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REAL
katy evans
Gallery Books
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Gallery Books A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2013 by Katy Evans All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. This Gallery Books trade paperback edition September 2013 GALLERY BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Bonus Content Only File

“Iris” words and music by John Rzeznik © 1998 EMI Virgin Songs, Inc. and Scrap Metal Music All rights controlled and administered by EMI Virgin Songs, Inc. All rights reserved international copyright secured used by permission. Reprinted with permission by Hal Leonard Corporation. “I Love You” words and music by Avril Lavigne, Max Marin, and Johan Schuster © 2011 Almo Music Corp., Avril Lavigne Publishing LLC and Maratone AB All rights for Avril Lavigne Publishing LLC controlled and administered by Almo Music Corp. All rights for Maratone AB administered by Kobalt Music Publishing America, Inc. All rights reserved used by permission. Reprinted with permission of Hal Leonard Corporation. For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com. The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. Designed by Davina Mock-Maniscalco Manufactured in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available ISBN 978-1-4767-6198-5

Fourteen

Exclusive Extended Ending

T

hen I’ll bet I’m better at this,” I say as I slide my fingers into his hair, then rain all the kisses I can on his face. The groan of male arousal I hear causes a shudder of excitement to run through me and I add my tongue, rasping it over the stubble of his jaw, loving the part-laugh, part-moan that follows. “You are good,” he teases huskily, his eyes sparkling as he takes my hair in one fist and tilts my head to take over my mouth. “So fucking good I need to be inside you now, Brooke. Right now.” He’s never sounded so determined, and suddenly I’ve never felt so needy, so I grab the base of his cock and ease down on its length. He clamps his jaw with an expression of excruciating pleasure. “God, yes,” he says, his fingers curling on my hips as he guides me lower—inch by inch. I’m impaled with him. Hot. Thick. Hard. He’s in me, and oh, god, he feels so good, and it’s been so long, I bite my lip as I savor Remy in me. He cups my face, stroking his thumbs over my cheekbones as he watches

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me take him, slowly to adjust, to feel every, single, delicious inch of him entering me. “Does that feel as good to you as it does to me?” he asks in that sex-thickened voice that drives me crazy. “More . . . more than amazing . . .” I gasp. “Nothing can ever be this good . . . as you . . .” I feel full, stretched almost beyond bearing, and still . . . I need more. He’s so big. Bigger than life. Bigger than anyone. And he’s all I want and all I need and I need all of it. I rock to take more, forcing my sex walls to stretch, to be able to keep him, accept him, clutch and hug him. We’ve completely stopped laughing by now, and when he sinks fully inside me, I gasp, and his head falls forward on mine and he groans a long, low sound. “Oh, Remy.” I lift myself back up, and then he grabs my waist and pulls me down, and we start moving slowly, my body lifting, his arms quickly lowering me . . . Our bodies rule now, our heartbeats, our breaths, our muscles, all working for release, his and mine. I’m breathless and my body temperature keeps hitching as I eagerly anticipate that moment when I will feel him explode in me and leave me all sticky and delicious the way I like. “Brooke . . .” Remington starts licking me everywhere he can. My nipples, my shoulder, my collarbone, up my neck, his fingers digging into my skin as I rise faster and he lowers me even faster and harder. He lifts his head and keeps his eyes on mine as he watches me bounce on him. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful. . . .” My sex swells even more when he watches the way my breasts move, the way my sex opens to take him. His eyes flashing proprietarily, he takes my lips with his, and our mouths slant and take,

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slant and taste. Then we lose it all. We can’t savor anymore, we need more. He slams me down and rocks his hips powerfully up at the same time, his muscles clenching, his thighs underneath me, his abs against mine, his biceps around me. He’s so incredibly strong, but he’s fucking me like he’s never fucked anything in his life—with control, yet also with utter desperation. Pleasure shoots across my body as he starts plowing me, his face a mask of fierce need. “Feed me one of your nipples,” he says in a thick, textured whisper. I lean over and cup my breast, placing my nipple in his open mouth and he closes greedily around the tip as he keeps lifting and lowering me. As he starts suckling, I feel the hot suctions of his mouth ripple in delicious waves through me. “Oh god, Remy,” I say, curling my arms around the back of his head and locking his head to me. “Harder. Harder, please.” I’m dying, pressing my breast deeper into his marvelous mouth. He growls and bites me, releasing me and biting me, sucking and biting me, and exquisite pleasure bolts through me until I’m in agony with every drag of his length inside me, every raw, animal tug of his mouth on my breasts. “More, Brooke,” he demands, and I give him my other, neglected breast, the nipple already poking into the air in a needy plea. His tongue strokes it and the taut tension in my body keeps on building. He keeps biting and sucking me, fucking and lifting me, and I hear us—in the room—the way we make love. The way we mate. We’re raw and we’re noisy. I want to sink down and keep him forever in me, but I also crave the way he fills me and then slips out, making me weep and throb for him to reenter and stretch me around his base.

