Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

My heart runs laps in my chest, and I’m certain the whole world can hear it beating.

I keep my back to him. I’m too nervous to face him. He snakes an arm around my middle and pulls me against his chest.

Relief entwines me, and any thought of getting away from him dissipates. My neck softens with my shoulders on the cushion, and I can only feel him hold me.

My eyes close, and my breathing slows. When he stills for a minute, and his breath comes heavy in my hair, I think he’s fallen asleep.

He opens his hand and presses his palm flat on my belly, his fingers grasping my side through my coat. Air hiccups in my lungs. His hand says he wants me, his fingers say he can’t get enough of me. I like it. I want to be wanted.

“So soft,” he whispers, and his other hand moves my hair from my neck.

His mouth is so close. If I turn my head a little, I could taste him.

I rotate my head and he’s there, closer than I thought. His lips are on my cheek; the hand that was on my belly tilts my chin toward him. I let him.

He kisses me.

His lips aren’t just soft, they’re silken. I once put a rose petal to mine when it had fallen fresh off a flower. His lips feel like that. And I think of the flowers that he threw to me this afternoon. I long for him to throw more at me.

More.

Turning all of me to face him, I beg for it with my fingers on his neck. His tongue answers me and slides between my lips. I moan and taste him back.

I’m moving against him, pushing my chest into his. I’m no longer thinking,
I shouldn’t
. I’m only thinking,
I want
.

“Oh, perfect, Relie,” he mutters into my mouth. I like his words but I like his tongue more. He cradles my head in his elbow and his other hand moves hungrily over my back and my waist.

I pull his hair for more, and he groans in his chest and squeezes me tighter. I don’t think, I just tug at the buttons of my coat. It’s too thick of a barrier. His fingers help me with my buttons. When he tries to take his tongue away, I bite down in protest.

He chuckles at me and lets me keep his tongue. His hands are under my coat, with only my thin cotton shirt blocking his kneading fingers from my skin. His palms are so hot.

My God, I want more.

It bolts straight to my thighs, and the instinct to mold my groin against his—it shocks me.

I let go of his tongue, I pull my lips away. My breath gusts in and out.

My legs are rubbing his calves. I stop. I release my hands that have twisted into his hair. I duck my chin, embarrassed at my insanely intense reaction. It’s just a kiss.

I never should have lain down next to him. I knew I would slip into things that I didn’t want to do. Or did want to do but shouldn’t. I know nothing about him except he’s a really good bike rider from Pennsylvania.

He presses his lips to my forehead and cheeks; his fingers trace my belly through my shirt. I still his hand and back away from his lips.

“So much for sleeping,” he mutters. His eyes are dark in shadow, his voice low and breathless.

The longer I lie here next to him, the more confused I feel. This is absurd.

“I should—”

He interrupts me before I can protest. “Will you let me take you home?”

“I—”

“I can borrow somebody’s car and drive you.”

Me, in a car with him. Walking home alone in the dark would be safer.

“Please? It would make me feel better.” He is so smooth. He’s guilt-tripping me. It’s working. Rationally, walking home in the dark isn’t safer.

I push up to sitting and button my coat. “Okay.”

“Did you eat?” he says. “I’m starved.”

Loud laughter echoes from inside, and I remember we’re at a party. I made out with him in public. Anyone could have walked out and seen us.

“I’m not allowed to leave, so we need a strategy.”

“What?” I’m not hearing what he’s saying. I’m replaying his tongue in my mouth and his hands under my coat.

“You need to go in there and beg keys off one of the guys. I’ll sneak around and meet you out front.”

“Won’t they miss you at the party? Aren’t you going to get in trouble? I’m not going in there to ask someone for keys.”

He rolls up on lethargic legs to sit.

“You weren’t faking the tired thing just to get me to make out with you, were you?”

He smacks a kiss on my cheek. “Do you care?”

“Yes!”

He chuckles and struggles to his feet. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not faking.”

He walks off into the dark around the terrace.

“I’m not doing this.”

“Yes, you are,” he clips brightly and disappears.

“Wait.” But he’s gone. “Damn it.” I stand up and wander back inside. I really don’t want to do this. Asking people for help is my least favorite way of doing things.

I spot Ralph and ask him first. He smiles mischievously and says, “Braker’s taking you home? Bastard. He always wins.”

