Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 (13 page)

“Go, Lia,” he groans. “I’m coming—too.”

My chest constricts, and I can no longer keep my eyes open. The explosion beneath my skin steals my senses. I keen in my throat, whining sounds of pain and bliss. Lower sounds come from him.

Beneath me, his hips jerk in shorter, more rigid motions; his breath stops, then gasps. I open my eyes again to watch him come, and he stares at me while he does.

Pleasurable agony strains his features, but his eyes cry something else. Shock. Surprise.

“OhmyGod. OhmyGod.” His hips pump upward.

He’s devastating when he comes, transformed from this self-possessed, cocky winner to this wide-open—man. He’s no longer the star, the cyclist, or the suave, smiling flirt. No. He becomes simply Terrence. With nothing on his face to bar him from me.

I want to see it again.

“Are you okay?” I’m startled at the force of his reaction. He doesn’t say anything, but I think he’s startled too.

He yanks me to his chest. The hug is fierce, his arms a delicious band around my ribs. I nuzzle and kiss his neck, like he does the top of my head.

“Was that good?” I ask. “Did you like it?”

He holds his breath, and I tense. He breathes one word: “Yesss.”

I relax on top of him and let his heat woo me to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Three

My eyes drift open to the sound of tapping computer keys.

Terrence sits in the corner chair, in his jeans, shirtless, with his laptop. His brow furrows deep, very unlike him. He works his jaw as he types, and he’s so focused I don’t want to disturb him.

Glancing toward the window, I see the sun setting. I should go home.

“Hey,” he says, his voice tender and lazy.

I look at him, and his expression has altered. His eyes on me soften, another glimpse of him as unguarded as he was lying beneath me, locked in climax. The richness of who lives beneath the skin he wears has me enraptured. I’ve learned so much more of who he is today, and it doesn’t satisfy me. Even his temper, his stresses, make me want to know more of him.

I wonder if I could become a help to his cycling rather than someone he has to
make time for
.

“Hi,” I sigh.

I glance at his well-muscled chest, and the lamp on the dresser reflects off his skin. His chest and upper arms are pristine white. His neck, face, and lower arms are a rich sun-kissed color. “Your tan lines are hysterical.” They match the outlines of his jersey.

He looks down at the golden collar around his neck and the rings around his upper arms. “Cyclist tan,” he chuckles. “You should see my legs.”

“Yes, please.” I extend my feet to the floor. “You should have woken me. I’ll go.”

“I would never wake you. I like my bed smelling like heaven.”

I can’t look at him when he says things like that. I’m in danger of exposing just how much it affects me. “What are you working on?”

He scowls back at the laptop. “Just sending my stats from today’s ride to the coach. And defending Ralph best I can. Caroline’s right, they take my opinion seriously. They don’t listen much, though. It’s all about dollar signs. Or euro signs, whatever.”

“The money is important to you, too.”

The determination in his tone is reminiscent of earlier. “I won’t be poor like I was growing up.”

“Things weren’t good?”

His lip curls. “We had enough to eat, but any extra was gambled away by my dad’s…habits.” He rolls his eyes. “I lived in secondhand clothes, and our house wasn’t much better than a double-wide. Okay?”

“Okay.” I nod gently, not wanting to force him to say more.

He scratches his arm, and I see a bruise in the crook of his elbow. He sees me looking and tries to cover it. “Fucking vamps.”

“You know, those ‘vamps’ are just doing their job.”

He shakes his head.

I press him. “You want the sport to be clean, don’t you?”

He ignores me, typing on his computer.

“Caroline’s right. The way you overreact makes you look guilty.”

“Aurelia, stop it.”

“It’s true. You should be cooperating without—”

“Without complaining? How would you feel if strangers showed up at your door, any time they felt like, asking for a pint of blood?”

The testing bothers him in a righteous way. It is invasive and barbaric, but I still need to know. “You’re not doping, right?”

“I can’t believe you asked me that.”

“Your defensiveness is bad, Terrence. If Ralph took cortisone, what are you taking?”

“If you think I’m doping, then you need to leave.”

“I—”

“I’ll put up with it from Caroline for Gary, but not from you.” His hands shake.

“I’m sorry, but—”

“No buts, Aurelia. I get so much of it. I can’t have it here. It’s toxic.”

He’s right. I shouldn’t suspect him. And it is unfair. I don’t want to even say sorry again, because that’s talking about it too.

He frowns at his computer.

“Something wrong with the stats?”

“No.” He scrubs his face. “I say it’s good. Coach says it’s not good enough. I’m sick of being pushed and pushed. I have to taper between races or I’ll never perform good.”

