Editorial Reviews. Unknown. "Seductive, wild, and visceral." (Christina Lauren). Review. Reviews for the REAL series: "I have a new book crush and his name is . Read "Mine" by Katy Evans available from Rakuten Kobo. "I will do anything to make her MINE." —Remington Tate In the international bestseller Real, the. Read "Remy" by Katy Evans available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first download. New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans.
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Real Series by Katy Evans (6 Books) – Free eBooks, ePUB, PDF, Downloads. Remy by Katy Evans #RemingtonTate #BrookeDumas. Open. More information. Mine by Katy Evans - "I will do anything to make her MINE." —Remington Tate“I will do anything to make her MINE.” —Remington Tate In the international. download the eBook Mine, The REAL series by Katy Evans online from Australia's leading online eBook store. Download eBooks from Booktopia today.
I promised her a church wedding. Apparently those two are amused as fuck by me. Turning back to the bedroom door, I continue pacing. Chicks take a lot of time to get prepped.
Remington, I talked to Brooke about it. 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.
God, that voice, right there. 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. His head is smaller than my palm as I cup it and buzz the fuzz on the top of his head. And when I lift my head, my sex clenches when I see Remy holding his sleek silver iPod. This man seriously knows how to seduce me with music.
I watch as his thumb scrolls through the selections, and the slow, sensual manner in which it circles causes a flood of moisture between my thighs. The song starts, and penetrating, curious blue eyes stay on me, watching my reaction. Which is melting in my seat.
And feeling my soul shudder inside me. Because the song he chose has completely made me stop breathing. Pressing our foreheads back together, I watch his expression as intently as he watches mine.
Not just any song. His song. By the Goo Goo Dolls. His gaze darkens with the same emotions burning inside me, and then he cups one side of my face in his hand. My body tightens in anticipation as he moves closer.
I feel his breath bathe my face as he slowly eliminates the distance between our mouths. He brushes once, twice. I need to get as close as possible to him. As close as I can get. Head to toe, I crave him, every bit of me craves every bit of him.
I tip my face up and press my lips lightly to his, eagerly sliding my fingers into his hair. Remy, oh god, kiss me harder. He makes me wait a little more as he uses his hand to turn my head at an angle, and then, then, his lips finally lock over mine, his tongue tracing through the seam of my mouth until I open wider and gasp, electrified, when our tongues brush.
Stroking one hand up the side of my body, he sucks gently on my lower lip, and I feel the swelling heat between my legs. The hitching of my breath. The hardening of my nipples. The pulling sensation along my skin. He eases his fingers under my top as he sucks, suckles, probes, tastes. It seems impossible, but every quaking inch of my body feels pleasure merely from what his mouth does to mine.
I moan in need and bite him, and he loses a little control. The music stops and another song starts, but he makes a frustrated noise when the cords get tangled between us, and he jerks our earbuds off and tosses them aside. Then he runs his eyes over my body. Heat blazes through my bloodstream as he takes over my mouth again.
Tongues rubbing. Hands fondling. Breaths mixing. I feel the bumps of his eight-pack under his T-shirt, and my nerves ignite as he slides the tips of his long, strong fingers under my top again.
I wanted this kiss—but now I want more. Every pore, atom, and cell heats up to supernova. Our mouths move so right together, I feel alive, expanded, loved.
I love, I want, I need. So freaking much. His thumbs find my nipples through my bra and they feel so sensitive, the merest stroke arrows a bolt of pleasure to my toes. He edges back a little and drags in a long, audible breath. Then, he looks at me, his eyes on fire, and kisses me again, a little rougher.
He groans softly and stops, leaning his head on mine, his breath harsh in my ear.
Very aware of my swollen mouth, I grab my iPod and start browsing my playlists while trying to ignore the throbbing between my thighs. The kind you like. I love Kelly, but oh, this song. The words. Remy wants to know. He looks at me again, with that cocky little smile. But his eyes are not so cocky. His eyes are questioning. He wants to know.