I’m cherry in the face, but I’m determined. “Do you have keys?”

“Nope. Try Gary.”

Gary looks at me like I have four heads, rolls his eyes and points to a blonde girl by the door.

Paul stops me. “Are you going home?”

I stammer. “
Oui
, er,
je suis
—um—”

His eyes widen. “
He’s
taking you home, isn’t he?” He nods and backs away. “
Bonne chance
, Aurélie.” He thinks I’m going home with Terrence. Well, I am, except he’s taking me to my place. But I’m not letting him inside my apartment. I’m not having sex with him. I’m not.

I’m too embarrassed to correct Paul, and I continue on my mission for keys.

The girl by the door looms over me in her official BG jacket. She must work for the team, and she responds to my French with a German accent. “Braker drives you home?”

“Yes. Do you have keys?” I’m not repeating myself again. I’d rather walk.

She crosses her arms. “He’s not supposed to leave. This party is for him.”

“He told me to ask.”

“He’s going to be in trouble with Sergio tomorrow.” She grabs a single car key from her pocket. “
Bonne chance
.”

I don’t like everyone wishing me “good luck”. I turn and stride out the door. I never thought I’d be in such a hurry to leave such a beautiful house. Outside, Terrence is sitting on a rock with his legs stretched in front of him, eating pasta out of a pan.

“Really?”

“Carbo-loading,” he says with a mouthful of food. “Want some?” He sticks a fork full of ziti at me.

My first response to refuse is squelched by the dripping cheese. I take the fork from him and bite.

My mouth melts, almost as much as it did around his tongue. “That’s good.”

He smiles and stands up, slowly. “Switch.” He grabs the key from my hand and gives me the pan of pasta.

“Is this, like, straight from the oven?” I sneak another bite.

“Yeah. Sergio’s cook loves cyclists.”

“Sergio?”

“The team owner. It’s his house. His apartment we live in. He’s all the money for everything.”

“That’s serious.” I crouch into the passenger seat of the little two-door sedan that sits too low to the ground. “The lady who gave me the key said you’d be in trouble with him tomorrow.”

“Maybe.” Terrence starts the car. “The guy is serious about cycling,” he says with no excitement at all.

I take another bite of dripping, cheesy ziti and stifle a moan, it’s so good. Or maybe I don’t stifle it, judging by the smirk that Terrence gives me. I ignore him and focus on how slow he drives. “How come you don’t drive faster?”

“Just because I race doesn’t mean I’m not exhausted, and I almost never drive.” The car descends the dark, steep road back to Nice. “And this is no Bugatti.”

“Bugatti?”

“Italian sportscar? Sergio’s let me drive his a couple of times.”

“You must make good money.”

“Better than last year. Most of it comes from sponsors.”

“But you won money for the race today, right?”

“That goes to the team. When we win, we split it.”

I like how he says
we
win.

“I have to. I make shitloads more than they do. It does no good to have a team that hates me. My lead-out train won’t run without them.” Back to the “my lead-out”. He really is the team leader.

He full stops at a traffic light. “My turn.” He shows me his open mouth.

“You want me to feed you?” I’m not doing that. I fill the fork with pasta and hand it to him. “Here.”

He grabs my hand with the fork and puts it in his mouth, forcing me to feed him. He groans and chews. “Oh, I got to have more of that. Hit me again.”

He’s so playful. I like it. I fill the fork again, and this time voluntarily put it in his open mouth. His lips close around the tines and draw it slowly out of his mouth.

Not wanting to play along too much, I pull the fork out faster and face forward. “Drive, please.”

He moves the car forward, turning toward Vieux Nice. “I drive as long as you feed me. Keep it coming.”

After each bite, he swallows and says, “Again.” With the rapidity he eats, I fear he will burst.

“How can you eat so much?”

“Sweetheart, I burned five thousand calories today. I could eat boxes of pasta and it wouldn’t be enough.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Sorry. Relie.”

“That’s what my dad calls me.”

He jolts. “Okay. Not that either.”

“Aurelia is fine, thanks.”

“People must call you by a nickname.”

“The French call me ‘Aurélie’.” I like how French it sounds, though somehow that doesn’t feel right either.

“They leave off the ‘Lia’ part?”

“Yeah.”

He leans toward me with an open mouth. “More.”

I like him saying “more” to me, too much. The fork trembles in my hand.