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“Remington!” I cry as the intense pleasure builds, and builds, and builds. He rolls me over to my back before I can reach it, and pulls out. And I’m there, shivering, suspended in the pinnacle of pleasure. Gasping for air, I look at him, panting, burning, his chest heaving as he holds himself up on his arms over me. He likes prolonging this. I close my eyes and try to get control, shuddering as I fight for it. His lips once again tug on my nipples then trail along my abdomen. Up my neck. He smells me. Tastes me. Relishes me. Experiences me. I grab his hair and lick his jaw, into his mouth, caressing all his skin and undulating beneath his hot, hard body. Savoring him back. He’s my obsession and my addiction, the only place I feel both safe and exhilarated. “Tell me you love me,” I beg. He slides one hand down my abdomen, circling my belly button, then caressing my sex lips, until finally sticking his middle finger inside me. “Remy,” I moan, rocking my hips and thrashing. “I like it so much, say it.” He takes my mouth, then he grabs my hips, filling me completely and whispering, “I love you . . .” He’s watching me with those blue eyes, building up an orgasm as he cups my breasts in his hands, then he bends to lick and lave each of the tips. I thrash beneath him. He takes my mouth with his, his kiss ravenous. “I love you,” he rasps again, moving in me so deep I can feel him in my heart. His face moves to my ear. “I want to move in here and fucking live in you.” He kisses my forehead, my nose, and my lips. “Say my name when you come.” I come with his name—Remingt—and he takes it with his mouth, climaxing, hot and powerful, inside me. My arms go lax around him when the waves settle down, and then we lie there, smiling at each other like dopes, before he grabs me and

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adjusts me and my blue-eyed lion takes over and does all his sexy stuff.
❤ ❤ ❤

My eyes flutter open the next morning. The first thought that pops into my head is that I dreamed it all. That I dreamed the music we played to each other in the dark. That I dreamed the hour-long kisses we gave each other, feeling that sexy-devil’s mouth fuse with mine and take my breath, my thoughts, and me until all my world becomes that hungry. Wet. Sexy-devil’s mouth. I dreamed we made love three times. The first time, it was tender and then a little desperate. The second, exploratory. Savoring each other again. Testing the territory, maybe? Is his nipple still the same shade of lovely brown, with the hard little point I like to rub my fingers over? Does he still like it when I graze my teeth over his lower lip and gently bite him? And him? He left no part uncovered the second time. His hands running down my curves, his exploring mouth rubbing, suctioning, tasting. Even the sounds we made; we seemed to memorize it all. We laughed a little and played a little, nipping as we kissed, amused as we teased each other. “Sing to me again,” he teased in my ear, as he moved in me. “You just insulted my vocal chords, I will never be able to sing to you again,” I said breathlessly, and my words turned to a moan when he held one arm around me and splayed me beneath him. He pinned up my arms. “Come one,” he insisted, and then came those dimples. Can anyone deny those dimples? “You’re . . . so . . . beautiful . . .” I gasped. “But that’s not why I love you . . .” His groan cut me off, and then we stopped laughing and it