I promise, you have my heart, and you have me. You will always have me. We smile as we keep listening to this song, and when he squeezes my hand, I squeeze back, telling myself no matter what happens, I will never, ever, let go of this hand. Inside the marble lobby, two teenage girls whisper and point at Remy as he passes—because of course they noticed him. Their gazes quickly seem to scan us—the group that came in with him—and they start checking me out next.
Remy glances my way and winks as he and Pete wait for the keys, and Diane elbows me with a laugh. No matter how many women paraded through here, he still went back for you. She starts shaking her head, and then. Across the lobby. I think of the way he moves, like a predator taking me, when we make love. In my mind, I see his eyes, the way he watches me come for him. I imagine him thrown across a hotel bed while dozens of women pleasure him, his blue eyes—my blue eyes—watching them come apart for him too.
And then, then I think that he might not have been blue. He could have been black. Remy in his rawest form, intense and manic, as reckless as he will ever be. Not even close to normal. When he goes manic, he does not remember, sometimes, what he does. And the month I left, he was very, very manic. His eyes, black and mysterious, looking at me desperately from a hospital bed.
My insides twist until my lungs feel jammed in my throat as I remember how he tried to pull his respirator off and stop me. Before I can stop myself, I charge over to him like a bullet, my fists trembling at my sides. Was he even aware of what he was doing to them?
You left when he was broken in a fucking hospital bed, Pete was babysitting your sister—in drug rehab—and I could barely pick up all the pieces of what your letter. Something that you will never, ever even so much as comprehend! In case you have forgotten, Rem has a mood disorder.
You got that? Riley nods tightly. But the entire elevator ride, my insides squeeze with hurt even though I try to reason with myself that I have no right to feel this way. Without really seeing anything ahead, I stare at our penthouse as we walk in. My home is far away.
My home is now this man. And I need to accept the fact that loving him might break me. Over and over, loving Remington is going to break me. I will break. I feel warm. It was the end of it.
You left me with a sweet letter telling me, very nicely, to go fuck myself and to have a nice life. I left you with a letter that told you I loved you! Come here. Please tell me, what did you do? He pins me to the wall and sets his forehead on mine, his gaze completely territorial.
Is it because you love me? Do you feel proprietary of me? He lifts one large, tan hand and cups my face so, so gently, I could be glass.
I feel completely proprietary of you.
I was dying for you. I was going crazy. On your fucking leg! You withheld yourself from me until I was. But the first women they bring to your door. Stopped it? He lowers his head and looks deep into my eyes, now curious. Your letter. Broke me. I know I left. I had no right to Remington or anything he did or said. So I broke my own heart when I left, and now the reality of what happened when I left is coming back and continuing to break it.
And here I am, with a huge lump in my throat and exhaling as hard as a firebreathing dragon. He eases back to open the door and pull inside one of the suitcases a bellman is standing there with. I broke up. I left. I wipe a tear as I head to the open door, where Remington continues pulling the rest of our things inside.
I know I caused all this. Because I thought I was strong and had tried to protect myself, and so I hurt me, and I hurt him and a whole shitload of people, because I was strong and thought I could protect him and my sister—and I fucked everyone instead.
Would you send this duffel with that other suitcase to the other room? I drag in a breath and turn. He laughs. She brings the suitcases inside and shuts the door.
I thought you knew. Everything is all my fault. Even him losing the championship. I thought it would take him a little time to get back on the horse, you know? Or causing trouble. Or breaking things. But what if he was low and feeling down? I left him to bear it alone, and for Pete and Riley to handle it the way they always have. Fresh tears stream out of me. I wince when I hear the room phone. I feel him approaching like a tornado as Diane swings the door open. His eyes are dark blue with emotion.
I sniffle. Hit me. Curse the fuck out of me. He kicks the door shut, drops me on the bed, and jerks off his T-shirt. His muscles bulge with the powerful movement, and I see every glorious inch of that beautiful skin—skin that some other women touched and kissed and licked, and a rush of new jealousy and insecurity knifes through me. I scream like crazy and kick when he reaches out and starts stripping me.
In hell. I love you. Did you think it would be easy on me? Fucking lied to? Did you? You said you were mine. That you were my. They are blue and tender, the eyes that see straight through me, the eyes that know everything about me, and they are no longer laughing and instead reflect a little bit of the pain I feel. Is that fair to me?
