Katy Evans - Mine

When I come out of the bathroom wearing his black T-shirt, I find him shadowboxing in the room.

I watch from the threshold, admiring his swings. He knows exactly where his fist goes, and even when he gives the impression of relaxation, I know the power behind each swing is equal to a bulldozer.

Leaning on the doorframe, the athlete in me can’t help but admire the athlete in him. I’ve known thousands of sportsmen in my life. But I have never, ever met anyone like him. His speed. Agility. How he ducks. Swings. The way he fights seems to be instinctive, and yet at the same time, I can also see in both his training regimen and fights that his head is always in the game.

I think about my parents for a moment. They know I’m on tour working, though they have no idea how deeply I’ve involved myself with the man who hired me. The day I left Seattle, my main concern was whether or not Remington would take me back. I didn’t even consider telling my parents that I was in love. That I met the guy—the one I never thought I’d find. The one that made me fall harder than I ever thought I could fall. I know that they trust me to be levelheaded. Throughout the years, I’ve proven to be the most responsible of their offspring, but if this test is positive . . . Ohmigod, if it’s positive, it will scream “reckless!” all over the place.

My god, what if I am pregnant? And a little baby Tate comes into my life like Remington did, taking it over, telling me, “You know what? You might not know you need me, want me, and will damn well love me, but here I am.”

“You check yet?”

His voice jerks me back to awareness. My stomach tangles from the nerves as I stare at him. He’s been running his fingers through his hair, and every time he does that, he seems to dishevel it even more. His eyes are dark, but the light coming in from the sunset illuminates the tiny blue flecks in his dark eyes. He looks warm and sporty in his sweatpants and hoodie—boyish—and the thought of carrying his baby makes me feel hot and restless and very, very unprepared.

“Brooke?” he softly insists.

My stomach turns once more. A part of me is curious, and another part doesn’t want to know and all it wants is to keep the status quo. Just us. Remy and Brooke.

“Did you or did you not pee on a stick, baby?” he prods when I continue to hesitate.

“I did! I told you I did!” I groan as I go get the test, then I bring it back to the nightstand and read the instructions a third time. Then I gather my courage and put on my imaginary big-girl pants as I peel off the cover and peer into the screen.

The butterflies go off inside me.

My parents flash before my mind. Mom and Dad. Another generation. Maybe Nora told them that I’m seeing the man I work for, but if they don’t even know I’m with him, a baby on the way will leave them in need of therapy for a month. I shake off the thought, because honestly, what’s important now is what he thinks. He. Remington Tate. Your one and only Riptide. Possibly, my baby-daddy soon?

Shit.

This can’t be happening.

But it is.

I turn around to see him, and a whole truckful of love slams into my heart.

He’s jumping in the room, swinging his fists in the air, up and down. He hooks, jabs, frowns, and slams into his imaginary boxing partner—who seems to be a fast one, by the way Remington is jabbing and hitting back.

He is mesmerizing.

Ripped, raw, and so real. He is all mine—or at least, that’s all I want in the world. For him to be mine.

Calmly, as if sensing me, he stops swinging and lifts one of his sleek black brows that always seem permanently slanted. “What’s it say?”

“It says . . .” I stare at the small screen, and no, I’m not seeing double. I mean, I am, but it’s not a hallucination.

I think rocks have replaced my lungs, for I can’t breathe as I set the test down at the foot of the bed and walk over to him. Step by step, I stare into those black-gray eyes with the blue flecks that watch me approach in growing curiosity. Lifting my hands, I hold his scruffy jaw and really look up at him as he looks down at me, except I’m perfectly sober, and he’s perfectly amused.

“Remington, don’t forget this,” I anxiously whisper, my chest swelling with need of his support. “You’re black right now, and I don’t want you to forget what I’m going to tell you. I need all of you here with me.”

“Hey.” His dimple vanishes as he frames my face in his huge, callused hands. “I got you.”

“God, please do.”

“Yeah, I do. I got you. Now what’s wrong here? Hmm? If you aren’t, then we figure out what’s wrong with you. If you are . . .”

Jerking away before he can finish, I run over, grab the test, and bring it to him, my heart picking up a wild rhythm. I want his strength. I want his confidence. Even when he’s volatile, he is always so. Damned. Strong! I need that now.

