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.