Katy Evans - Mine

He sets his forehead on mine as his hips continue expertly rocking into me; then he brings his thumb up and starts to caress my clit while his cock drags, hard and pulsing, inside me. I loosen and shatter, shuddering uncontrollably as he takes my mouth with his deliciously hot kiss. Love, lust, need course through me as I come and thrash beneath him.

“All right?” he asks, slowing his motions as I continue to come.

“Yes!” Every inch of me screams for him. I arch up against him and undulate a little, wanting more, wanting him. He growls like he can’t hold back and pulls out, then thrusts back in, driving forward harder, holding me with one arm around my waist as I arch and he holds me in place with one hand as he enters me. I moan, and say, “Remy.”

His eyes are burning me as he drags a hand down the arch of my throat, between my breasts, then bends to lick me again. “Mine,” he whispers softly, reminding me.

“Yours, yours,” I say as my orgasm builds in me.

He presses his nose to my ear, growling as he comes, hot in me, his big body tensing over me, a guttural animal noise wrenching from his lips before he rasps again, “Mine.”

After he comes and holds me for a minute, he lifts me up in his arms, still inside me, and I tuck my nose into his neck. He carries me around the kitchen and grabs two green apples in one hand, then gives one to me as he carries us to the master bedroom.

I bite into it with a crunch as we settle down under the covers, and he bites into his own with a bigger crunch. We kiss a little, and he tastes like juicy, lemony apple. He finishes his first, then licks the juice from the corners of my lips, and I offer up my apple to him because I suspect he’s still hungry. He takes a big bite, smiling down at me when I turn it around and bite from where he did.

His legs move restlessly under the sheet, and I know my speedy Remy won’t sleep tonight, but if he wants to make love to me all night, he can. I hope he will. I shift to keep him still inside me as we both eat my apple and bite it on the opposite side at the same time. We laugh in unison, and I tell him, “Right now our baby is the size of a plum.”

“A plum?” He opens his mouth so I give him more apple, and I move my fingers to shape the size of a plum with my free hand.

“A plum,” I repeat.

“So little,” he says tenderly, sliding one big hand to the small curve of my stomach.

“So little,” I breathe, curling into his big warm body with a sigh, listening to him finish my apple and letting him lick all the juicy drops that fall on my skin.

Remington is absolutely in love with my four-month-pregnant belly. I’m starting to really show and it excites him. No, it more than excites him. I’m excited too—I freaking love my pregnant belly! I feel amazing. No more nausea. And I do somehow seem to “glow,” but I think it has to do with the way Remy makes love to me as well as with the baby he put in me.

He measures my bump every morning with his hands when I’m standing studying myself in the full-length hotel mirror. Whatever he’s doing (out of the shower, brushing his teeth), he comes up to me to survey me as well, his gaze glimmering with pride as he cups me and measures me. His voice is gruff this morning. We just woke up and he’s naked, behind me, his lean, large body perfectly visible in the mirror behind mine as he ducks his dark head to nuzzle me. “You think you’re eating enough?” he whispers in my ear, right before he presses me back to him and brushes his lips to the hollow at the base of my throat.

“I’m not going to start eating like you!” I accuse as I turn in his arms and link my fingers at the back of his neck, grinning up at him like the love-struck fool he’s made me. Playfully, I poke his dimples. “We’ve established you have issues. You just want everyone to know I’m pregnant and taken.”

He lifts me off my feet so our mouths are aligned and he plants a big kiss on my lips, squeezing me. “That’s right!”

Today at the gym he wants to show me how to throw him—or, more especially, anyone threatening me—down. Now that I’ve been walking, then trotting a little, with full doctor approval, I feel like a million bucks. But what most makes me feel good is the way Remington looks at me. Hot-ass proprietary, this is my woman, this is my kid . I read that it’s completely normal to be hot and bothered when you’re pregnant, but I really can’t smell him without burning with the need to tear his clothes off and jump his sexy bones. Which I’ve been doing at least twice a day, to his complete male delight.

He hasn’t been black in the two months since I got here, but he’s been plotting something with Pete and Riley. The fact that the three of them are so secretive about it worries me. I think it has to do with Nora, but when I told him, “Remy, Nora sent me this note. She doesn’t want us to do anything about it and I might just wait until the final to talk to her,” he just chuckled and said, “Leave it to me now, all right?”

But it’s not all right.

I’m scared shitless.

This morning, he had a strange reunion with Pete and Riley in our living room. He looked at me and quietly asked me, “Can I talk to the guys alone for a moment?” Since then, I’ve gotten all worried about their plans.

And that’s the only part about being pregnant I don’t like. I despise being treated like an imbecilic, weakling, delicate little flower.

No, sir. And today I will prove it at the gym when I, in fact, succeed in throwing Remington Tate—pregnant belly notwithstanding.

I watch him do full sit-ups, his breaths fast and even, in and out, in and out. I watch him do three rounds of jump rope and three rounds of shadowboxing—swing, punch, swing, punch, guard, duck . . . his chest sweaty male perfection, the intensity with which he works out getting me all worked up. Coach yells at him from the sidelines, and Riley times his speed and makes notes on a clipboard.

By the time Remington is soaked and beckons me forward in the ring, I’m worked up to a lather of complete and total lust.

“Ready?”

Nodding, I climb into the ring with him.

I’ve got one of my catsuits on, one with a zipper right in the middle. His eyes suck me up in it and I swear they heat everywhere they touch. He pulls his gaze back to my eyes. “Ready?” his voice is gruffer.

“You have no idea how ready I am. I’m going to kick your ass and it’s going to feel amazing.”

“Kick my shin first, and then my ass—” He pulls me closer, his breath hot and warm on my ear as he whispers, “The key to throwing me is to take me off balance. If I or anyone heavier than you is balanced, you won’t ever knock them down.”

“Okay,” I say as he sets me aside, because the one thrown off balance with his nearness is me .

“You kick my shin, I rock off balance, then you sweep your leg out like you did last time and kick the weakest part of my heel—watch how you do it now! So rock me, then knock me down.”

Nervous butterflies take flight inside me, and I groan and roll my eyes. “I feel like I’m going to get hurt again. You’re still a tree, Remington.”

“With a fucked-up shin.” He waves me over, his lips curled in amusement, his dimples sexy and playful. “Come on. Keep your balance and throw me off mine.”

I look into his playful, glinting blue eyes while all my heart feels is about a ton of love, sitting right on me. “Hurting you goes against my every instinct,” I say dramatically, as if I truly believe I could nick him.

“You won’t hurt me one bit,” he says, laughing.

Then I seize him by the jaw and kiss him square on the lips before I draw away and stretch my legs. “All right, my pride says this must be done. What if you were Scorpion?”