Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Terrence stands at the door to my building, his brown hair tousled in an I-got-out-of-the-shower-and-ran-my-hands-through-it kind of way. His smile knocks my senses flat.

My hip sags against the doorway. Damn female hormones. Three days without him ratchets my excitement to the point where I’m robbed of words.

He leans down and gives me a sweet kiss. “Can I come up?”

“Yeah.” I shake the stars from my eyes and lead him up the stairs.

Entering my apartment, I have a flash of embarrassment that I let him come here. My place is so tiny, with plain white walls and only a bed for furniture. I keep it neat, but I have no dresser so my clothes live in my suitcase. My books lie in stacks along the wall. The “kitchen” is a mini stove, mini sink, mini fridge.

“Oh wow,” Terrence says behind me.

“I told you.”

“This is great. I thought me and Gary’s place was small last winter. This is—wow.” He walks in and dwarfs the place further. He’s not too tall—good thing, because his head would hit the ceiling—but he takes up space in that magnetic way.

“We can go to your place instead,” I say.

“I like being in your place. It’s calmer.” He walks to the kitchenette and sets down his shopping bags. When he bends over, the shot of his ass in those tight jeans scrambles my thoughts.

I’m already picturing him naked on my bed. Staring at his ass and those perfect lean hips with those strong thighs stretched beneath them—I wonder how good it would be to watch those muscles clench when his hips thrust forward.

Ack! I close my eyes and force myself to talk. “What did you bring?”

“Wine?” He holds up a bottle of pink rosé.

I gulp. He’s going to seduce me. If he puts on the charm too much, I may jump him before he cooks anything. “I haven’t bought any wine yet.”

“Today?”

“Since I got to France.”

His brows wrinkle. “That’s just sad. Glad I brought a corkscrew.”

“I’ve wanted to. I just never know what to buy in the store.”

“It’s France, Lia. Their two-buck chuck is worth, like, twenty in the US.”

“Two-buck what?”

“Never mind. Their cheapest wine is better than anything you’ve had at home. Promise.” He pours some in little plastic cups, then hands me one. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” I sip the wine, and it’s sparkling and sweet on my tongue. “I thought cyclists didn’t drink?”

He pulls things out of the bag and sets them on the stovetop. “A little wine is okay. You need half a glass with
pissaladière
.”

Once again his French pronunciation surprises me in its perfection. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s this pizza they make here in Nice. You haven’t had it?”

“No. I mostly eat croissants and cheese.”

“We’re changing that now. You like anchovies?”

I don’t, but with him cooking, I think he could make me burnt toast and I’d love it.

He pulls out an onion. “Do you have a knife?” His fingers curve around the yellow bulb, and the way it fits in his hand has my nipples tingling. It fits in his palm, just like my breasts do. “Lia?”

“Um—yeah.” I find my cheese knife.

He accepts it with skepticism. “This might work with some sawing. Do you have a pan?”

“Yeah, but the stove—”

“Doesn’t work, right?”

“The last time I tried to light the gas burners, I almost burned my face.”

“It takes some practice. Let me show you.” He puts his hand on my hip and pulls me in front of him, facing the stove. The heat from his chest on my back feels like I’m singed by a furnace behind me as well as in front.

His arms around me, he turns up the gas knob a fraction. “Just a little bit, can you hear it hissing?” he whispers in my ear.

I concentrate and hear it. “Yeah.”

“Now, light the match.”

The one-inch stick trembles in my hand against the lighting strip. Having him close makes my heart skip so that I’m sure he can see my pulse.

“Steady,” he says with easy humor. He guides my hand with the lighted match toward the burner. “Keep the other hand on the gas level. Turn it back real quick after you light it. Before it gets your eyebrows.”

The gas catches fire, and I squeal. The flames flash yellow, and I nudge the knob down. Too fast, though. The flame goes out.

“Damn it,” I say.

“Try again. You’ll get it.” He kisses my shoulder.

I take a deep breath and try again. I don’t turn it back so fast this time, and the flame jumps yellow then dwindles to a tiny blue flicker. “Done.” I sigh with satisfaction.

“Nice job.” He rubs my shoulders. “Put the pan on the burner and some olive oil in it.”

“Aren’t we making pizza?”

“Yes, but we have to caramelize the onions first. Makes all the difference.”