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became serious. It became desperate. The thought that I could still be alone, in my apartment, and he could be apart from me, sinks into us both as we start fucking for real. We didn’t laugh as we kissed anymore. He claimed my lips, his mouth demanding and commanding, his thrusts harder, leaving no doubt about him taking me. And the third time, I cried. It was raw. He bit me, licked me, told me you’re mine and I bit back, felt him, hot and hard and pulsing inside me, and I cried and cried until he made me come. I didn’t cry because it was amazing—when his body is in mine and I’m taken by his, it is amazing. But no. I cried because I still can’t believe that I, who thought of myself as strong, confident, levelheaded, could have even thought for a moment it was a good idea to give up on him. He held me as I cried softly. And kissed my tears. And told me to forget about that. To love him like he loves me, and that’s that. Can it be so simple? Now, I wake up in this hotel room. Our hotel rooms are always so clean and nice and new. The lines of the furniture are modern, the bed sheets softer than the ones I have in my home. But the best part of the room is always Remy. My eyes blur and my heart does crazy jumping motions in my chest when I shift my gaze and see him there, sprawled, facedown on the bed, with one arm slung out as if reaching out for me. We didn’t close the drapes, so every inch of sunlight steals into the room and bathes his golden skin. Even at rest, his muscles are hard, perfectly defined. I run my eyes up his tight, muscled legs, to the curve of his buttocks, the dip of his spine, up the broad, deep, muscled back, to his arms. And that arm, with the Celtic tattoo on his bicep, stretched out for me. How many nights has he slept with that arm reaching out to nothing on the other side of the bed? Just like I have?

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The thought swamps me with regret. So much regret. How could I have . . . misunderstand him like I did? When all he wanted was for me to know him? I wanted to be the only one who did, and in the end, he must have been so disappointed to think I wound up knowing nothing about him. Not even about the way he felt about me. For a moment, my lungs can’t even expand; it hurts to think about it. I’m so fucking in love with you I don’t even know what to do with myself anymore. . . . Closing my eyes, I hear the words and wrap them in my heart. Then I look at him on the bed. His breathing is slow and deep, and he seems to be resting. I wonder if he’s even rested all this time without me. I feel like I haven’t slept in years. Was he black the whole time? How did he pull through and cope? Oh god, I’m so fucking in love too, I don’t know what to do with myself either. I’ve never loved like this before. Feeling my chest swell, I reach out my arm and touch the back of one of his fingers. I slide my fingertip over the rise of his, then up one scarred knuckle, and up his wrist, slowly delineating his forearm. “Hmmm.” He turns his head so that he faces me, and my heart gives a little skip. His eyes are still shut, his lips curled only briefly so that I don’t get to see but the slightest hint of one dimple. His hair is a mess—and I love that mess. I smile to myself at the hmmm . . . and lean over to his ear as I slide my fingers up his whole arm and to his shoulder. “You want to eat me?” I whisper. He says, “Hmmmm,” and rolls to his back, hauling me with him when his eyes open.

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Shudders of emotion run through me when those blue eyes hold my gaze, and I hold that blue-eyed gaze back, breathless when he lifts his arm and reaches out to trace the back of one finger down my jaw. “Here you are,” he says. He surveys me. Does he think he dreamed me too? Because I’m so overcome I feel like I have to be dreaming. I hardly deserve him coming back to me, much less his love. Much less being looked at . . . the way he looks at me now. “So I am,” I whisper, shifting so I’m splayed deliciously over him. “What time do we leave today?” Easing to a sit and propping himself up against two pillows, he crosses his arms behind his head in a way that makes his biceps bulge and form perfect rocks next to those Celtic tattoos. “We weren’t.” “What?” “We weren’t leaving until I knew for sure you were coming with us.” One of my eyebrows flies up at this interesting confession. I like it. I like it very very much. “Well then. Now that I’m here, you’re stuck with me. You’re so stuck, mister.” Smack, I softly hear as I kiss one dimple. “You have to take me with you now.” Smack, I hear as I kiss the other, to be fair. “Where is it you want me to take you?” “Away from here. To where you are. To kick Scorpion ass. To run. To bed. To heaven. To watch you fight.” I look at him, and he’s looking all lazy, his arms behind his head, all lion-like, king-of-the-jungle-like. “I’m Brooke,” I tell him. “You asked for my name once. I’m Brooke Dumas and instead of giving you my number, I’ll just give you my heart.” He cocks a brow and when he laughs—a rich, beautiful sound, and I’ve missed him so much—I get a little sting in my eyes.

