I shrug, taking a long gulp of my bottle too as I lean back on my elbows. “I can play all kinds of ways.”
“Did you always want to race?”
“Always.” I wink at her. “Since I was a tiny thing, I grew obsessed with cars. The noise they make, fuck it turns me on,” I growl, and she laughs, her eyes heavy.
“You broke the law for years just so you could get away with racing.”
“I’m not ashamed of it.”
She’s quiet. “Does it help with the BP?”
“I think so, yes.”
She nods and smiles sadly. “The year you were diagnosed, I think that was the year David died.”
Our eyes meet. My girl. She’s MY girl. And she’s still hurting and I can’t make it go away. “I’m sorry,” I say, straightening.
Maybe he was meant to love her for a time, but I’m loving her forever.
I shift my arm and pull her close, and I raise the volume of my phone, and the car volume hikes up.
I pull her to my chest, and she sets her bottle aside and snuggles close to me, and I growl against her hair.
My senses heighten with the addictive scent of her, feel of her, look of her. I just want more. I know that when you’re in a life-or-death situation, your senses clear, your mind is sharp as fuck—every detail stored in your mind because one of those details can mean the difference between life and death.
Happens when I’m racing.
Happens when she’s around. Because every detail of her, every fucking word, every thing about her, is fucking life.
“I want to taste you,” I gruff in her ear.
Her eyes widen.
“I want your pussy melting beneath my mouth and the rest of you, too. “
I tug her skirt up to her waist, revealing her violet-colored lace panties.
“Racer.” She’s trembling.
“Would you like that, Lana?”
“I think so.”
“Then take my hand, baby. Go on. Take it and show me your favorite places, show my fingers.” She does. Taking my fingers to her nipples. I growl, squeezing. “Now my mouth.”
She takes my head and guides it to her belly button.
I set a kiss there, tracing her belly button with my tongue.
She gasps and guides my head even lower, parting her legs. I ease up and smile down at her, easing her panty aside with my thumb.
She’s shaking as she watches me go back down to those soft, sweet curls.
I lick her.
One long lick.
She gasps and shifts beneath me, getting closer to me, and I kneel before her; I grab her by the hips and part her legs, sliding down to bury my mouth in her sweet-as-peach sex once more.
This time I don’t come up for air; don’t fucking want it.
I drag my tongue up and down, her taste addictive. Perfect. Fucking drugging. She smells like warm girl, my warm girl, and tastes better than fresh rain.
I dip my tongue inside, deeper and harder, my hunger growing with each taste.
Her hips start rocking upward, and Lana’s kissing the top of my head, breathing faster and harder as my own breaths start to speed up.
She writhes and tries to snap her legs shut—gasping and rolling her head in the grass, out of control. I pry her legs wider open and move my head, licking and sucking her up, feeling her start to come when I lie over her, set my jean-clad cock above center, and kiss her as we grind each other on the ground, too damn hot for her to resist coming when she blows off beneath me.
I come with her.
Lana gasps as she recovers, catching her breath, and I tug her panties back into place and help her straighten, all the while watching her.
She’s pink-cheeked and heavy-eyed, and I pluck the grass from her hair, grinning as she smiles shyly up at me.
“Wow,” she says.
She sits up, her face soft after her orgasm, her lashes still heavy—her gaze wowed.
“God, those eyes,” I say, cupping her face.
“They’re just green,” she says with a soft laugh, snuggling her cheek into my palm.
“They’re everything. So fucking expressive you don’t even need to say a word for me to know exactly how you feel.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“How do I feel now?”
“You’re having a good time.”
“And?”
“And you’re still hot for me. No matter how many times I make you come.”
“Oh wow, he’s so honest.” She laughs and rolls her eyes.
“You’re falling for me, Lana.”
Her smile fades.
“I don’t know if I should warn you again to stay away, but what’s the point? I’d only chase you.” I smile down at her, shaking my head in warning. “I’m not letting you go.”
“What?” she scoffs. “Racer, seriously, your confidence knows no limits.”
“I know what I know.”
“You don’t know shit.” She scowls and shifts, lying down on the ground and scowling up at the sky. Despite the scowl, a smile starts tugging on her lips.
“I’m going to let you in on a secret, Lana.”
Curiosity piqued, she looks at me and sits back up again, her eyes dancing no matter how she tries to hide it from me.
“I’m going to marry you,” I say.
“Is that right?
“That is absolutely right,” I croon, “and you’re going to love every single second of being my wife.”
“Is that right?”
“That is beyond right, baby.”
She leans forward, her breath at my mouth. “I’m going to tell you something, Racer,” she says, breathless when she looks at my mouth and at me. “Keep aiming for the moon, and maybe one day, you’ll catch a star.”
“Baby,” I say, cupping the back of her head and leveling my eyes on hers, “I’m aiming to catch me the worst driver in the world.”
“Racer!”
I chuckle, and she breathes, as she lies back down, “I’m still looking for the best driver in the world.”