He rests his chin on my shoulder, pressing his lips to my neck whenever he turns his head.

I lean back against him and enjoy him behind me. He doesn’t speak much, just coaxes my hands while we chop onions and stir them in the pan, preheat the oven, and press out the dough into a pizza shape.

He unwraps a paper package and pulls out little fish. My nose curls. He wasn’t kidding about the anchovies.

“They’re fresh. Caught in the Mediterranean this morning,” he says. “So much better than the canned ones. It’s like a different fish.”

“You’re really into food.”

“Most cyclists are foodies.” He makes the pie, scattering olive oil, onions and anchovies on top. “When you have to count calories, and you’re hungry almost all the time, you want every bite to be the best thing you ever ate.”

The mini oven is almost too small for the pie, though he claims it’s the perfect size. “I’ve woken up dreaming of a cheeseburger and fries with a beer many times.”

“You’re such an American.”

“Born and bred. You got a problem with that?” He’s teasing, but I think, yeah, I really did used to have a problem with that. I was such a snob. I used to only care about the French. Not sure when that went away, but it’s gone now.

By the time the pizza is in the oven, I’m so primed with arousal from being close to him that my veins pulse behind my eyes. I can barely see for how thickly my thoughts flow.

They talk about men and blood draining from their brains to lower parts—I don’t think it’s just a guy thing.

“How long till it’s done?” My voice is gravelly, and I hardly recognize it.

He backs away from me to pull out his phone, and says while typing on it, “Fifteen minutes.”

I feel bereft when he moves away, and my frustration surges. How dare he stand there on his phone while I’m consumed with the need to touch him.

“Terrence, what are you doing?”

“Just setting an alarm.” He drops the phone on the counter, and he clasps my face, his lips pressing mine with greedy suction.

Relief opens the dam of desire that’s been stoking in me for days. I want him so badly I ache. His clinging fingers and desperate mouth fill me with the satisfaction that he wants me just as much.

Slanting his head, he sweeps his tongue through my mouth, and I open wide for more of him. He walks me backward toward the bed, until we’re on it, and he’s lying on me, tugging my leg over his hip, his hands wandering hot over my clothes.

“I missed you,” he growls, and licks my ear.

“Me—too.” I yank on his hair, hungry for more of his mouth. I grip his bare back under his T-shirt, my hands gliding over his muscles.

He’s everywhere, and it’s not enough. If there’s a line I’m not supposed to cross, I don’t remember where it is. He’s hard between my thighs, and I want all of him, inside me, moving with me. My conscience would be sounding right now, if I could remember why I’m not supposed to want this. I can’t.

He groans, then slides down until I lose contact with his groin. I arch into him with a moan. I need him rubbing between my legs. I’ll catch fire without it.

“Not yet,” he teases, and his mouth slips down the V-neck of my shirt, his teeth pulling on the fabric.

I twist fingers in his hair and watch him slide lower.

Through my shirt, he fills his hands with my breasts and sinks his face between them. “Ng,” he groans, muffled against my chest. He pushes my breasts around his cheeks and turns his head side to side, nuzzling them.

I giggle. My nipples peak under my bra, and he twists them with his fingers. My giggles disappearing, my eyes close against the rush of sensation probing my breasts and radiating to—everywhere. His teeth clamp down on a nipple through my shirt. I shriek, and my eyes snap open.

He flashes me a Cheshire grin, his eyes daring me to stop him. He does it again, his teeth biting through my shirt. It stings, but after it comes a tingle of pleasure so strong, I want him to do it again.

He does, and I moan low in my chest.

“Off.” I pull at my shirt. “Take it off.” I’m sick of the barriers, the shyness. I want his mouth on my bare skin.

He lifts the hem, his fingers eager and unsteady.

Beep-beep-beep.

His phone alarm. Dinner. He growls, shakes himself, and leaps off of me. I collapse on the bed, my lungs pumping air.

He takes out the oven rack with the pizza, using a towel, and puts it on the only plate I own. He leans on the sink, his breath coming as fast as mine. “If I start taking your clothes off, we’ll never eat.”

“Right. Yeah. Pizza.” I sit up, smoothing my hair. I don’t care about food, but I want to eat what he’s made. Even though I can’t fathom liking anchovies, fresh or canned.

