He chuckles softly, and he looks so boyish and so handsome as he eases back and looks into my face. “Felt good to be back in that car. Felt good to drive.” He strokes his index finger along the freckles on the bridge of my nose, and my lungs begin to struggle for air. “Feels good for your brothers to know about us. And me.” He runs his thumb down my throat and lower, to the start of my T-shirt. “And still nothing feels as good as you, Lana.”

Racer’s eyes smolder as my breath catches. He corners me against the wall, tugging my T-shirt from the waistband of my jeans.

My heart feels as if it can’t fit in my chest—because discovering that you love a man this complex, this exciting, this demanding, this consuming … well, it takes a bit from a girl. Not that I don’t like what it takes; or how my heart thrums in my chest, my blood boils with his nearness, even my silly little nipples and how they stand shamelessly up to salute him when he’s near.

I’m in his room, trembling and anxious to feel him. Racer watches me, those eyes eating me alive as he tugs the fabric of my top downward to reveal my bra. He then tugs my bra down, and pops out a nipple.

“You’re so pretty. You know that right.”

He keeps eye contact with me as he opens his mouth, and his tongue comes out to roll a little circle around my nipple.

I catch my breath, dying inside as I drown in those blue eyes and tremble under that hot tongue caressing my nipple.

I part swallow, part groan, “Don’t torture me …” I beg.

He smothers my nipple with his mouth, shutting his eyes as if he can’t help it anymore, sliding his hand between my thighs. He cups me as he suckles me, groaning as he touches me over my panties.

“Give me all of this girl,” he says, a soft commanding growl as he caresses me over my panties with his index finger.

I rock and roll my hips up to his fingers, realizing I’m out of control but ohmygod, ohmygod, I’ve never wanted anyone’s touch so much, anyone’s kiss so much, anyone so much.

His body vibrates as if he’s holding himself back from doing other equally wicked and pleasurable things to me. I don’t want him to hold back. I move against his hands and run my fingers along his arms, pressing my lips to his jaw. “Racer,” I groan, a plea.

He groans back and eases his finger into my panties, licking into my ear. “God, baby, you want to come right here for me, don’t you? You want to break apart for me, baby,” he purrs.

I nod.

A possessive streak of lightning passes across his blue eyes.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he says, urging me down on the bed as he starts to flick open my buttons.

I’m trembling.

“Racer …” I say.

“Say you’re mine, Lana.” His blue eyes look down at me and quietly demand for me to say it; eyes that are raw and true and so perceptive I know that he knows that it’s true.

I swallow.

“Not anyone else’s. Not David’s anymore. Tell me you’re all mine,” he repeats, clenching his jaw in need and arousal. “You told me some stuff in the hospital, and I want you to tell me now that I’m okay, Lana.”

He shifts, his eyes glimmering as he rubs the pad of his thumb over my lower lip in a caress that I feel down to my toes. He leans down and scents my neck, then pecks my lips, softly, like he does, before licking the seam and easing back to drink in my features once more. His voice rough, husky, male.

“Tell me who you want here. Who keeps you awake at night. Who you think of every second of the day.”

He leans his forehead to mine, his eyes gripping my own, his voice deep and textured as he cups my face as a tear slips.

“It’s me, baby,” he croons tenderly, nuzzles my nose, and brushes the tear from my cheek as he presses a kiss there and then captures my gaze again, “Are you going to tell me my name?”

I tilt my head for his mouth, trying to stop shivering. “Racer, kiss me—”

He presses his thumb to my lips, silencing me. “Tell me,” he says, looking down at me. “Tell me now,” he says.

He slips his hand into the back of my neck and presses his lips to mine—firm but tender, giving me a minute before they stop feeling tender and begin to feel relentless.

“For me, it’s you,” he whispers in my ear. “The one keeping me awake at night. The one in my every thought.” He slips his hand between my legs, sliding it under my skirt as he captures my mouth and kisses the living daylights out of me. The pain out of me. The fear of whatever is happening between us out of me. Until there is only one giant, tingling feeling—and it’s all over my body. A fire shaking through me, under my skin, IN my skin, in my veins, my tummy, the tips of my breast, the warm spot between my legs that suddenly feels so swollen it’s uncomfortable.

He nuzzles my curls.

I groan.

“Look at me. Look at me, crasher.”

I do.

He kisses me. Wipes my tear. His face raw as he pushes his dick inside me. “You feel so right. I want to stay here. I want to pound a path all the way to your damn heart.”

“Don’t stop.” I clutch him to me, whispering, “Racer, you had my heart from the moment you wrote on my page.”

“Come again,” he says, driving inside me.

“Racer Tate.”

“Again, Lana. I fucking want you to look at me when you say it.”

“You! You, RACER TATE!” I breathe, our eyes holding, and no one—ever—has ever looked at me with so much love, so much passion, has ever ignited me with those same emotions. I say, “I’m yours, Racer. I’m yours and you’re mine.”