"Why, Lucy?"
Her hands slide up under the hem of my shirt, the contact of skin against skin making my brain short out. "Why what?"
I let go of the rose and grab her wrists with both hands to hold her still. "Why isn't there a next level? Why only one night?"
She looks up at me, her eyes dilated with desire. "Because I'm a journalist, Owen. I'm supposed to tell the story, not be the story. I shouldn't even have a one-night stand with you, but if this goes any further than that, I'd have to call my editor and ask him to assign a different reporter. And if I do that, there's a pretty good chance I'll never get another assignment from MotoRacer again." Her voice is regretful, pleading. "Don't ask me to risk my career."
I admit I'm not always the sharpest thorn on the rose, but I don't think I'm straight-up stupid. I feel pretty stupid right now, though. Because duh. I also feel like a complete asshole.
"Shit, Lucy." I release her wrists and take a deep breath. Gotta get this under control. "You should have told me this sooner. I can take no for an answer."
Now she grabs my wrists and brings my hands up to her breasts. Her skin is warm and dry, and her nipples are hard little points against my palms. "But the answer isn't no. It's yes. Please."
Fucking hell, I'm trying to do the right thing here, but I can't not cup her full, delicious tits in my hands and tease the nipples with my thumbs. It's like a reflex.
She sighs with pleasure and arches into me, and my dick strains against my zipper like The Hulk about to bust out of his pants.
So why am I resisting this? She wants it. I want it. I'd have to be an idiot to pass up the chance to be with her, even if it's just for one night. After all, it's not like I'm opposed to the idea of hook-ups on principle or anything. Hell, I practically demand them.
"Yeah, let's do this."
And just like that, I'm all in. Committed. I am going to make her scream and sob and beg.
Lucy Salcido is in for the ride of her life.
Seven
Lucy
This might be the dumbest thing I've ever done, but when Owen bends his head and our mouths connect, it feels like genius. He kisses the way he rides a dirt bike—with formidable focus and an almost frightening finesse, with both patience and urgency. He nibbles at my lower lip, licks the corners of my mouth, and slides his tongue against mine. And the whole time, he teases my nipples with his thumbs until I'm dizzy and aching everywhere. I clutch the edges of his T-shirt with something approaching desperation. I keep meaning to pull it up and explore the sleekly muscled terrain of his abdomen and chest, but I can't seem to bring myself to let go of the only thing that's keeping me on my feet at this point.
"God," he mutters thickly between kisses, "you have great tits."
Now, a girl with double-Ds doesn't tend to go wanting in the bosom acclamation department, so it's not like this compliment is anything new. But there's something about the way Owen says it—lascivious but somehow reverent, dirty but incredibly sweet—that turns me on so much, I find myself reaching for the waistband of his jeans.
I have to have him inside me. Right. Now.
I flip open the top button of his pants and start tugging on his zipper.
One of his hands leaves the breast he's been fondling and rests on the top of mine. "Whoa. Where's the fire, Lu?"
"Between my legs," I say on a growl and open his fly. The heavy length of his erection, still covered by his boxers, brushes against my fingers, and he groans. "And yours, too."
"We don't have to rush this." His protest isn't very effective, though, because he's grinding his hips against the back of my hand. "I want you to be ready."
Yeah, yeah, we do. We need to do this fast and dirty so we can do it again and again and get it over with. Then he'll move on to the next girl, like he always does, and I won't have to worry about losing my job.
"I was ready the minute you walked through the door." I grab his fingers and guide his hand between my thighs to demonstrate. I'm so wet that his fingers slip easily past my throbbing, swollen clit to my entrance, pausing for a second before he slides them away again. A sob of frustration escapes me at their departure, but I'm not about to be denied. I shove my hands into the waistband of his boxers and push both them and his jeans down his hips to free his cock from its confinement.