With his mouth full, he says, “Braker’s not my real name.”

“What do you mean?”

He swallows. “My real last name is Baker. Some announcer made the mistake back when I was a junior racing on the track. It stuck. The whole ‘Braking Terror’ thing.”

“But it’s spelled wrong. Braker as in ‘baker’ is the noun, not the verb.”

He gives me the side-eye. “I don’t think announcers give a shit about spelling.”

“Well, they should.” I’m rambling, trying to think of anything except how close he is to me. I’m cowering toward the door so his shoulder isn’t touching mine. “Do people call you ‘Terry’ then?”

His voice lowers, tightens. “Terry is my father’s name. No one calls me that.”

“That’s bad, I guess?”

He scoffs. “The less I can be like him the better.”

“Okay.” I feel bad, like I said something I shouldn’t have, though how was I supposed to know “Terry” was the wrong thing to mention?

I take another bite of ziti myself and feed him one too.

He turns another corner and says, “I don’t know where you live.”

“You can drop me in two blocks.” No cars are allowed on my street so he’ll have to stop on the boulevard. I’m relieved we’re close. This car is getting warmer and smaller every minute.

“We lived around the corner from here last winter. That’s why we always go to that café. The barista loves us.”

I snort. “He never talks to me.”

“I’m sure you’re all sunshine and roses.”

“Shut up. If you think I’m so prissy, why do
you
talk to me?”

“Hey, I think you’re great. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. It’s nice to have to work for smiles. Yours don’t come cheap.”

I can’t help the smile that splits my face. “Thank you.”

“See?” He beams at me.

“Watch the road, please.” He says such nice things. I hope he’s not saying them because he’s expecting sex.

Chapter Twelve

He parks the car where I said, turning off the engine, though I wanted him to leave it running. I need out of this car. I refuse to sit with him longer.

“Thanks for the food and the ride.”

“Sure.”

I’m nervous and terrified that he might try to kiss me again. Or worse, I’ll want him to kiss me again and he won’t. So I don’t look at him. I search for the door handle, put the pasta pan on the seat, and get out.

I slam the door closed, then hear his car door slam behind me.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” he says, striding up beside me with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

“You’re not coming up,” I blurt on reflex.

“Whoa.” He puts his palms up. “I’m innocent, I swear. What are you thinking, Miss Aurélie?”

I blush and stare at the ground. “Nothing.” I scurry across the dark cobbles, down the block. My thoughts jumped straight from him getting out of the car to him wanting sex. It’s not my fault. He made it very clear with his proposition last time that sex is what he wants. “Go home to your models or whoever.”

“Hey, hey.” He hurries to my side.

I jog down the staircase sidewalk to my door.

He jogs with me. “I don’t ‘do’ models.”

“Right. Never.” There’s no way that’s true.

“Well, I did, but not anymore. We all do stupid shit when we’re twenty-two.”

“I’m twenty-two.”

“Then maybe you should do some ‘stupid shit’ with me.” The streetlight shines on his spreading smile.

I stop near my door, but not in front of it. I’m not sure I want him to know where I live. He stands so close to me, I think he might try to kiss me again. But instead, his hand brushes my wrist and twines fingers with mine.

I like holding his hand. “No models?” My brain is having a hard time comprehending this guy. Does he, for real, like me?

“Nah,” he says. “Plastic. Boring. I’m a bigger fan of the real deal.” Like at the tram stop, he strokes my love handle.

It surprises me; I jump away. I don’t know if I want him to touch me again. I’m afraid that I’ll—that if he—

He follows me, and before I can fathom it, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me.

It’s different from the chaise longue. He doesn’t wait to slip me his tongue, he’s there, inside my mouth.

I am lost and gone. I grab his shoulders and pull him against me.

He wants me. I want that.

My lips are sucking and needy, and I’m whimpering, but I don’t care.

I wrap my arms around his neck and try to yank him down to my height. He’s taller than me, and I don’t like it. I want his head level with mine so that I can have more of his tongue in my mouth and feel more of him against me.

“Where’s—your—door?” He kisses me between words.

I point in the direction, and he walks me back into the recess, against the wall.

He happily devours me. Or I devour him. Whichever.

I climb him, and he catches my thigh, hitches it around his hip, lifts me on tiptoe, presses me into the wall.