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He reaches out and drags me to him. “Brooke Dumas,” he murmurs, cupping my jaw, his eyes sparkling as looks deep into my eyes. “I’m Remington.” I smile tearfully with love, and he ducks his head and whispers in my ear, “Instead of bringing you back to my hotel . . . I’m going to hire you, seduce you, claim you, and then, I’m never going to let you go.” He eases back to stare at me and spots my tear, and wipes it away. “What part of it don’t you like?” he asks me softly. I’d never noticed the way he looked at me with love, but there’s so much love in his eyes this morning, I feel inundated with emotion and it clogs my throat as I try to talk. “The part where I was stupid and ran away.” “No more, my little sprinter. No more running for you.” I laugh when he scoops me up out of the bed. “Where are we going?” “Everywhere you wanted to go, including the kitchen.” “But I’m naked . . .” “So am I.” “But Diane . . .” “I bolted the door in the middle of the night.” “You’re chatty now, aren’t you? I can tell you think you’re the shit ’cause I came back to grovel,” I tease, poking a dimple as he carries me. He says nothing but keeps flashing those dimples as he sets me down in the kitchen and walks to the fridge. Naked. And I’m standing there, watching him pull out a gallon of milk, the fridge lights silhouetting every muscle. I groan and cover my face. “Remington, you’ll be the death of me.” “And you of me.” He pulls out fruit and whipped cream. “I’m hungry.”

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He props me up on the granite counter, next to the sink, and lifts a strawberry to my lips. I bite the tip, then he shoves the rest into his mouth and tosses the stem aside. “Hmm,” I say. I love strawberries. “Hmmm,” he says, and by the twinkle in his eyes, I think he means something else. It’s confirmed when he spreads whipped cream on one breast. I gasp, then he laps it off me, and my brain has packed its bags and left me as he does the same to the other breast. “You’re not going to have breakfast on me, are you?” I ask, laughing, actually hoping that he will. “You are breakfast, the rest is a side dish.” Ohmigod. Soon I’m all full of yummy stuff and . . . he’s feeding me, and I’m feeding him . . . and we’re feeding on each other. . . . Seriously, he’s so fucking sexy I can’t stand it.

Fifteen

Epilogue

Remington

I

still sometimes can’t believe Brooke loves me. I get crazy when she talks to Pete and Riley, and sometimes I can’t sleep for fear of waking up and finding she’s not next to me. I start getting jealous and fear I’m going to lose my shit, but when she touches me, I find anchor. I fight for her tonight, and I want her eyes only on me. I want her hands on me later. And the way she tells me she loves me. She shows it too, but I have never in my life heard it before. She puts love songs to me, and I cling to the lyrics like she wrote them for me. Sometimes I have trouble putting to words how I feel. Sometimes I feel a thousand things at once and can’t find a single word to tell her what I want to say. That’s why I look for songs, and as soon as it hits a chord in me, I can’t wait to play it to her. I played “Iris” for her because I wanted her to know that I’d do all kinds of crazy shit just to be with her, and more than that, I wanted her to know me. She does. She may know parts of me even I don’t.

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Every time I wake up, I check her out. “Did I hurt you?” I ask. Sometimes I remember when I’m black, but other times I don’t. All my life falls apart when I’m black. I’m afraid to hurt her. I’m afraid she’s gonna go again. But then she tells me she promises to let me know the shit I did or said, and that appeases me. Honestly, I don’t think I have it in me to hurt her. It’s grounded in me to protect her, even from myself. I think even black Remington would kill himself before he hurts her. But I still dream I wake up and hear that I did something stupid and she’s gone. She tells me every night I’m her real. She’s my real. She’s my only. But I want it on paper. I want to win this year, and when I do, I’m going to ask her for it. Because she’s mine. Tonight, I hear the crowd as I come up to the ring, and I suck their energy into me, let it feed me, but I’m already turning to stop at the point where she’s sitting. Every detail of what she is wearing tonight is in my head. I see a face that has eyes so gold and I feel richer than a country. Her cheeks rosy. Her smile wide. And the sight of her hits me like adrenaline. A rise in dopamine. Testosterone. Endorphins. I’m jacked with it. She jacks me with it, and I smile and point at her, as I plan to do from now on so she knows, “This one’s for you.” It’s all. For you.

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Brooke Dumas. She blows me a kiss and I catch it in my palm. Crowd loves it like I love her. And then I put it in my mouth, and they roar. And I point at her, laughing, seeing the lights in her eyes, and I can’t wait to be inside her, hear her sigh for me, come for me. I’m high already. The surge of adrenaline pumps through me. I’m going to beat anything they put in my way just to show this female that I—me, Remington Fucking Tate—am the male she wants. “The one and only, Remington RIIIIIIIIIPTIDE Tate!” I hear my name once more, and I’m high with the crowd, high with her smile. High on her.

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