Never taking his eyes off me, he takes the little stick I extend out.

But god, he might not be smiling for long.

My voice is calm and surprisingly steady. “Two lines means, supposedly, that I am.”

His eyes stay locked on mine for a moment longer, and then his lashes sweep downward as he turns the test screen slightly into the sunlight.

My own anxiety eats me on the inside as I wait for a reaction. We were joking on the plane, but he’s serious now. As serious as I am. His profile is completely unreadable as I take in the perfect form of his nose, how elegant it is. His mouth, relaxed and full, so freaking beautiful. His eyebrows, drawing slightly together in puzzlement as he deciphers the lines. Impossible for me to make out any emotion whatsoever.

When he sets the stick aside, my breath stops in my lungs, and when he lifts his dark head, nothing else exists in the world but this moment. He raises his eyes to mine, and my stomach wrings as hard as my heart does in my chest.

What if he doesn’t want me like this?

What if this is too much for us?

What if we’re strong enough to love each other, but not strong enough to love someone else—together?

What if we are not ready?

Our eyes meet. He studies my reaction while I study his even more desperately. And out of the thousand things I could have imagined to see in his face, I never imagined I would see what I see. He’s . . . pleased. No. He’s more than pleased. His eyes glow as if he were sexually hungry, but what he’s hungry for is something else. Then his dimples flash, and he laughs, and his perfect happiness explodes like a rainbow in me.

“Come here.” He picks me up and lifts me so that my abdomen is on his face, and he smacks a noisy kiss on me. I squeal when he flings me down on the bed and hovers over me.

The sight of those two dimples on his scruffy jaw delights me so much, I start laughing. “You’re a crazy man! You’re the only man I know who throws his pregnant girlfriend onto a bed!”

“I’m the only man,” he says, “as far as I know. There’s only one man in your world, and it’s me.”

“All right, but don’t tell my dad I agreed so easily . . .” I rub his shoulders, and he frames my face and settles down over me. If I thought he looked smug before, he gives a new meaning to the word now.

“Brooke Dumas pregnant with my baby,” he says slyly. His hair is standing up so much, I shove my hand in and watch my fingers play with it. A ripple of joy rushes over me. “My head is reeling. Kiss me.”

He lowers his head and tenderly mates his tongue with mine, tracing the flesh of my lips first, and then stroking my tongue with his so deliciously, all my taste buds awaken. He eases back to caress the back of one curled finger down the side of my face. “Make it look like you.”

“You’re the one who gave this to me.”

“No, you’re giving this to me.”

“All right, we’re both such giving souls.”

His laugh is so marvelous, it’s catching as he rolls to his side and gathers me in his arms and starts raining a bunch of slow kisses on me. “You’re mine now, from the top of your pretty dark head to the soles of your little feet.” He caresses my face with his callused thumb as he kisses the tops of my eyelids. “Don’t even think about leaving me again or I’ll come after you and so help me god, I’m going to tie you to where I am, and where I sleep, and where I eat. Do you hear me, Brooke Dumas?”

My already sensitive breasts bead under my bra, and I nod breathlessly. Shit, I love how possessive he is—and he’s doubly so whenever he’s black. I feel myself grow wet between my legs. “There isn’t a single part of me that doesn’t know I’m yours,” I assure him, and I take his hand and set it on my heart.

He clamps his jaw, and a spark of primitive awareness flashes in his eyes as he clenches his fingers around my breast. We start kissing. We start hard, and then go softer. We both slide closer at the same time, needing the contact like oxygen. He whispers in my ear, “I’m so crazy about you,” and as he nuzzles the top of my head, I clutch him close and gasp, “I love you so much.”

Looking extremely satisfied, almost like he does when he’s given me several multiple orgasms in a row, he turns me over and adjusts me, holding my stomach as he starts nuzzling the back of my neck while my mind continues reeling, and I imagine a little Remy running the way little boys run, clumsy and stumbling, and I touch my stomach as I let my lion pet me.

We’re in Sin City now, and his eyes are back to his usual electric, piercing blue.

He woke up fully blue after he found out we’re expecting. We. Are. Expecting. We didn’t sleep that night. Remy was hard, and having his way with me, all night. He fucked me, sucked me, made me suck him, fondled me with his fingers, put his hand over mine so that I fondled him while he fingered me.