Like most journalists these days, I have to freelance with a variety of publications to earn enough money to keep body and soul together. MotoRacer has been one of my steadiest gigs since they first hired me practically fresh out of college. Without them, I'd have a lot harder time making a living as a writer.
Calling is the right thing to do, but it's the hard thing to do.
"Hey," a familiar voice calls from a dozen or so yards away. "Where's the fire?"
It's Owen, of course. He's stripped his racing jacket down to the waist, displaying his sculpted pecs, and eight-pack abs—yes, eight, not six, because life is unfair—and the dense happy trail of dark golden hair that starts at his navel and disappears into the waistband of his track pants. His skin glows a little in the late afternoon sun.
Blushing because I'm trying to think of a way to get him to strip off the bottom half of his attire as well as the top, I shove my phone back into my purse and give him what I hope is a neutral smile.
"I…um...got a phone call but I couldn't hear anything in the crowd," I lie.
Yes, I flat-out lie. What the hell is wrong with me?
He strides toward me, closing the distance between us as he speaks. "I wanted to make sure everything was all right. You ducked out so fast, I was afraid something was wrong."
Which meant he had been watching me. Even in that throng of people, he'd been watching me.
I wasn't wrong. I had caused his crash.
"No, no, everything's fine. Just needed to make sure the call wasn't anything important."
"And it wasn't?" He's standing within arms' reach of me, now. If I wanted to, I could reach out and trace my finger from the hollow between his chest muscles down that happy trail.
God, how I want to.
I shake my head. "Nah. Stupid sales call."
Hey, in for a penny, in for a pound.
He sighs, and he's so obviously relieved that everything's okay that guilt stabs me in the gut. Man, I am really a piece of work.
"What happened out there?" I ask, unable to stop myself.
He gives me a sheepish grin and shrugs his shoulders. What this does to the muscles of his torso is enough to make my knees wobble. "I made a mistake. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not perfect."
His body is perfect. I want it.
I am so screwed.
I so want to be screwed.
Honesty bubbles out of me before I can stop it. "I thought maybe I distracted you."
"Why would you think that?" he asks, a hint of wariness creeping into his tone.
"I…" God, now I'm going to sound like I'm conceited and think he's still panting after me even after I turned him down. Like there aren’t a hundred other women who'd happily take my place. "It seemed like you looked right at me right before you went down."
Ugh. My cheeks are hot. So embarrassing.
There's a long beat where his eyes—and how did I not notice before that they're not just blue, but a pale, crystalline blue ringed with a thin band of indigo so dark, it's nearly black?—study me like I'm a Rubic's Cube with just one tile out of place and he's trying to figure out how to fix that without messing up all the other tiles. Finally, he says, "I did look right at you. I looked at you on every lap before that one, too. But that's not why I fucked up making the pass."
I let out a relieved breath. Maybe I don't have to leave.
"Okay, then why did you fuck up?"
He quirks an eyebrow. "You sure you want to know?"
Something about the warning undercurrent in his tone makes me pretty sure I shouldn't want to know and that I might regret finding out, but I'm too far gone now to stop.
I nod.
Taking one step closer to me, he reaches up and tucks a curl behind my ear. Then he dips his head and whispers, "Because seeing you made my dick so hard, I damn near castrated myself. And that was distracting as hell."
Five
Owen
I just made either the dumbest or the smartest move of my life. Probably the dumbest, though. But she asked, right? At that point, I had no choice but to tell her the truth. Partly because I shoot straight, but mostly because I can't think up a good lie.
Lucy inhales so sharply, I feel like she pulled a little air out of my lungs. Oh, well. What I said was crude and unacceptable. I stiffen, expecting anything from a slap across the cheek to—
She kisses me.
Holy shit!
She's kissing me with soft, sweet lips, and it's like someone plugged me into an electrical outlet. A thousand volts of pleasure surge through me, from my mouth right to my dick. She presses closer to me, and I feel her full breasts squash against my bare chest. God, it feels good.
Why is she kissing me? No, better question. Why am I not kissing her back?
I slide my arms around her waist and participate. She shudders at the change in my response, and when I nibble on her plump bottom lip, she lets out a little moan and opens her mouth. My tongue darts in, sliding against hers, teasing the secret places that make her hips rock against mine.
Oh yeah, she wants it. She wants it bad.
Cupping her generous ass in my hands, I grind my dick into her belly just enough to make it clear that I am all in. All in to get in. I keep at it, loving the feel and taste of her, responding to the tiny cues from her body that tell me what she likes—firm pressure, gentle pull, scraping teeth.
She finally tears her lips away from mine and blinks up at me, as if she doesn't know how we got to this point. Her breathing is shallow and fast, and her brown eyes are so dilated in spite of the bright afternoon sunshine that they're practically all pupil. One thing's for sure—she's as turned on as I am.
"We have to stop this. Before someone sees us." Her voice is low and husky, almost a whisper.
"All right."
I rest my forehead against hers. I'm panting like I just ran a hundred-yard dash, and I'm not too steady on my feet. We stand like that for a little while, just gulping air and propping each other up.