Is it? You were all I wanted to see. I wanted. To see. I think I cry myself to sleep on his lap, and when I wake up in the middle of the night, my eyes and head hurt from crying. I have never felt so consumed with jealousy and hurt, anger and self-loathing in my life. Arizona today is an inferno of heat, and on the trail outside our hotel, I pull on my cap and quietly stretch my quads, trying to concentrate on the second thing I love most in the world after Remington: running.
Since I bawled like an idiot in his arms last night. Now he bounces in place as I stretch. Kill for. Leave your entire life in Seattle behind for. Remington looks just a little tired today, quietly running beside me, pumping his fists in the air. Remington slows down and pumps his fists in the air as he comes back. I want to groan in protest over how shitty I feel when he looks more than decent. He stops close to me, and I use my cap to shield my stupid face.
I bite down hard on my lip as he surveys me, forcing myself to hold his gaze. He smiles down at me, his dimples popping as he stands there. A little arrogant, a lot hot, Remington Tate, the man of my dreams. In that gray hoodie. Those blue eyes peering at me. His shoulders, rock hard, stretch the material of his sweatshirt as his feet tap the sidewalk.
Just please somebody kill me now. This is our time, this is special, but I feel weak and faint and miserable. Dropping to his haunches to level with me, he pries my cap off and surveys me, no more dimples on his face. Coach Lupe is waiting. Will walk. With you. Now give me your hand and let me help you up. I get up on my own and start walking.
He laughs softly as he steps to my side. He shoves his hands into his sweatshirt, dark head bent as he glares down at the sidewalk and ambles next to me. Do you know? He makes a low, growling sound and pulls two fistfuls of hair before dropping his hands. What do you want me to say?
Why the fuck are you letting it matter? One could be pregnant with your fucking baby as we speak! They could take pictures of you. They could. Fucking smug asshole—they can! The thought that anyone, especially some tarts, had access to him when he was like that, makes me feel like going nuclear. I wipe an angry tear and keep walking, then he crowds me with his body and purposely brushes the back of his hand to my own.
He rubs his thumb over mine. Dragging in a breath, I force my pinky finger to move, and he hooks our little fingers around each other. He starts pounding his bags without a single glance in my direction and with very, very hard slams. I stand by the sidelines, tense by the way the air crackles between us, like a suddenly haywire electrical circuit about to combust. Coach looks at him, and looks at me, and Riley comes up, equally concerned as he surveys us both. His eyes are hot and almost proprietary when he looks at me.
He steps forward, and his damp hand slides into the nape of my neck. My pulse skitters as he lowers his dark head to set a small, dry kiss on my lips. That could both change and ruin my life. My heart stutters. I laugh, completely sucked in, mesmerized and enchanted by him. The aura he emanates makes him blaze like a sun tonight. Everyone present seems magnetized by him, helplessly gravitating to where he is. He spots me, and his smile softens and his eyes alight with a strange, hungry, and somehow glowing look.
He smiles at me, and his dancing blue eyes hold mine as he slowly walks forward and meets me halfway. He lifts me in his powerful arms and swings me around, and then he kisses me. The instant he takes my lips, fireworks shoot off in my body. All the pent-up desire of days and weeks adds up to this one moment when everything that I am, and everything that I want, is narrowed down to this.
His kiss spins my stomach into a wild swirl. He holds me tightly by the hips and deftly moves his lips as he rubs his tongue to mine. He cups my face in those big hands that make me feel fragile and tiny, and he hungrily recaptures my mouth.
A sweltering fever runs unleashed through me. I want him now. But me. His eyes dark and intent, he scrapes the sides of my face with the pads of his big, callused thumbs, then spreads his fingers wide over my scalp as he kisses me again, our mouths hot and wet as they blend, thirsty and anxious.
I grip the soft gray of the t-shirt he wears in my fists, dying with sensations. But he seems engrossed only in me, and me in him. Laughter fills me, and bubbles of happiness pop inside my chest.
For him. For this night. Very possibly both my grandfathers party better than these two. But they just shake their heads and keep looking positively glum.