I raise my brows meaningfully—tsk and shake my head, a sign that she should know better. Then I brace my arms on each of her sides and lean over her, my nose level with hers.
“Look into my eyes and you’ll find him,” I husk out.
Her chest starts rising and falling.
“You’ve had him inside you already …” I cup her where she’s hottest. “You have him here.” I give a little squeeze, then slide my hand upward, over her dress, and I put my hand on her left breast. “And here.”
Her eyes are shining and they widen, a little scared. At this point, I’ve worked myself up to a fever, and my heart is beating like a crazed drum in my chest.
“You love me, Lana,” I say.
Her eyes begin to glisten, and she starts to cry.
I’m confused. I sit back for a hot second, watching the tears start to stream as Lana tries to wipe them off.
“Hey, I love you.” I reach out to take her wrist and keep her from drying her tears. Instead, I use my free hand to do it and peer into her face. “I’ve never loved anything this much in my life.”
“I only ever said I love you to my family and David.” Her tears keep falling onto my thumbs.
“You don’t need to say it now. I know.” I clench my jaw, keeping her face in my hands. “I know.”
She drops her face and starts to gather the trash. “Take me back to the hotel.”
I stop her. “I won’t hurt you.”
She raises her head. “Can you honestly promise me that?”
I look down at her, something in my chest on unsteady ground. My voice roughens defensively. “Are you afraid that I’d hurt you or that you’d get hurt because I’m bipolar? Lana.”
She ignores my question and gets into the car.
“Take me to my room please.”
I slam her car door shut, furious.
I climb into the driver’s side, and Lana stares out
the window on the drive back to the hotel, keeping those eyes from me.
After walking her to her room, I’m back in mine, a black spiral looming over me as I fight not to get sucked in.
I scrape my hand over my face, staring out the window, sleepless, my fucking heart down the hall and a few doors away, crying and in pain because she loves me.
Lana
I toss and turn all night.
I hate him.
I love him.
He’s taken all my memories of David and replaced them with him. All my love and put his face on it, his stamp on it, now when I think of David … a dimple appears on his cheeks, his soft brown eyes turn bright blue and vivid, and his light brown hair becomes wild and spiky and black.
I sent him a text in the middle of the night—
I’m sorry I just need some space to think. Lana
And it hurt that he answered immediately with a curt OK, because it only confirmed the fact that he wasn’t sleeping either.
I’m in a bit of a tired and highly wired state the next morning when I spot him at our tent at the side of the track, looking sharp as ever in his black racing suit, with the U.S. flag stitched at his belt, and his new sponsor logos plastered all across his muscular arms and chest—and he looks like everything I will ever possibly want, and like nothing I could have ever imagined myself having, and I don’t know whether I want to pull him to the motorhome to tell him that he’s right, that he’s right and I’m a big ol’ coward, or I don’t know if I want to run away.
I don’t run away though.
I sort of drink him in as he sits at a table with the mechanics and laughs at something Adrian says, and then I see him turn his head to spot me, fold his legs as he pulls them off the table, and come to his feet as he snatches up two coffees from nearby and brings them over.
My heart thuds a thousand and one times. “Good morning.” His voice is husky.
“Good morning.”
He hands me a cup of coffee, and I laugh and extend his too. “I brought you one too.”
“We’ll just keep bringing each other coffee until one of us gets it.”
“You get it first.”
“No. You do.” He tweaks my nose and winks. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither,” I say, breathless.
“I’ve been racing for quite a few Grand Prix, and I still haven’t gotten you to admit I’m the best driver in the world. It won’t do.” He shakes his head. “My mustang is back in St. Pete, waiting to get fixed.”
“You banged it up and I’m sure it’s fixed already.”
“We had a deal,” he says. “Are you backing out on me?”
“No. Are you?”
“I never back out on anything,” he says, giving me a look that says I’m his, that he’ll be patient, that he’ll wait.
I want to talk to him, but we’re placing amazing in the championship points, fighting for second place with the Clark’s second driver, and it’s already going beyond my and my family’s wildest dreams.
I don’t want to bring my personal things here and dump them all in the track, so I hold back and try my best to keep everyone comfortable—and the team performing at their best.
So I just clear my throat and say, “You have six interviews after quali.”
“I’m on it.”
He looks at me for a second, a look that’s secretive and frustrated and determined and melts my bones, and then I watch him with a pang of longing as he go gets ready to drive like the blue-eyed devil that he is.
He has a great qualifying session, coming in P3, so that’s where he’ll start the race.
I hurry to where he stands by the press, bringing his sponsors cap.
“You forgot this!” I say breathlessly as I reach out and put it on his head, and the cameras seem to love to notice the way he stared at me for an extra second.
“You and your team seem to get along pretty well, Racer, do you think that has anything to do with your marvelous performance so far this year?”
“Lana’s my lucky charm,” he says, and I’m turning the color of a chili pepper as I walk way, glancing back only to see him continue on with his next interviews—and that’s when I notice he’s tapping his fingers at his sides.