When the sounds of people leaving the winners' circle begin to trickle in, she pulls away and starts rummaging in her purse. It's one of those slouchy bags big enough to hold a pipe wrench, and it takes her a while to find what she's looking for.
"Where the fuck did I—?" she mutters, then triumphantly, "Ah, here they are."
She pulls her hand out of the bag, and I'm thinking of that scene in Mary Poppins—yeah, I watched it when I was a kid; want to make something of it?—where she pulls a hat-stand and a tape measure and a bunch of other things, and wondering what magical item Lucy is going to produce.
Hotel key cards. Two of them.
Pretty magical, I'm thinking.
After separating them, she starts to hand one to me, then pauses. "Sorry, before I give this to you, I have to ask: Democrat or Republican?"
I blink, surprised by the question, but given the state of the country, I can't blame her. What woman in her right mind wants to risk getting into a relationship with a guy who votes for people who think sexual assault is high school "hijinks?"
"Democrat," I tell her firmly. I was raised by a single mother in a low-income neighborhood in San Antonio, and that explains it all as far as I'm concerned.
She lets out a relieved breath and presses the key into my palm. "Room 406."
I don't need her to tell me which hotel. The hotel’s logo is printed on the side of the card that doesn't have the magnetic stripe and there's only one of those in town. As luck has it, I'm staying there, too, so I even know exactly where it is.
"Meet me there in two hours," she says, not quite meeting my eyes. "I'll be waiting for you." Then she turns and walks out of the paddock in the direction of the parking lot.
I turn the key card in my fingers as I watch her stride away.
I did not see that coming. At all.
But hot damn.
Two hours gives me plenty of time to shower and change into a clean pair of jeans and black T-shirt, which is good, because I smelled like th
e gymnasium at my high school. I also brush and floss the old choppers and do a quick trim of the facial hair. Since my beard's about a shade and a half darker than my hair—which is a medium blond with a little bit of red in it—and on the patchy side, I can't grow the real McCoy, but the just-past-stubble look works on me, and it's way easier to maintain than shaving every day.
I inspect myself in the mirror. No toothpaste on my face, nothing stuck between my teeth. Good to go.
I check the clock next to the bed. Fifteen minutes to spare.
Damn. I'm going to be wound up tight as a spring by the time I get to her room if I don't find something to do with myself.
Maybe I should bring her something? I probably have enough time to run to the store down the street for flowers or chocolate or something. Dating isn't exactly something I have a lot of experience with, though. Is it appropriate to bring something to a first date? Or would it seem pushy?
Shit, this is way out of my comfort zone. I want to do this right, prove to her that I'm about more than fast bikes and fast women.
Fuck it, flowers it is.
I take the elevator down to the lobby and head to the market. It's almost six, but it's still warm outside and a little humid, so I take my time. Last thing I want is to waste that shower by breaking a sweat. There's quite a bit of traffic on the four-lane road, but no one on the sidewalk except me.
It takes me maybe five minutes to get there. It's a little mom-and-pop place tucked into a strip mall that looks like every other strip mall I've ever seen. Inside, it's a mash-up of a 7-Eleven and an actual market, with a combination of junk food, hot coffee and fountain drinks, canned goods, soda and beer in coolers, alongside a section of fresh fruits and vegetables and an actual butcher shop in the back. And, lucky for me, in the fresh fruit-and-vegetable section, there's a small selection of flowers.
Looking at my options—a full bouquet of a dozen red roses, a couple of bouquets of mixed flowers, and a few individual long-stem roses in red, pink, and white—I decide a single rose is the best choice. I mean, we're staying in a hotel. What's she going to do with a full bouquet? It's not like she's going to have a vase tucked away in her suitcase, and even if she did, she's not going to take them home with her when she leaves.
But the single rose seems like the perfect touch, so I buy the freshest-looking red one, and head back to the hotel. My timing when I arrive at her door should be just about perfect.
I've been in this town often enough to know the two best restaurants are an Italian place about a half-mile up this road and a Thai place a mile-and-a-half away on a different street. Italian is safe—I've never met anyone who didn't like Italian food—but I'm going to suggest Thai anyway, first because it's smaller and cozier than the Italian joint and second because I think Italian food is a little boring because it's safe. Maybe Lucy doesn't like Thai, but I don't think that's the way to bet.
The clerk at the front desk—a short-haired brunette in her late twenties or early thirties with a round, pretty face and a round, pretty figure—smiles and nods at me as I head to the elevator with my single red rose. In the past, I’d probably have looked at her a second time, considered asking her what time her shift ended and whether she was interested in having dinner or a drink with me.
But not anymore. I'm a one-woman man now.
As the elevator climbs to the fourth floor, I ponder this thought. I should be surprised by it. I've known Lucy less than a month, and we've hardly spent any personal time together at all. I mean, she's interviewed me a couple of times for her articles, and that's sort of intimate, but it's also definitely professional. But somehow, I know that she's not my typical one- to three-night-stand girl. I don't just want to bury myself in her, to fuck her for the sake of shutting up my mind and living in that pure, sweet moment of bliss. Hey, I'm not saying I don't want to do that, but there's something about being with her that shuts up my crazy monkey-brain all on its own. She requires all my concentration, just like riding. Just like fucking used to.