I notice the fatigue in his shoulders, the tired sagging of his eyes. “When’s your next race?” I feel bad now, adding to his stress, asking about doping.

“Sunday. In Belgium.”

“Belgium?”

“Yeah, we leave tomorrow. It’s spring classics season. A race in Belgium every Sunday from now until Milan-San Remo in April.” He nods at the Milano-San Remo poster on the wall.

“Will you be gone the whole time?” I’m just getting to know him. He can’t leave yet.

“It’s only for two nights. I’ll be back to train here between races.”

“Okay. Good.”

He smiles. “Will you miss me?”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“I’ll maybe miss you, too.” He tumbles me back on the bed and kisses me until I almost forget what he said. Then he pulls away and drags us both to our feet.

“I won’t see you for two days?” I ask. Hiding the disappointment in my voice is impossible.

“Three. Leaving early Friday. Back Sunday night.” I’m comforted that he’s solemn too. “It’s a good thing you got a cell phone.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“You don’t want me to call you?”

“It distracts from your racing.”

He averts his eyes. “I’ll probably have to hide it from Coach. He wouldn’t be into it.”

“Your coach doesn’t like me?”

“He doesn’t like anything unless it makes me faster.”

“Then don’t worry about it.” I walk with him into the main room, which is thankfully empty. “Is everyone else in bed?”

“Just like I should be.” He follows me down the stairs, not wearing a shirt or shoes. “And you should be too. Teachers need beauty sleep.” He wags a finger at me. “I don’t want your work suffering because of me.”

I’d rather be here with him than out for coffee with Paul, even though that’s where I should be. “Too late.” We reach the door.

“Don’t say that.” His tone is fervent. “What you’re doing is important.”

I’m annoyed at him for lecturing, but it seems to mean something particular to him. “Do you wish you’d gone to college?”

“Me?” He scoffs. “No. I hate reading, and studying for tests was always a joke. I’m best on the bike.” His face alters, his voice lowers. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“What?” I brush his arm as his eyes tighten with worry.

“Please don’t ask me about the doping again.” He looks down. “I can’t be worried about what you think of me.”

It makes sense. “Okay. I won’t.”

He breathes deep, and I realize he was holding it. “Thank you.” He smacks a kiss on my mouth and gives me a gentle push. “Now, be good and get some sleep.”

“Says the boy who wants me to be bad,” I say over my shoulder.

“I only want you to be bad with me.” The low tremor in his voice makes me wish I could follow him back upstairs.

* * * * *

Saturday, I spend the morning at the library, trying to find something to read that entices me. I’ll never have access again to an entire library in French. Or not until I can come back to France in two years, and by then I’ll be an M.D. with no time to read French novels.

I find nothing new, just a few things I’ve read before. I’m melancholy and glum like the weather. More clouds and drizzle today. If I go to my apartment, I’ll lie there and think of Terrence, hoping he’ll call. He hasn’t. He’s busy racing and shouldn’t be thinking about me anyway.

Digging through my bag, I find the envelope I didn’t open yesterday. The Fulbright one.

I don’t want to open it. The thought of going home early is unwelcome enough to warp my stomach.

Maybe my request has been denied.

I tear it open, and the word “approved” on the top line is so wretched the font turns red and bloody in my vision.

I can’t go home early. It’s not an option. But there’s my new departure date. They’ll kick me out in less than a month.

I’ll email them Monday and say I changed my mind.

It will be okay. I don’t need to worry. Maybe I can even request to stay longer. French schools have class in the summer.

Though it’s hardly warm in the rain, I treat myself to an ice cream to calm my stress. French ice cream makes the American kind seem like artificially sweetened milk. The flavor of the French kind is so rich it’s nearly orgasmic.

I love that I can make that comparison now.

The French family that lives downstairs from me, the one with the two little kids, stops for ice cream too. Normally, I scramble away, nervous about social interaction, but today I smile and the wife says hello. The kids are cute, and I can’t resist asking about their favorite ice cream flavors.

Paul texts me on Sunday, since I gave him my cell number too. I meet up with him and his friends at the bar, hoping Terrence’s cycling race will be on TV. It’s not, but I stay for a drink. The group is planning a trip to Monaco some weekend, and I might try to go. I’d like to see more of Europe before I go home.

I wander around town, not shopping since I have no money, but appreciating merchandise. A blue jersey in a window snags my attention.