I'm not what you'd call a connoisseur of the penis, at least not from a visual perspective. When you come right down to it, it's ridiculous-looking in any state. But when it comes to the tactile? God, there's nothing as magnificently designed for its purpose as the fully erect male organ, and Owen's cock is as outstanding as the rest of him. Pun intended. I drag my fingertips along his length from base to tip. Long and thick and covered in skin that's buttery smooth and velvety soft, the perfect contrast to the steely hardness beneath. Another rush of desire washes through me as I imagine how this particular penis is going to feel inside me.
So good. Better than good.
As I caress him, Owen closes his eyes and rests his forehead against mine, breathing slowly through his nose. "Okay, okay," he says after a few seconds. "But we need a condom."
We do. I'm on the pill, but he's a player. Not a risk I want to take, even if all the data I have says he's always responsible about this. Because if he'd be irresponsible with me, there's no telling who else he's been irresponsible with.
"Please tell me you have one in your back pocket."
He lifts his head along with an eyebrow, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "You didn't stock up?"
"I did, but they're on the bedside table." Which is a good ten feet away. Too. Far. "I don't think I can wait that long."
"Lucky for you, I'm prepared." He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, which are sagging around his hips, and comes out with a square black packet. Handing it to me, he pushes his jeans and boxers farther down his legs. There's no way he can get them off with his shoes on, though, so he lets them stop at his knees, which should look silly but for some reason is crazy hot.
Before I can do anything with the packet, he grabs me by the hips, lifts me off the floor, and turns me so that I'm the one with my back to the dresser and he's got his back to the bed. He sets my bare ass down on the cool surface and settles himself between my legs, his cock resting against my inner thigh.
"Open it and put it on me," he orders roughly.
My fingers tremble a little as I tear the packet and extract the rubber disk. As I place it over the spongy head of his dick and begin to unroll it, my fingers brushing him, he hisses and his hips twitch with impatience.
He's got it as bad as I do. At least that's something.
When I reach the base of his shaft, I wrap my hand around him and guide him to me. Sliding his hands beneath my ass, he pulls me closer to the edge of the dresser, using the strength of his well-muscled arms to keep me from falling off. The fact that he's strong enough to do that sends another sharp jolt of lust straight to my already dripping sex. I don't think I've ever been more desperate to be fucked than I am right now.
Fortunately, he doesn't make me wait. Our relative heights in this position are perfect, his cock lining up with my entrance as if this piece of furniture was made for us to have sex on. Still holding me in place, he nudges my opening, slipping easily into me for the first inch or so before his girth begins to stretch me. I gasp and grab on to his biceps for additional support because every nerve in my body quivers with the delicious effort of accommodating him.
"Sweet Jesus, you're tight," he groans in that Texas drawl of his when he's at about the halfway mark.
I know he's gotten that far because I'm watching his progress, and it's so erotic that I wonder if I'm going to come just from seeing his cock buried to the base inside my pussy. Because it feels like I might.
"And so fucking wet," he adds as he adds another inch.
My clit pulses in response to the words. If I touched myself, I would come. "Please," I murmur, although I don't know exactly what it is I'm pleading for.
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But maybe Owen does, because with an almost savage grunt, he plunges all the way home and everything in me lights up like the surface of the sun. His mouth closes over mine, our lips and tongues tangling together as he fucks me, his rhythm swift and urgent. The pleasure builds and builds, and I struggle to hold back my climax because I don't want it to be over even though I'm desperate to come.
I hear someone whimpering, and then I realize it's me.
"It's all right," he whispers against my lips. "Let go. I've got you."
The orgasm starts behind my eyes, a kind of sparkle in my brain right before my body lets loose. Sensation rushes through me, sharp and tight and too much, and Owen rides me through the spasms, steers me from the peak where I don't think I can bear the pleasure and down again, until I'm limp and sated in his arms.
He hasn't come yet. His cock is still hard and thick inside me, and the knowledge fans my arousal back to life. I shift my hips, impatient for him to move again despite the fact that I just came harder than I can ever remember.