The bell dings, and the elevator doors slide open. She said room 406, which I know is going to be down the corridor to the left, because I'm in 507, one floor up and across the hall.
When I reach the door, my heartbeat slows and calm washes through me. Nothing relaxes me like knowing I'm going to have to use every bit of my brain to get something right.
Getting Lucy right is going to take everything I've got. Maybe more.
Even though I have the key card in my pocket, I knock on the door. It just seems like the polite thing to do.
"Use your key," she calls, her voice muffled by the door and the walls.
I raise my eyebrows, wondering why she doesn't want to just come let me in. Pulling the key card out of my back pocket, I run it through the slot and turn the knob when the little green light flashes.
All the rooms are laid out the same: narrow entry hall, bathroom on the right or left, bedroom around the corner so you can't see the bed until you've passed the bathroom door. The bathroom door is open and the light is off, so she must be in the bedroom area, putting on her shoes or something.
Holding the rose upright in one hand, I continue down the hall and—
My heart jumps into my throat, pounding like mad.
Lucy is lying in the center of the bed.
Stark. Fucking. Naked.
Six
Owen
Goddamn, she's beautiful. All brown skin and lush curves in soft, warm contrast to the bright white sheets. Her almost-black hair, which she normally wears up, is loose and curls around her shoulders and down her arms. I almost cream my clean jeans right then and there.
I knew she'd be gorgeous without her clothes on, but I wasn't expecting to get the full reveal all at once, let alone right now. It's a shock to my system, which must be why I'm feeling dizzy. Or maybe it's just that all my blood has deserted my brain and gone straight to my dick, which is straining against my zipper for all its worth.
Down, boy.
Lucy levers herself up on one elbow, which does interesting things to the slopes of her breasts and makes me notice how pretty the dusky pink of her nipples is, and arches her eyebrows. "Nice touch," she says. "Is that a standard part of the Goin' Owen one-night stand package? Something to remember you by?"
Her words remind me of the rose, which I'm clenching in a death grip. I loosen my hold on the stem, grateful that it's wrapped in plastic so the thorns don't cut me. Her words sure as hell do.
I shake my head. "No. There is no package. And I didn't come for that."
Which is a dumb-ass thing to say, because obviously, I came with the hope of having sex with her at some point. It's just that I expected to have to work up to it. Convince her that I'm worth the risk. That I can do something other than a single night's performance.
Because I didn't think she'd be happy with that, and I knew I wouldn't. There's something about Lucy that makes me want more. But she doesn't seem to want more from me.
The thought cools my jets a little and makes my erection a little more bearable.
An emotion flickers across her face so fast, I'm not sure I read it right, but I think it was…hurt. "Then what did you come for?" There's a little acid in her voice.
"I thought we'd go have dinner and…you know, talk."
She sits up, crossing her arms under her big, firm breasts, and it's all I can do to stay where I am because I want to go bury my face between them and inhale her.
"I think the time for talking has passed. We need to fuck this out of our systems and fast."
She wants me out of her system? Fast?
Ouch.
I lean back against the dresser that's behind me, aiming for a relaxed pose. I don't want her to know how hard I'm fighting what's churning inside me: anger, confusion, disappointment. And desire. Damn it, the desire is still there.
"Why would I want you out of my system, Lucy?"
She gives me an impatient look. "You crashed today because just looking at me gave you
a hard-on. I don't think going on like that is much of a choice for you."
Okay, that's actually kind of sweet.
I look her up and down, enjoying the view of every velvety inch of her naked body without trying to rein in my filthy thoughts. And believe me, I have a lot of them. Sucking those dusky-pink nipples. Eating that sweet pussy. Fucking her hot mouth, her beautiful tits, her wet pussy. Maybe even her tight ass if she's into that. Oh yeah, I want all of that. All of it and more.
"And you think I'll get over it if we fuck five or six times tonight?"
That makes her blink. "God, do you normally do it five or six times in one night?"
"Not normally, no," I admit, grinning. "But with you, yeah, I can. And then I'll want to do it again the next night. And the night after that. And so on."
"Wait, wait." She holds up her hands in front of her, shaking her head in disbelief. "You want to have a relationship?"
I shrug. "I thought we already did. You’re not just some girl I met in a bar who I’m never going to see again. We've already known each other for three weeks and we’re going to keep seeing each other for another nine weeks. I figured we were taking the relationship we already have to the next level."
"Owen," she says slowly, rolling her legs out from under her and sliding off the bed, "there is no next level." Getting to her feet, she takes the two steps required to be standing right in my personal space. "We can have one night." Her body presses up against mine, and she grabs the fabric of my T-shirt in both hands near my waist. "Come to bed. Fuck me. As many times as you want tonight. But it's now or never."
She smells amazing, like cinnamon toast, and I want to gobble her so badly, it's everything I can do to keep my hands to myself. I squeeze the rose like a lifeline, though.
Holeshot: A Motocrossed Romance Page 3