“Shit,” I muttered—after the long, lovesick teenager sigh that escaped my throat. And what of it? If the shoe fits and all that, right? Well, this footwear fit—in all the best ways. I’d fantasized nonstop about having her in every possible way there was. Holding her. Kissing her. Fucking her. Oh yeah—that part especially. We’d more than make up for the time we’d lost over the past month. I was a man on a goddamned mission, and this week had been an agonizing trip to insanity and back due to my rising level of need for Taylor Mathews. I seriously feared I’d completely consume her when we finally reunited.
An irrational fear. The woman could handle it. She could handle me. And she was the one woman I’d ever encountered who deserved my complete conviction about that statement. Not only could she take anything and everything I threw at her, but she also could single-handedly put me in my place at the same time. When necessary. Sometimes it was necessary to put her in her place…
Annnnd that was enough to fire up everything between my legs again.
More than enough.
My cock swelled beneath the thin cotton of my scrubs, and I laughed at the fucker’s painful protest as I hit the car’s ignition, filling the garage with its palpable rumble. Yeah, just what I needed. That sound and a brain full of thoughts about the most exciting, entrancing woman I’d ever met. And not just because of her silky hair, her satin skin, and that body deserving of my full worship. That spitfire and her sassy comebacks… She connected with me deeper than skin, on a real cerebral level. A place most other women left me completely wanting.
Needing.
Jesus, I had it bad.
And was reveling in every incredible second of it.
When Saturday finally arrived, I was pumped for several reasons. I couldn’t wait to get on the track for my first race since leaving Chicago. Adrenaline surged in my veins from the anticipation of getting behind the wheel and pushing my car to its limits. I had put in a lot of laps since Taylor and I split up, and the turns of the track were second nature now. My little rocket of a car had become an extension of me. I felt confident. Ah, screw it—I felt fucking cocky. A lot of the local guys had their eye on me as the pretty-boy new kid, but they’d learn what was what soon enough. That they should be judging my skill and speed, not my tenure in town.
And if Taylor wore that crazy wraparound dress again, they’d be jealous fucks about that too.
Not that I really gave a crap about what they thought.
Not when I was about to hand out asses on platters—as a warm-up to the real action of the weekend. In all the best ways…
Fuck, I couldn’t wait.
I sent her a quick text last night, telling her I was looking forward to seeing her today and a bid to drive safely on her way out to the desert. I knew she read the message, but in perfect hard-to-get fashion, she’d never sent an actual reply. Not even an emoji.
While gunning the engine as I merged from the 76 to the 15, I cracked a broader grin. The woman had left me with way too much time alone, and my imagination had become a creative and crafty workroom for clever ways to tame her sassy fire. She’d be screaming my name by sundown; I vowed it. My visions of her, under me and on top of me and in other positions with me, meant I’d masturbated more in the past month than most of my teenage years. Well, the monkey was done being spanked. Tonight I’d reclaim what was mine.
My car for the race was in top shape—a stunning Austin Yellow M3. Along with my new crew chief, Ron, I had made a few last-minute adjustments that would hopefully give me an edge on the track. I’d only taken this car on the loop since I’d been living in California, although I brought it with me from Chicago. I just hadn’t found the time to make the modifications necessary from a regular street car to a track-worthy beast until I found myself with unclaimed free time without Taylor. The back seat and all the manufacturer’s niceties were now stripped from the car. Sweet Recaro seats were up front, waiting for me to strap in and go. A passenger seat was installed as well in case Taylor ever wanted to get back in with me. It was always fun to remember the first time I’d taken her out and opened things up. Fuck, she’d been so adorable that day, especially during her little zigzag wobble right after the ride. But especially after we’d come back from dinner that night and I buried my cock inside her during the night race. With her hands bound and her lush lips pleading for me to fuck her…
Shit.
Maybe it was going to be necessary to find a few minutes alone and rub one out.
Somehow, I managed to calm shit down, and then I got my ass to the clubhouse, where I found my name on the board. I’d been slotted into the second heat. At least I wouldn’t have to wait too long to use up some of the adrenaline spiking my system. Some, but not all. My girl was going to get what she deserved—namely, every inch of my erection thrusting into her tight, perfect body. Damn, yes.
I wore my lucky firesuit because I was feeling a bit nostalgic for my East Coast squad. Plus, I’d never lost while wearing it. Did I worry more about winning the damn race or impressing the girl who’d captured my heart? It seemed like a pretty fair toss-up. When they called through the complex for the second-heat drivers to man their cars, I was so jacked up, I barely felt the pavement under the soft soles of my racing shoes.
The green flag signaled the pack to start. The engine sounds penetrated my helmet, injecting me with the thrill I’d become addicted to as a child. Where a non-motorsport enthusiast would hear loud chaos, I heard a symphony. This thrill wasn’t for everyone, and I was thankful it gave me the release I couldn’t find anywhere else.
We moved through the first few turns as a pack, and when we reached the initial straightaway, I downshifted to get more power. I pulled away from all but two of the other cars. I knew the next turn ahead would be a great place to edge out another car, so I planned my apex carefully and waited to make a move. Sure enough, the car ahead of me started his turn too late and too fast, causing him to oversteer and head sharply into the turn. I passed behind him, came out on his right, and accelerated at just the point his ass end drifted out behind him, and I shot ahead while he continued to correct for his mistake.
Only one car stood between me and the first-place claim on my heat. And damn it if it wasn’t that red Porsche Cayman from the night Taylor and I watched the race—and did other things—on my villa patio. Thoughts of her sexy sounds battled for top billing in my mind while I tried to concentrate on my driving. Shards of jealousy spiked my mind as I pressed down on the accelerator to gain an edge on the bastard my girl had her eye on. I had to remind myself we were doing a bit of role-playing that night, and in reality, this guy had nothing to do with any of it. I still wanted to finish first, so I closed in on his back bumper. Closer…closer…
Until Ronnie’s voice blasted through my helmet.
“Back off, Mac! They’ll DQ you. Get him in the carousel!”
My crew chief was a nice guy, and damn did he know his way around BMWs, but I wasn’t in the mood to be told what to do. I just wanted to prove to all the regulars that I was a force to be reckoned with.
As we turned left into the long roundabout, I cut to the inside instead of holding the center line like I’d been taught when I first started driving. I gave my car a bit more gas, trying to pass the Porsche. He was ready for me though, fully anticipating my move. He dropped lower into the turn and blocked me.