Racer

  I gasp, and he groans and licks my mouth, cleaning my jaw of his cum with his thumb and then pressing it on my mouth. I groan, starting to move my hips, needing to come again too.

  And that’s when I feel him reach out to my partly open jeans and shove his hand gently into my underwear and rub his fingertips, still with some cum on them, along my opening and my pussy folds. Surprised by my lightning-fast reaction, I cry out as a thousand and one shudders wrack me, making me cry out.

  I lie in a daze as Racer goes clean up—dazed at the sight of that RT tattoo on his firm buttocks. When he returns and slips his strong arms around me, I slip my arms around him too.

  My eyes drift shut, and I feel him look at me.

  He’s completely naked in bed.

  And I’m completely hormone-filled.

  And my ovaries hurt looking at how gorgeous and masculine he is.

  Boyish and yet at the same time, so male.

  He presses his thumb into my palm, smiling. My heart speeds up with a mix of longing and dread to what I feel. I am falling. It feels as if my ribs have just collapsed in my chest, crushing my lungs. “You okay?”

  “Can’t sleep.” He stares at me.

  “Racer … I’m not ready for anything.”

  He smiles, stroking his hand down my cheek. “I know. I was there where you are.”

  “What happened?”

  “You crashed my car.” He grins. I feel my stomach tingle from the inside out, and I open my lips and raise my head to kiss him, and he doesn’t need to be asked twice, he crushes my head back down as he starts to kiss me in ways I never knew a human being on this earth could be kissed, a kiss that touches every part of me, my lips and body, my mind, my heart, my very soul.

  “I’ll take it easy with you.”

  “Please,” I say, and he shifts to lie down beside me, the most hot, handsome man I could have ever imagined in bed; kissing me like I’m the only girl he’s ever wanted in his.

  Racer

  I’m restless as fuck. I glance at Lana across the track of the Bahrain Grand Prix.

  We just arrived, and today she came to the track freshly showered, her face scrubbed of anything other than those cute freckles and that soft pink shade from too much sun exposure.

  I like her without makeup. She’s wearing a little sweater, crossing her arms over her puckered nipples, and I can barely keep my hands to myself. When she’s cold, I want to be the one that warms her. I feel like she owns me, and I want to own her. But I still look at her and wonder how the fuck I’ll be able to deserve this girl.

  The curse of being me, one I inherited from my father. He found someone to like that about him, at least to get him. I wonder if she’ll be the one to love and get every part of me.

  Just thinking about it makes my pulse race. I’m masturbating several times a day now, can’t seem to be under control when I’m close to her. I want inside her. And I want it slowly. Breathe in her neck. Whisper in her ear. Make her remember the feel of me inside her when she’s not with me. I want her to move beneath me, scream my name, let me taste her mouth, taste and see the color of each damned moan.

  Devour her slowly with kisses. Rock against her slowly, letting her absorb my length. Run my nose along her neck so my breath leaves a path on her skin that my tongue will soon trace. I want to memorize every scent, the one on her hair, her neck, her ear, her skin, her abdomen, her sweat, her sweet wet pussy.

  Fuck.

  I want her to teach my mouth what to do with her, what she likes, trace her goddamned shape.

  But I promised her I’d take it slow, so here I am, in the back of the motorhome, shutting the door to the bedroom, stripping down my racing suit to my waist and shoving my hand into my boxers.

  I pull out my hard cock, moving my fist over it, harder and harder. The door outside slams. Fuck. I let go as a spurt of cum shoots out. There’s a knock on the door.

  I pull up my racing suit to my waist and stand as the door opens, and I look at her. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  She moves inside and stops.

  She glances down at me. I clench my fists at my sides, wanting to give it to her hard.

  She notices the front of my pants and the large cum stain.

  “Prepping before the race?” Her lips quirk.

  “De-stressing some.”

  Her eyes look heavy, as heavy as mine feel.