"Again?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
"Yes," I hiss, grinding against him.
"Good." Then he lifts me off the dresser, supporting my full weight—which is not inconsiderable—and backs up to the bed in spite of his pants being down around his ankles, where he somehow manages to lie down on his back and bring me with him while keeping me impaled on his dick. It's a pretty impressive demonstration of strength and agility.
But then, I've seen him on a dirt bike. I wouldn't expect anything less.
"Ride me, baby," he grates out. "Fuck me like I fucked you."
Desire vibrates down my spine. Hell, yeah. I'll fuck him cross-eyed.
Shifting my weight onto my knees, I start with slow, gentle rocking motions of my hips. He gives me a lazy smile that spreads across my skin like sunshine and reaches up to cup my breasts again. I maintain a leisurely tempo as he plays with my nipples and watch his blue eyes dilate and darken to the color of a twilight sky. The muscles in his jaw grow tight and tense, and I feel the exact moment when he has to stop himself from grabbing me to hold me still so he can take over and pound up into me. And that's the point when I reach down between my legs and begin to stroke my clit.
"Goddamn," he mutters, his eyes going unfocused. "You are so fucking hot."
"So are you," I tell him. "I want to see what you look like when you come."
"You're not going to have to wait long." His voice is strained, half laughter, half determination.
I circle my clit faster and pick up the pace, watching his handsome face as he crosses that line between pleasure and pain that signals he's about to let go. Like me, he's trying to hold it back, to prolong the moment. And then his hands leave my breasts and grip my hips and he takes over, thrusting into me so fast and hard that I start coming before he does, the world going blurry around me as an orgasm even more powerful than the first one grips me.
I'm still just conscious enough to feel the first jerk of his cock as he shouts and comes, his back arching off the bed as we both shudder with bliss. Before I go completely insensate, I look down into his eyes.
Crossed.
Mission accomplished.
Eight
Owen
I can't remember the last time I came so fast. With so little finesse or control. I'd be embarrassed if Lucy wasn’t flopped limply across my chest with a dreamy little smile on her beautiful face. Next time I can and will go longer, slower and harder, but at least it looks like I didn’t disappoint her.
My dick is softening, though, which means I need to pull out and get up off the bed to get rid of the rubber pretty soon. I wish I'd managed to get rid of the T-shirt before now so I could feel her skin against mine, but that's something else for next time.
She feels so good draped over me, though, that I'm not in any rush. I could lie here like this for hours, inhaling her honey-and-cinnamon scent and touching her silken skin. Holding her is just as perfect as fucking her, and I want it to last as long as—
My stomach growls. No, it roars.
It's so loud, we both jump, and our bodies jerk apart. I have to move fast to keep the condom from slipping off and making a mess. Rolling toward the edge of the bed, I try to get to my feet—and remember I didn't get anything else off, either. My jeans and boxers are bunched up around my ankles, and I only avoid a Keystone Cops moment by converting my roll to a standing position into a roll to sitting position. I carefully remove the rubber and search hopefully for a trash can within arm's reach.
No joy.
"It's in the bathroom," Lucy says, and holds out her hand. "I'll toss it."
Since there's not a prayer I'm going to get my clothes either off or back on while holding on to the condom, I pass it to her with a nod of thanks.
Naked and gorgeous, she strolls away from the bed. Her hips sway seductively, but I don't think she's doing it on purpose. It's just the way she's put together. And goddamn, that ass of hers just does things to me. Even when my stomach is making noises loud enough to wake people in the next room, watching her is giving me the beginnings of another hard-on.
When she disappears into the bathroom, I stand up and pull up my boxers and jeans. "I'm starving. I haven't eaten dinner yet."
"I figured that out." There's an edge of amusement in her voice. "We could order a pizza for you."
"You ate already?" I zip up my fly as she comes back out of the bathroom wearing a flimsy white nightie thing that makes my dick throb uncomfortably. Jesus, if it were up to that part of my anatomy, I'd starve to death. Whoever said the way to a man's heart was through his stomach never had a penis.