It’s a cycling shop, an aqua BG jersey hanging in the window. I have to smile, remembering what it stands for.
Bimbo Grande
. The color really is a baby blue. The walls are hung with bikes, gleaming in their retail cleanliness.

Inside, my fingers brush across the wrapped handlebars and the cool metal frames. Terrence is everywhere in this shop. It feels like him, smells like him. It could be a rubber smell or a bike grease smell. I didn’t realize he had a smell.

I half expect to see him standing in the back. He must have bought my bike here the morning before our ride.

There’s a television in the back of the shop broadcasting race footage. I sneak toward the television screen. Terrence’s face pops up, not riding the bike, but in a pre-race interview.

“—stupid move from the Germans,” he says on-screen, his face smiling. “I don’t know why they’re even bike racing. A kindergartener on a tricycle could do better.”

I sputter with laughter. What a horribly undiplomatic thing to say in an interview. It’s honest, in that direct, unaffected, rural Pennsylvania way of his.

I spot a bike like mine, labeled “
femme
”—“women’s”.

I flip the tag and balk at the number behind the euro sign: fifteen hundred. Even with a substantial discount, this would be too much for a girlfriend gift. If I am his girlfriend.

He makes so much money that over one thousand euros is insignificant to him.

I walk down the line of bikes, flipping price tags. They get higher and higher.

The final one on the grand display rack by the door—eighteen thousand euros. I didn’t know there was so much money in cycling.

I probably knocked over fifty thousand dollars’ worth of bikes that day outside the café.

On the TV again, a reporter asks Terrence, “What do you say to accusations of BG using performance-enhancing drugs?”

My spine tightens.

He responds coolly, “I’d tell them to go fuck themselves.”

I snort a laugh. I understand why he’s upset, and his responses are funny, but his defensiveness looks bad. It makes him look guilty.

He may not want me to talk about it, but if he did dope, that would be a deal-breaker for me.

In his unfettered honesty, he probably can’t lie. He means every word he says. To the point of shamelessly insulting competitors and swearing in news interviews. No matter how bad it looks, I’m sure he’s clean.

The TV breaks to final results of today’s race. Terrence didn’t win. He finished twelfth.

* * * * *

On the walk back to my apartment, a block down, my phone rings. I drop my messenger bag on the ground and frantically dig for it.

“Hello?”

“Lia.”

I sigh. “How are you?” Tourists pass me on the walk. I should get out of the way, but I don’t care. Terrence’s voice is on the other end.

“Uh—I’ve been better.” He sounds forlorn but mostly exhausted.

“I saw the results for the race,” I say gently. “Are you mad?”

“At myself,” he grates. “The guys rode great. I didn’t have the legs for the sprint.”

“Oh. You’re probably tired from overtraining like you said.”

He snorts. “As if anyone cares about that excuse.”

I try again. “You just won last weekend. You can’t win everything or you’ll become predictable.”

He pauses. “Maybe.”

“Besides, you have another chance next Sunday, right? You’ll beat them then.”

“Damn straight. I’m getting really sick of the guys. Can I come over to your place tomorrow?” He says it so casually, like it’s a given that we’re going to see each other, just a discussion of where and when.

“That’s not a good idea, right? You should be resting after your race. I can’t be up late. I have to teach.”

“Maybe I want to rest at your place.”

“It’s not as nice as yours.”

“That’s okay. I’ll bring food. I’ll cook you dinner.”

“Uh—my stove sucks.”

“Does it work?” A smile touches his voice.

“Yeah. The flames get really big though.”

He laughs. “Okay. Maybe I can help. See you soon?”

“Yup.” I try to sound casual, but once I hit the end button, I’m giddy. I leap to my feet, my hand covering my too-big smile.

Terrence is coming over. And he’s going to cook me dinner.

Him and me. Alone. In my shoebox apartment. My adrenaline thrums the whole tram ride home.

I lie on my bed with my phone in my hand, wishing I could talk to him more.

I wish I was there at the race with him. I haven’t gotten to see him cross the finish line and win in person.

My nerve endings come to life thinking of him, my body humming. The longing to have him with me draws my fingers between my legs, and I’m pretending it’s him.

Every time I “practice”, it’s easier, it comes faster, and I experiment with different things that feel good. Before Terrence, touching myself was so futile, and now it’s so sexy.

I miss him.

When it’s over, rather than being sated I ache for him even more, and the confusion it brings makes me vulnerable.

I want not to need him. Being dependent on another person for my happiness is demoralizing. I’m an autonomous person with ambitions and goals to achieve. Except now, with him in my life, those goals don’t seem as important anymore.

And it scares me.