  She approaches me slowly and feathers her hand over my dick. I just came some, but it goes from semi-hard to hard the moment she touches it.

  “Look at you having fun all by yourself,” she breathes, looking up at me with lusty, gorgeous green eyes.

  I shove my thumb into her mouth and make her eat the cum I have on my fingers from my blast, and she cups part of my cock, making me lean down to take her mouth and kiss her fiercely.

  “I want you alone tonight for a while after the race,” I rasp, cupping her face.

  “Okay,” she breathes, and my heart shudders in my chest as she suddenly kneels at my feet and sets a warm, soft kiss right on my dick before she rises back up.

  “Okay,” she says again, her smile wide, her eyes so lusty for me I’m a dead man and I’d never been happier about it.

  “I’m getting first place,” I gruff out, pecking her lips and stealing a taste with my tongue as she murmurs, yes.

  Lana

  Out by pits, Racer’s eyes meet mine before he lowers his visor and climbs into the car. Once the cars are heading into the track, Clayton hands me the headset. “He wants you.”

  I don’t know what it is about the words that make something do something in me. It’s confusing, and irritating, and it makes me march up to grab the headset. I put it over my head.

  “You’re pushing it, Tate.”

  Silence.

  I press my lips together and focus as the cars gear up to start.

  And then … they’re off. Instead of holding position at fourth—his starting position—Racer immediately eats one spot with an impressively fast start. “You’re P3 now, and gaining on P2,” I say. “Clark is 0.2 seconds ahead of you.”

  “Got it,” he replies.

  I feel chills hearing his voice on the headset, and I try to isolate my reaction and stay focused on the game.

  “Louis Day, Clark’s second driver, is creeping in behind you.”

  “How close.”

  “Too damn close.” I check the stats. “0.07 seconds.”

  “He’ll eat shit in a bit,” he growls.

  I hold my breath at the determination in his voice as he overtakes second place, and suddenly he’s gaining on first.

  “You’re P2 gaining on P1,” I say, trying to keep my voice level even as the excitement threatens to overtake me.

  Two laps later, I watch Racer Tate overtake the first place in the most killer maneuver on the riskiest turn on the track.

  I hear my brothers yell like crazy behind me, the crowd yelling, and the announcer yelling even louder, “AND THE NEW RACE LEADER IS U.S. ROOKIE RACER TATE! In a pass that is almost impossible to manage! What a surprise this year has been with this young, talented driver …”

  I exhale in disbelief and whisper into the headset, “P1.”

  Racer doesn’t respond.

  “P1!” I yell excitedly, just to hear myself say it. “P1 … Clark is … he’s trailing two car lengths behind.”

  I check how many laps remain.

  “Hold steady for fifteen laps, champ, and you’ll be the tallest man on the podium tonight.”

  I remain on the headset, watching him draw a clean line.

  “You’re currently holding the fastest track lap,” I say, still disbelieving as Racer hangs tight and leads Kelsey to another perfect lap—and then, straight and at full speed past the waving checkered flag.

  The first checkered flag HW Racing Team has ever seen in Formula One Grand Prix.

  “What a stellar pass from rookie U.S. driver Racer Tate! Racer Tate, who jumped from starting po
int four to lead nearly the entire race …” the announcer is saying.

  “Holy shit,” I breathe, my eyes wide as I take off the headset and turn to see my dad.

  I feel my dad squeeze my hand, and his smile? It could brighten a whole sky; it’s like the sun.

  We’re both silent, smiling at each other, before I launch myself at him and he catches me, laughing gregariously.

  “P1!!!” Drake yells, coming over to lift my dad in the air.

  “Careful, Drake!” I call worriedly, but my dad couldn’t care less. His whole face is pink with excitement.

  Oh god.

  Is this really the same team that was scrambling to make it just a little while ago?

  And as the car pulls into pits, it feels as if I hold my breath for an eternity, because my lungs ache the moment Racer leaps out of the car, onto his feet, his fist pumping the air in pure devil’s pride.