His mouth and his tongue are better than cheese and croissants. I could eat those all day; him, though—just eating him isn’t enough. I want all of him inside me.

A pressure toughens between my legs. He’s rubbing me, right there, and he’s hard.

I lean my hips into him, to see if I’m right. He groans, and his fingers dig into my butt, and he grinds between my legs. Oh yeah, I’m right.

This is bad. Bad. I should not be doing this.

I have no desire to stop.

I rock my hips against him little by little, and it feels so good that I forget about kissing, only panting. His lips nibble my jaw, and he slides his hips up and down against me.

I’m breathing so hard I can’t form thoughts.

“Terr—Terrence,” I gasp, and still my hips. “I— Umm—”

“Yeah.” He stops moving too. “I’m—should stop.” He gulps. “Oh, you feel so good, Lia.” His nose is in my ear, my hair.

Me standing against him, his body, he’s stone, all over. Not just hard. Hard implies a certain give to the surface, like it can be related to soft. No. He’s granite, only muscle and skin. My hands drop to his narrow hips, my fingers hooking in his belt loops. I’m overwhelmed by the urge to press into him again.

It triggers alarm bells. I loosen my leg around his, and he lets me glide down off my tiptoes to the ground. The loss of being level with his face, of having his lips so close to mine, is weighty.

I nuzzle into his rigid chest, and he lowers his cheek to mine. His tongue touches my lips, and I resist the urge to let him in my mouth again. With a subtle grab of my hands and tilt of my hips, I could heat us up again. He really wants me, and he’s taking all his cues from me. When I want, he gives. When I stop, he stops. He’s not pushing for sex.

He whispers, “Can I see you tomorrow?”

Surely, how great is this guy? American or French, cyclist or academic, I don’t care, I like him.

“Yeah.” I giggle, a lot, and smile so broadly that I don’t want to stop it.

“Best smile ever.” Letting me lean against the wall, he steps back, pulls his phone from his pocket.

He asks, “What’s your number?”

“I don’t have a cell.”

His eyebrows pop. “You’re really into this hard-to-get stuff.”

I shrug. “I’m trying to save money. My assistantship barely covers food.” I have a credit card; maybe I should buy a cell anyway. I want him to call me.

He stuffs his phone in his pocket and grasps my hip. “At the café, tomorrow? Usual time?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Okay.” He kisses my forehead and waits for something. I have no idea what; I’m heady with him.

His fingers trace my collarbone. “Can you get inside?”

“Oh. Uh-huh.” I dig out my key with shaky fingers, and it bobs around the lock before I get it open.

From behind me, he kisses my cheek. “See you tomorrow, Lia.”

* * * * *

The ache between my legs pounds as loud as my thoughts.

I slip inside my apartment, my knees weak. I nudge off my shoes and fall on my bed.

A whirlwind day. This morning I didn’t know if I’d see him again. Then he’s in a bike race, I follow him to a party, and we make out, in a major way, twice. He’s an amazing kisser. He wants to see me tomorrow. Not only is he an “I don’t do models” kind of guy, but he also really likes me. Me.

He’s fascinating, not academically inclined, yet he has goals and a rich career with a complex strategy that I don’t understand. He has this innate dominance, this need to win, and yet is so generous in victory. It’s an enthralling contradiction. I need to learn more about him, about his mysteries, who he is and what he likes.

And what
things
he likes.

And what things
I’d
like him to do to me.

I sit up in my bed. I should change into pajamas. But I must admit a truth. For the first time in a long time—I’m wet.

I’m damp between my legs, from Terrence. Him rubbing me there, his kisses and his tongue…my God, his tongue. I want to suck on it all day, to own it with my mouth. I want him to suck me with it, everywhere.

Something tells me having sex with him would not be a “lie back and think of England” kind of experience.

Before I realize what I’m doing, my hand is between my legs, rubbing myself where it aches, and I’m imagining him on top of me, naked.

I don’t touch myself often. I’ve done it, but it’s never amounted to anything so I don’t force myself to bother.

But my heart pulses in my groin and it needs—release. I rub myself again, over the top of my jeans, using my hand the way Terrence moved against me.

Nothing happens.

It’s never upset me before, the big fact I’ve ignored for years that now screams at me. I bury my face in my pillow.

I’m twenty-two years old, and I’ve never had an orgasm.