by Dallas Cole
I climb out of the Firebird and flash victory signs all around. This is the moment I live for—the crowd screaming my name, my groupies flocking around me, and the adrenaline still machine-gunning through my veins. Lights, music, action, and the smell of burnt oil hanging in the air. I take in a deep breath. Picture-perfect.
I hope Sophie is here to see it, too.
“Nice racing, J!” Krissy clomps up to me in her towering heels, her bodycon dress squished every which way. “You steer like that between the sheets, chico?”
I glance over Krissy. Usually she’s hanging on one of the Calaveras boys’ arms. Great tits—fake, probably, not that I’d complain—and lips you could use as a flotation device. But I’m not feeling it. This win is too good of a high to toss away on a cheap piece of meat. I want something juicy. Something sexy and smart and—
My stomach twists. I want Sophie.
God dammit, I want Sophie, and now no one else looks half as good as she does. What the fuck is she doing to me? I should say yes. Screw Krissy, and screw Sophie right on out of my head. But if there’s any chance Sophie is here . . .
“Not tonight.” I wave her off. “I’m sure Ricky’s wondering where you went.”
Her face crinkles. “Yeah, fuck you too.”
Thankfully, Lennox and Drazic appear beside me right then. Lennox slings one arm around my shoulder while Drazic crosses his arms, beaming like we’re his two jackass kids who’ve just won the spelling bee. “You boys wrecked it,” Drazic says. “Fucking wrecked. Third place wasn’t even close.”
“Thank me with my cut of the prize money.” I release my one-armed hug on Lennox and slug him in the shoulder. “Hey, man. Awesome work tonight.”
Lennox smiles, self-effacing. He’s always been quiet, but these days, he has a certain stillness to him. Probably too many ass-kickings in the pen. But he’s coming around. “You really think so?”
“I mean, I could have overtaken you, if I really wanted.” I grin back at him. “But I think you’re overdue for some wins.”
Lennox laughs at that, and slugs me right on the shoulder in return. Ouch. Dude’s stronger than I remembered, too.
Elena bounds toward us and leaps into Lennox’s arms with a shriek of glee. “We did it! Oh, my god! Did you see—on the hairpin turn, how I coasted just like you said, let the engine block settle—”
I saunter away from the couple, leaving them to their breathless rehash. I don’t want to review the race. Race is done, and we did what we needed to do. Now I want to find Sophie. God dammit. Surely she showed. I mean, it’s not like there’s anything better to do in Ridgecrest on a Saturday night. I scan the crowd. There’s Sleazy D, the race organizer, and DJ Kwerk, and Marcus and Perdita dropping rhymes, and then the groupies, oh, the groupies, in their halter tops and heels—
But no Sophie. I jam my hands into my pockets. Fuck.
Drazic tags me on the shoulder. “Hey, man. You look pretty put out for second place.”
I force an easy grin to my lips. “Oh, no, it’s nothing. I just thought—”
“No, you did the right thing. Letting Lennox take first.” He tosses back his head, looking past the drones toward the star-smeared night. “And you got more than your fair share of ladies to choose from. Enjoy it. We’ll worry about the tri-state later, yeah?”
“I’ve never known Jagger to ‘choose,’” Cyrus says, approaching us. “He’ll take whatever he can get.”
“Oh, you’re a fucking riot.” I toss my Bluetooth earpiece toward Cyrus. “Nice guidance work, by the way. You made the right call on the straightaway.”
“Thanks, brother.” Cyrus tucks the Bluetooth in his pocket. “Drinks at the Crow?”
“Yeah, maybe in a bit.”
The Crow Club. Sure. A night of sloppy come-ons from groupies and maybe a second-tier piece of ass. I want to find Sophie, god dammit.
Okay. Hold it together, Jags. I make myself a promise—I’ve got five minutes to find Sophie, and then I give it the fuck up. I’ll find a nice pair of tits to motorboat and be on my fucking merry. No more pining for her. I’ll put her out of mind for good.
Five minutes . . .
I push away from the central crowd and start peering down the alleys. Okay, this is getting just stupid. She isn’t here. She’d have made herself known by now if she was. Fine. I’ll go grab a beer with the crew, grab a piece of ass at the Crow, and grab a fucking hold of myself. Hell, I barely know Sophie. She’s a beast in bed, sure, but who the fuck is she, beyond that sarcastic, sexy front? But that’s the trouble, I think She’s a big question mark, and I’ve started pretending she’s more than what she was—just another lay.
Five mnutes—
“Hey, Jagger. Nice work out there.”
It’s Gwen, one of Jin’s girls. Her tight bod is squeezed into some even tighter cutoff shorts, but something about the way she stands is closed off. I have a feeling her tastes lay elsewhere. “Thanks, Gwen. How’d your boys end up doing?”
“Fourth place for Jin. Not bad, but I’m gonna kick his ass for screwing up the hairpin.” She cracks her gum. “I hear you got a secret admirer.”