My stare lingers on those strong, long, restless fingers for a beat more before I chide myself for obsessing on him and everything about him and walk away.
Ever since Racer got P1 I’ve noticed all the other drivers (except Clark) are hounding him, asking him to hang out, to go out for drinks, etc. I swear it’s like everyone is seeing Racer as their own ticket to the podium. As if befriending him will somehow get some of his luck to rub off on them.
Racing is a superstitious sport. Pre-race rituals and lucky charms are a norm. Because everyone knows that to win, you not only need a good car and an insane amount of talent, you need the universe to smile upon you.
So far, Racer has not only shown he has incredible talent, a lot of guts, and a strong car, but he’s also shown to be the angels’ golden boy.
It seems Racer finally caved in to their advances. I overheard him agree to hit up a party at Jay’s, one of the drivers, place. Considering Jay races for one of the top three teams and enjoys a salary in the eight digits, he’s got a penthouse in a prestigious London neighborhood, including a top-floor pool and terrace overlooking the city—and apparently there’ll be DJs, a dance floor, and lots of girls and booze.
My stomach roiled thinking of Racer showing up there alone, looking absolutely edible with his bedroom eyes and dark head of hair. I can’t stand the idea of having girls drape themselves over him, offering him the world and more between their legs.
No. That cannot fucking happen.
That evening, I see myself almost as if I were having an out-of-body experience: I see myself stand from the bed, grab my purse and storm out of my room like a mad woman—a bullet aimed straight at Racer Tate’s door.
I’m just going to tell him that there is no way he is going there alone without me because I need to make sure he stays out of trouble and gets back home safe.
Complete bullshit, I know.
But I don’t care. I need to go with him.
I knock on his door and he opens up with a towel draped across his hips and his hair spiky with water droplets hanging on to the end.
I swear my jaw drops an inch.
He is man mixed with animal, muscle mixed with danger, sex mixed with seduction.
“Hey you.” He smirks at me. Taking his sweet time to look me up and down in my black running shorts and Team HW shirt.
“I … I just wanted to ask if you wanted me to send your racing suit to the dry cleaners.”
Racer just frowns.
“Are you still working at this hour?”
“I …” I just look at him.
“I feel like I’m drowning in all this space. I can’t breathe, I can’t eat, I don’t want us to fight anymore,” I plead.
He’s silent for a moment. “I don’t want that either,” he husks out. He props a muscled shoulder on the doorframe and looks at me in silence.
“So,” I breathe.
“So,” he repeats, his deep voice lowering an octave. “Are you going to stand there and make me come get you, or are you going to come here?” he asks.
I don’t know why my heart jumps in excitement because I had been hoping we would make up, but the look in his eyes, as if he’s still a little frustrated by what happened but is more eager to put that moment behind us, gets to me.
I start walking forward, and he watches me the whole time, making my heart leap more and more.
Before I reach him, his hands shoot out, and he reels me over to his hard body, nuzzles my ear and growls, “Are you going to stop putting up walls for me,” he demands.
I nod, breathless.
He smiles a little, looking at my mouth as he steals his hand into my waistband, grabs my butt, and squeezes it as he draws me closer to set a kiss on me that sets my every toe a
nd fingertip on fire—and everything in between.
“Are you mad that I didn’t want to talk about it,” I ask.
“You fucked me up, girl,” he says, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger and looking piercingly into my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re just so much more than I ever bargained for.”
There’s the slightest upward tilt to his lips, and he almost smiles as he draws me closer. I curl my face to his chest.
“I was planning to come get you at nine. There’s a party at Jay’s place in the city. Why don’t you go and slip into something sexy, I’ll stop by in an hour.”
He turns and leaves before I have time to come up with something smart to answer, and I’m left freaking out over what to wear.
I hurry back to my own hotel room, and I tear my suitcase apart looking for something to wear to this posh party. I know the girls the drivers hang out with are always models and gorgeous, and I don’t want to wear anything short of spectacular.
I want something hot but elegant, and classy. I don’t want any of the drivers getting any ideas and it always makes me uncomfortable to have them ogling me. It makes me feel like they don’t take me seriously.
But I also want Racer to see me. I don’t know why it makes me so high—to feel those blue eyes on me.
I stop at a nude silk dress and feel myself smirk. It’s perfect. Backless with a high halter neckline tied with a bow at the back of my neck, leaving two long silk strands hanging down my exposed back. It’s a little bit above the knee, but the material clings to me like a second skin.
Racer, baby, you’re going to die.
I get my hair tools and curl my hair at the tips, then run my hands through them to give my hair a messy bedroom look to go with the silk dress. I don’t travel with a lot of accessories but I add my usual pearl studs to my ears, and am grateful for my single pair of strappy sandals that I use for the important racing events.
I put on blush, mascara, and a bit of liner only on the top eyelid then run some dark rose lipstick over my lips. Just when I’m spraying a bit of perfume on my wrist I hear a knock on the door and I almost trip over my heels going to answer it.