Racer

I lean over and whisper, “I had it, baby,” and watch with pure joy as her blush runs up her neck and cheeks.

“Still. What you did was so risky … you kept going faster and faster, and I kept worrying the gearbox would fail completely.”

She faces me with a look of bewilderment on her face, and I clench my fists at my sides because all I can do is sit here like an idiot while the thought of losing me seems to be tearing her apart.

“There’s always risk in anything worth doing, and it’s a risk I’m willing to take.” My voice comes out possessive, protective, because I need her to know that for her, I’d risk anything.

She bites down on her lip and reaches out to grab part of my thigh, and her concern for me wrecks me up. I’m more wound up than a knotted rope from the need to reach out, put my hands on her waist, lift her up in the air and force her down so that her lips land hard on mine.

“Promise me you won’t do that again,” she pleads.

“Lana,” I growl when she asks that of me.

“Promise me, Racer.”

I reach out, every instinct inside me demanding me to appease her, to remind her that she’s my girl—that she is mine, and that we will be in this together.

“I fucking promise I won’t do it—unless I have to.”

I shoot her a look that demands that she trust me. That reminds her I want something more than those damn trophies that will grace the shelves of my place in St. Pete later on.

I want her as partner, in every sense of the word. And I want her on my side, as I’ll try to understand and listen to hers.

I hold her gaze—until the sheer joy takes over our faces as the reality falls on us like a light beam.

“Baby, we got P1! FUCKING GOD, WE DID IT!” I growl, pulling her up and into my arms, tossing her up in the air and catching her, and the whole damn table is yelling when Clayton yells, “To RACER FUCKING TATE GOING DOWN IN THE HISTORY BOOKS!”

“TATE, TATE, TATE!” they chant as they slam their palms to the table in tune.

“No,” I say, setting down a giggling Lana onto her feet and pinning her to my side as I make eye contact with her father, brothers, and the rest of the mechanics in the room. “To HW Racing,” I say. “To HW Racing, and Mr. Heyworth!” I raise my glass to her dad.

We all guzzle down our drinks, and soon we’re having dinner, talking racing and recounting the good—and bad—of the season. Lana’s father soon calls it a night and returns to the hotel with Adrian, and my impatience grows from a simmer to a boil. After one last sip, I set my glass down, and mid-sip, Lana looks at me and I take her drink and set it down, too.

I lean closer to explain as succinctly as I can. “It’s time for me to claim my prize,” I husk out, smiling down at her.

I could fuck the wanton look she sends my way.

Whistles follow us to the door, and Lana is red, head to toe, but her dad has called it a night and I’m claiming my girl.

By the time we reach our hotel room, I’m close to busting the zipper of my jeans. My cock is so full and hard it feels like lead—hell even my balls feel like lead.

We kiss our way to the bed, and then we stop to look at each other—and hell, do I enjoy looking at this girl. My girl.

I place my hand on her hipbone, pinning her in place as I lean down and nibble a path up her neck. She squirms, and the scent of wet pussy reaches me—the sweetest scent I’ve ever smelled is coming from between her legs, because she fucking wants me like I want her.

I’m burning up as I shift above her, my cock grazing her thighs. The contact shoots a bolt of lightning down my spine, and I growl and pin her back down so she stops teasing me, adding fuel to a fire I can barely control.

My gut is twisted up with wanting for her as I finally reach her lips and I open them with mine, not interested in being a goddamned Casanova with her, only interested in her taste—having every goddamned inch of her mouth for me—making her move and beg and squirm and ache for me—and my kiss becomes wilder as her hands wander up the muscles of my arms and her mouth opens beneath mine.

I reach down to her wet panties and begin to tug them off, but get too impatient and rip them off instead. Lana lets out a surprised gasp, which I promptly smother with my mouth. Fitting my lips back dominatingly on hers, I tongue her deeply as I cup her pussy in my hand and begin to let my fingers wander. Desperate to explore and memorize her.

I find her clit and roll it in circles beneath the pad of my thumb, and my balls tighten in arousal when her hips start jerking upward as if on their own, as if desperate for more. I smile down at her, catching her startled, lust-crazed gaze before I bend down and lap up her taste. And for the next hour Lana knows of nothing but this. Me. Racer fucking Tate.

Lana

We feel refreshed and hyped the next morning as we have breakfast with my family at the hotel restaurant, our luggage all ready upstairs for our flights.

Last night, in between celebratory sex and sleepy lazy sex, Racer and I debated over whether I should come back to the U.S. with him, or go back to Spain—where we usually live in between seasons—with my dad and my brothers.

He said he’d go with me if I decided to stay in Spain, and I told him it all depends on my father.

Which is true.

He looks a little more tired than the rest of us today, but there’s a peace in his eyes that I’d never seen before.

“We won, Daddy,” I say as I lean over my chair and hug him. “You can check that off your bucket list.” I take his hand, and he smiles and glances past my shoulder at Racer.