches it in his full fist, then lowers my arm.
“No,” he chides softly, and curls his hand around mine to teach me how to fist my fingers correctly. “When you punch, you need to align your two lower arm bones—your ulna and radius—on par with your wrist. Your wrist can’t be slack, so hold it perfectly straight. Now start with your arm folded to your face, tighten your knuckles, and as you punch out, twist your arm so that your ulna, radius, and wrist feel like one piece of bone when you hit. Try it.”