I arch my eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“Real cute. That kinda golden red thing, with the hair? Long-ass legs.” Gwen grins. “She doesn’t know shit about racing, but I tried to teach her the basics.”
My heart flips over in my chest. Sophie—it has to be. “Where is she?” My mouth feels dry as I scrub a hand through my hair.
Gwen jabs her shoulders in a shrug. “She took off right after the race, man, sorry. You know her?”
“Yeah. I do.” A smile wedges itself on my face and refuses to leave. “And I know where to find her, too.”
I start shoving my way through the crowd. 51 Willow Lane—that’s what her niece had said. If she bothered to show up, then she must be at least a little interested in me. And if she’s interested, then maybe she won’t mind me stopping by. No expectations, no pressure.
“Yo, Jagger.” Francesca grabs my arm as I shove through the crowd. “You gonna let me suck your dick? You lookin’ mighty fine tonight.”
I give her a quick look over. Flawless tan, too-white teeth, giant earrings, and a corset shoving her boobs straight up into her chin. She’d be fun, I’ll give her that. But I’m not just looking for fun.
I’m looking for my fiery Sophie with her razorwire wit. The legs that don’t quit are just bonus.
I roll my eyes at Francesca and rip my arm away. “Yeah, well, you look a mess.”
She reels back, hurt. I mean, I’ve never said no before. But not tonight.
Tonight, I have a far better chance.
51 Willow Lane, near the top of the Ridgecrest mountainside, is not at all what I’d expected. It isn’t an over-the-top McMansion like the ones in Alexander Cartwright’s neighborhood, but it isn’t exactly shabby, either. The main house is two stories of blue clapboard with Victorian detailings, and a carriage house around back holds a garage and what looks like a studio or apartment above it. I park along the street and try to calm my racing heartbeat. Jesus. I never get nervous. But this place intimidates the hell out of me.
I climb out of the Firebird and survey the main house. Dark. Only the faint flicker of nightlights. I recognize the wiring for a high-end security system on the exterior of the main house, too, one of the ones that make me think twice whenever I’m on a job. Paranoid, or just rich? Maybe a little of both. A few scattered playsets dot the side yard, but it’s far from cluttered. If this is Sophie’s sister’s house, the lady definitely likes it neat.
I walk around to the carriage house. It’s the same blue clapboard in two stories, narrow and tall. On the second floor apartment over the garage, golden light dances against the lace curtains, then a dark shadow passes over them. Sophie—I’d bet money on it. Good. I don’t feel like meeting the family just now, anyway.
Hell, I’ll be lucky if Sophie doesn’t slam the door in my face.
I climb the exterior stairs t
oward the apartment over the garage and knock. The faint sounds of movement I heard inside stopped immediately. No footsteps. Like she froze. Weird.
“Hey,” I call out, tentative. “It’s Jagger.”
That seems to break whatever spell she’d fallen under. Footsteps approach the door. “Step back. You’re not in the peephole.”
“Uh, sorry.” Definitely paranoid, then—seems to run in the family. I take a step back, shove my aviators on top of my head, and mug for the peephole.
Chains rustle, deadbolts slide open, and finally, the door cracks. Sophie leans against the door, looking utterly devastating. Her golden hair falls in loose waves around those luscious breasts of hers, and all I want to do is fondle them and suck them and tease them till she begs me for more. She’s wearing another tight sweater, ultra-soft, over a cotton miniskirt. And those legs, oh, lord, those legs—soft and creamy and slim and so long, perfect for wrapping around my face—
Oh, and she’s clutching a chef’s knife.
“Whoa. Okay, I’m not gonna hurt you.” I hold up my hands. “Heard you were at the race. Just wanted to . . . stop by.”
Her eyebrows draw down; she raised the knife. “How do you know I was at the race?”
“Gwen, one of Jin’s groupies. You met her tonight? She told me I had a smoking hot secret admirer. She wasn’t wrong.” I wink. “She didn’t say anything about the cutlery, though. Probably should’ve warned me about that.”
Sophie glances at the knife, like she’s forgotten it’s there. “Huh.” She sets it aside behind the door. “Should’ve known she would rat me out.”
I glance Sophie over again. She looks so fucking amazing, I want nothing more than to back her up against a wall right now and hear those sweet moans of hers again. Had she dressed up for the race? For me? Once again, I can’t help but smile. Maybe my luck is starting to turn. “I’m glad you showed up. You should’ve let me know you were there, though. I could’ve given you a ride.”
“You looked like you had more than enough girls lining up to ride you.” Sophie leans against the door with a sigh.
I grin wider. “Jealous?”
“Envious. People are always misusing that word, jealous.” She shook her head. “You envy things that don’t belong to you, and are jealous of things you already have. But you can’t be jealous of something that isn’t yours.”
“I could be yours.”
The words are out of my mouth before I know it, hanging between us. Shit. No use playing it off, though. I’ve tossed all my chips in the pot, and all I can do now is play the hand I’ve got. I bare my teeth in my best rock-star grin.