  I take a ton of pictures as he goes up to the podium to get recognized for this achievement. “And this year’s surprise, U.S. rookie Racer Tate, with his first first-place trophy here at the Grand Prix …”

  The crowd cheers, and his dimple is on full display, and I can’t get enough pictures as I snap, snap, snap my phone and wish I had a professional camera—but I know professional photographers are taking these shots and I’ll be hounding for them online; our team will get tagged with them for sure.

  “Hope you enjoy P1—that’s going to be my place from now on,” I hear Clark say as he comes up beside him.

  Racer scoffs. “Not if I nudge you towards a wall.” A razor-sharp smile touches his lips.

  I feel chills rise up my arms because Racer sounds quietly determined, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone stand up to the Clarks before. They’re legends around here, and usually everyone kisses their ass, hoping one day to enjoy even half of the support the Clarks do. Well. Racer Tate doesn’t seem to know whom to treat nicely here, or maybe he just doesn’t care.

  “Sir,” he says as he brings up his huge silver trophy.

  Dad is grinning ear to ear as Racer hands him the trophy.

  “I can’t believe we have two podiums and already a first place,” Adrian says, congratulating him.

  They make a great team, Racer and Adrian. Racer seems to know exactly what he wants the car to do and Adrian is good at giving it to him.

  I also step up to congratulate him, and I shake. Just completely shake with anticipation. And when his strong, lean-muscled arms embrace me as my arms go around his wide frame, the shakes increase tenfold. “Congratulations,” I tremulously say, feeling as if the whole contents of a volcano have been poured into my veins and muscles.

  He stares down at me with those magnetic, male, satisfied blue eyes, his dimple so close I could rise up on tiptoes, lean forward a few inches, and lick it.

  As soon as we’re able to pack up, we head to the hotel.

  In the elevator, Racer and I stand close to each other, while my dad hugs his trophy and my brothers keep making plans for subsequent races. Racer’s breath is warm on the top of my head as he stands behind me, all of us sort of crammed in here. My heart pounds as someone else steps in, and I take a step back, nearly tripping on his feet.

  “Sorry,” I breathe, turning my head a bit to meet his gaze.

  He looks at me with the most intense expression on his face.

  I suck in a breath and turn forward again, aware of his hand curling around my hip. I want to close my eyes, and I want to turn and draw his arm closer and tighter around me. I want my lips on his and I want to share everything that I know and am with him, and I want him to share all of himself with me too.

  It’s crazy, I don’t even know this guy—but he looks at me as if he’s known me for a long time. Maybe, even, as if he’s waited for me for a long, long time.

  My family steps out. “Lainie, you getting off?” Clayton asks.

  “I’m just making sure this guy eats,” I call back, because we all ended up with rooms on the same floor except Racer.

  They all nod—Drake looking a little suspicious—and the elevator doors shut, and we’re alone.

  He smiles a little as I turn to him and give him a smile too.

  “You’re going to stay out of trouble. Aren’t you?” I ask.

  “Depends.” His dimple appears.

  “On what?” We step out and walk toward his room.

  “On whether trouble wants to step into my room with me.”

  He opens the door, then pushes it wide open, looking down at me.

  I gulp because I’d never seen such a hot, inviting look in anyone’s eyes before.

  I said I’d see him tonight, but I can’t help evading for a moment.

  “You won,” I say.

  “Aha.”

  “And you think you get laid if you win. This isn’t street racing.”

  “I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

  He waits, watching me with this gorgeous smile on his lips, and then I step inside and let him draw me up to the bed. We lie down side by side, and I let him move me so that I’m spooning his side, one of my legs draped over the length of his as I look up at him, my heart racing so hard I think I’ll go deaf from the racket it’s making.

  He shoots me a lazy smile. “Comfortable?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come closer then.” He drags me a little closer, his eyes never missing a beat of my expression.