She shrugs, causing the thin strap of the nightie to slip off her shoulder. "I grabbed a sandwich from the market on the way back from the track, but I could eat. Not a whole meal, though."
"How do you feel about Thai?"
Her eyes spark with interest. "Love it. I didn't know there was any around here."
"I know a place that's not far. Hole in the wall, no atmosphere, great food."
"Do they deliver?"
"Nah, and they're not on Uber Eats or anything like that. It's dine-in or don't."
Her shoulders slump. "We shouldn't. We might be seen together."
"Not likely. Like I said, it's a small place, and it's not like either of us is famous outside a pretty small circle. I bet I'm the only rider on the circuit who knows the place exists." She opens her mouth, but I barrel on. "And even if someone does recognize us, so what? You're a journalist, and you're covering me. Why wouldn't we be eating out together?"
I can see her trying to come up with a reason that I'm wrong and failing. Finally, she says, "The red curry better be damn good."
We drive her rental car—a blue Honda Civic with Maryland plates—on the grounds that my Ford F250 super cab, which is wrapped in neon orange Mad Maxx NMA team logos, is too conspicuous. I wouldn't drive it anywhere myself if I could avoid it, because the damn thing is hard to park and guzzles gas like a mofo, but apparently the team gets a little money from Ford for using their vehicles, so I'm stuck with it for now.
The Lotus Blossom is located in a run-down strip little mall between a barber shop and an athletic supplements shop that's closed since the last time I was here. I found the restaurant because of the athletic supplements shop, so I'm a little bummed that it's gone.
The last time I was here was almost a year ago, before Paul brought me onto the team. Me and Darnell stopped in after a race and ate pretty much everything on the menu. The restaurant's staff remembered me that time from the last time I'd been in a year before that, and they remember me this time, too.
"Owen!" says the girl—okay, I shouldn't call her a girl, because she's probably like thirty, but she always seems like a sister to me and I'm shit at guessing people's ages anyway—who greets the customers, runs the cash register, and waits tables when she's needed. "We wondered if you would visit us now that you’re famous."
Oops. I glance over at Lucy, w
ondering if she's going to start worrying about the whole "can't be recognized on a date with the guy I'm supposed to be objectively journalisting about" thing, but her expression is relaxed. It probably helps that only two of the eight tables in the place are occupied, one by an Asian family with three little kids and the other by a gray-haired white couple. None of them are paying us any attention.
"I always come if I can. You have the best pad Thai in the state of Pennsylvania."
The girl—and I feel bad that I never learned her name, but I can't think of any non-embarrassing way to ask for it right now—grabs two menus out of the slot on the cash register stand and taps me on the arm with them. "How many places in Pennsylvania have you had pad Thai?" she teases.
"You got me," I admit with a grin. "This is the only one. But why would I mess with perfection?"
"Flatterer." She gives Lucy a sly glance. "Does he say all the right things to you, too?"
The light in here isn't the best, but I can see a dusky red blush spread across Lucy's cheeks. "We're just friends," she says hastily. "He doesn't have to do or say anything to impress me."
Well, she's wrong about that. I definitely need to say and do everything I can to impress her, especially tonight. Maybe this is the only night we'll ever have, but I'm not going to be the hot new rider on the circuit forever, and that means she's not going to be assigned to cover me for MotoRacer magazine forever. There's hope.
The girl nods, although I don't think she's really convinced, and points to a table for two in the back corner. "That one good for you?"
"Yeah, thanks," I say.
We follow her and sit facing each other, me with my back to the rest of the restaurant, even though it gives me an itchy feeling between my shoulder blades. She sets the menus on the table in front of us and asks if we want anything to drink. I ask for ice water and a bottle of Yuengling. Lucy thinks for a few seconds and then requests a Thai tea.
Holeshot: A Motocrossed Romance Page 4