His gaze flickers over my shirt that’s still riding up my waist. I yank my shirt down over my belly rolls. I almost let him take my shirt off with the lights on. He may like my breasts but he’s not going to like my flabby stomach. I’ll have to either keep my shirt on after we eat or turn the lights out.
I
don’t like to look at me naked. Why should he?

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he says. “I have to quit looking at you.”

My chest fills with a lightness that floats above the heat boiling in my belly. Okay, maybe I don’t care about the lights.

I turn around on the bed and push the window open. The evening sun is out. “You want to eat outside?”

“Uh—does that window turn into a door?”

“No. But if my ass can fit through it, I’m sure your skinny one can. Come on.” I wriggle outside and realize halfway through that I’m giving Terrence a spectacular ass shot. He pinches me there, making me squeal and wriggle faster.

Once I’m through, he sticks his head out the window, glimpsing the view. “Cool.”

“It’s no Promenade balcony like yours, but it has character. Hand me that blanket and bring over the pizza.”

He hands me everything we need—blanket, pizza, wine—then he twists through the window and sits next to me on the blanket. He stretches his legs against the railing in his usual reclining pose and appreciates the view with me, the one I’ve so often seen alone. It’s oddly freeing to share it with someone.

I hadn’t realized how lonely I’ve been. And maybe not since coming to France, maybe since…ever.

“You read out here, don’t you?” he says, his voice shadowed with awe.

“Yup.” My voice is scratchy, and I’m not sure why. “I’ve spent hours every day reading here alone. It’s nice, I love it, but…”

He wraps an arm around my shoulder and kisses my forehead. “Thanks for sharing with me. It’s beautiful.”

I snuggle into his shoulder. I want to gag when I think I might cry. I stare at the pizza in his lap. “How can it be pizza if there’s no cheese on it?”

“That’s how they make it here.” He saws the pie into slices with my cheese knife and, after handing me a slice, takes a bite with an ecstatic groan. “So good.”

For a moment, I’m jealous of the pizza. I want him to moan about me like that. He stuffs his face with it, he’s eating so fast.

I look down at my slice with the little fish lying across it. It smells okay, but there’s a whiff of fish. I’ve never been a fan of seafood. My family loves sushi and other fishy things. I do not.

“Try it,” he says with his mouth full. He has that encouraging look on his face, the one he wears whenever he’s asking me to try something new. I’m learning to trust it. So far, everything he’s asked me to try, I’ve liked.

I take a bite, still fearful of the fish. I gird myself to fake it, to tell him how much I like it, even if I hate it.

It’s a mouthful of savory and salty, a feast for my taste buds that’s shocking in its uniqueness. I’ve never had anything like it, and I have to take another bite to get another experience of the exotic flavors.

“Good, huh?”

“Yuh,” I mumble, chewing another bite. “This crust is really good.”

“Picked it up from the bakery on the way over. It’s just bread dough.”

“I like it. The onions and the fish and the bread and the olive oil. It’s so good, I can’t taste it all at once.” I take more bites, disbelieving the tang of the fish with the grittiness of the salt, the sweetness of the onions and dough mixed with the rich olive oil. “I’m going to need more.”

“Have some wine with it.”

The wine enlivens my tongue, clearing my palate with another flavor, making the next bit of pie just like the first one. “Oh my God, that’s good.”

“Mm-hm.” He’s finished eating, and the way he’s looking at me says he’d like to be that piece of pizza.

I flush and lick my fingers. “I need another slice.”

“Me too.” Though he looks at me like I’m the pizza.

“The pizza. Not me.”

“Right.” He gives me his teasing grin, hands me another slice and gorges on one himself. I’m midway through mine when he asks, “So, how Filipino are you? Does your family make special food and stuff?”

I swallow my bite of pie. “Try not to ask it like that.”

“Okay.”

I pat his leg. “Ask me how traditional my family is, instead.”

He nods. “How traditional is the Santos family?”

I smile. “Yeah, we’re pretty traditional. I’ve always been a picky eater, so I’ve never been a big fan of the food. Drives my mom crazy because she makes so much of it.”

“My grandma makes a wicked shoofly pie,” he says.

“Shoe fly pie?”

“Shoofly pie. It’s essentially molasses baked in a pie crust.”