  His smile is cocky and boyish, but his eyes are never playful, ever. They’re always intense, always gleaming, and I’m shocked to realize that almost every time I look, I find them resting on me.

  He runs his fingertip along the bridge of my nose. “You always had these freckles?”

  “No. Not always. They’ve become more numerous since we started racing.”

  I look at his face. “Do you have any birth marks?”

  “Not on skin-surface,” he says.

  “Were you a quiet baby?”

  “Restless one. You?”

  “Me too. My dad says you either work it out when you’re young, or when you’re older.”

  “I definitely am still in the process of working it out.” He smirks.

  I laugh, and then whisper, “My boyfriend. His name was David. He passed.”

  His eyes drop to my body as I tremble at the memory. He looks like he wants to reach out and grab me even closer, but he doesn’t. He keeps his hold loose, giving me a chance to move away.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “He was my best friend since we were little. He died. It was … at a high school rally. He fell off the back of a pickup truck and broke his head.”

  He’s quiet.

  “Have you ever loved someone?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer; he just looks at me intently.

  “I loved him very much,” I continue. “I’ve been focused on racing because I just don’t believe lightning can strike in the same place twice. My family is my world. My brothers and my dad—” My voice cracks. “I should go to my room.”

  He eases off the bed when I step away from him and head to the door. “I wanted you in St. Petersburg because it seemed like I needed a good bout of casual sex. But there’s nothing casual about you and me, Racer. Or about this.”

  “No. There’s nothing casual about it,” he gruffs out.

  I smile wanly before retracing my steps, cupping his jaw and pressing my lips to his dimple, even though it’s hiding now. “Thank you for giving your trophy to my dad. I haven’t seen him this happy.”

  I open the door to leave.

  “Lana,” his growl reaches me.

  I turn, and his eyes gleam dark and sharp.

  “David’s not here anymore. But I am.”

  Racer

  Watching her leave was never part of the plan. Hell neither was the look in her eyes; the look of someone who’s lost somebody she cared about.

  She’s been gone for an hour. I’m still battling the urge to go to her room, knock on her door, and pull her
into my arms.

  I’m caving into the impulse and dressing to do just that when I get a text from a fighter friend of my dad, saying he’s visiting my parents with his wife and wants to Skype. I turn on my iPad and take the call. I can see him on camera with my dad behind him, both of them peering into the screen.

  “Racer. Hey, buddy, congratulations,” he says. “I thought I’d check in with the champ and advise you one thing: don’t fuck before a race. Keeps your testosterone up. I do that before fights and works like a charm.”

  My dad laughs behind him. “That’s total bullshit,” he growls. “I fuck before fighting all the time. When I fought.”

  “TMI, Dad.” I laugh and shoot him a scowl.

  He gives me the finger. I give him two. Mom walks in and peers at the screen, and I fold back my fingers.

  “Wow. So much love in this household,” she says sarcastically. We laugh, and she says, “I miss your face, baby boy.”

  “I miss yours, Mom.”

  She blows me a kiss and tells me to call them soon, that they’re watching every race and are proud of me, and then it’s back to my dad and Maverick.

  “Seriously, Maverick, you can fuck whenever you want, but stop telling me when you fuck Reese,” I tell the guy.

  “Why, you jealous?”

  “Yeah, she’s my girl,” I say, yanking his chain. I’ve always suspected he’s jealous Reese changed my diapers and cleaned my dick before his. Reese is the first girl I loved aside from my mother. She was my babysitter when I was three, and was a little too sweet to put up with a little devil like me.

  “Too bad she married me. And is too old for you,” Maverick says, that usual possessive look on his face when he talks about his wife.

  Reese’s laughter reaches me, and she peers from behind Maverick as my dad gives her space. “Racer, Iris told us that a girl caught your eye,” she says.

  “Yeah. More than my eye, actually.”

  “Wow. You like this girl,” Reese says.

  “I’m going to marry her.”