Sophie arches one eyebrow at me, and looks me over again, but something in her expression is like she was seeing me for the first time. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders fades and she swings the door wider. “You want a drink?” she asks.
Point: Jagger. I followed her inside.
The carriage studio is cramped, but cute. A kitchenette takes up one corner of the room, then she’s wedged a sofa and bookshelf into another, while a bed and walled-off bathroom took up the other half. “Nice place,” I say. I live in the apartments above Drazic Muscleworks, so I’m no stranger to cramped spaces. I walked over to the couch and settle down just to one side of the middle. Let’s see how close she feels like getting.
Apparently, not very. Sophie perches on the arm of the couch farthest from me and extends a beer toward me. Something obscure, crafty—I’ve never had it before. I take a swig, though, and it’s delicious.
“You can sit with me, you know.” I pat the cushion next to me. “What’re you scared of?”
Sophie chews on one fingernail, her creamy cheeks going red. “Well . . . you, for starters.”
“Me?” I gesture to the length of my body. Drink it in, girls. “I know I’m something of a Greek god, but I’m harmless.”
She starts to ease toward me, but then she tenses again. “I hardly know you.” She shakes her head. “And that’s dangerous.”
I take another drink of beer, then set it down on the coffee table and lean toward her. Her dark blue eyes locked onto mine, pupils dilating. “You like danger. You’re plenty of trouble yourself.”
“I like it better when I’m the one causing it.”
She smirks, and I saw a flash of that confident goddess I’d met in the bar a few weeks back. How did she change so quickly from that girl into the timid bunny she is the rest of the time? I don’t understand it at all. “Tell you what. Maybe you’d feel better if you knew a little more about me. Would that help?” I ask. Talking is the last thing I want to do—I can’t keep my eyes off those legs, those lips, that sinister glint in her gaze—but I want her to feel comfortable around me. Whatever it takes for her to relax.
“What’s there to know? You come in second place in big races. Congratulations.”
My grin widens. “I made a conscious decision—”
“Of course you did.” She slides down the arm of the couch and faces me now. Progress. “Delusions of grandeur, narcissistic behavior . . . You’re quite the head case, Jagger.” She darts one finger out, tentatively, and pushes it against the neck of my beer bottle. I raise an eyebrow at her and offer her the bottle. She nods and takes a swig, her legs sliding over mine.
Now that’s much better. I cup a hand on her knee and stroke the soft, creamy skin of her thigh. “I’ve been racing since I was fourteen. Before I even had a license.”
“Needed an escape that badly, huh?” she asks.
I shrug. “It was a good excuse to get out of the house. And I was good at it.”
Sophie hands the beer back to me. “Why? Was home somewhere you needed to escape from?”
God damn. This girl doesn’t miss a thing. I’ll have to be extra careful around her. But then again, I think, my hand slipping between her knees, I don't want to be too careful. “You could say that. But it’s not important. Drazic found me, cleaned me up, made me into the finely-tuned machine I am today.” I flex, and she grins again. “All right. Your turn.”
Her smile slips and she glances away. For a second, I think she’s going to dart, but then she leans in. “Nah. I’m pretty boring. No underground racing clubs.” She looks back at me. “I’m finishing up my master’s in psychology and thought I’d take some time away from campus to work on my thesis here. Spend some time with my sister.”
She’s still so tense. I ease my hand up her thigh, eyebrow raised, waiting for her to tell me to stop. But she sighs, soft, and relaxes into my touch, welcoming it. “So you’re psychoanalyzing me right now, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
She props her head on my shoulder, and her legs part. I let my fingers brush up her thigh. God, she feels so velvety and warm.
Sophie drums one finger against her lips. “I can sense that you are sexually frustrated—”
I groan and adjusted my legs to keep from poking her with my rapidly-tenting jeans.
“If I were Freud,” Sophie says, “I would say that all your frustration derives from unresolved feelings for your mother.”
I laugh, straight from my gut. “Not even close.”
Sophie smiles like a cat and I let my fingers work their magic for a minute longer. Teasing up toward her panties. Then she slides around me, right into my lap, her thighs bracing mine, her face before me. I groan again, hard as granite. My hand is still trapped between us, so I slide it under the hem of her shirt and up her soft abdomen, then cup one breast. My thumb traces a slow circle around her nipples. God, I just want to bite it, so ripe like an apple, begging for my teeth . . .
“Then what do you fantasize about?” Sophie’s breath washes over me, warm and intoxicating. “I thought I was just a quick lay to you. And I was fine with that. But you . . . you’re persistent.”
“There’s something different about you,” I say. And I realize it’s the fucking truth. “You got under my skin, in my head . . .” I tugs her sweater over her head, and she lifted her arms up to help me. “
It’s like I’m drunk off of you. How clever you are, smart as a whip.”
Sophie’s fingers slide between us and she eases open the fly of my jeans. I can’t take it any longer. I press my mouth to her breast and suck at her soft flesh. Heaven. And the soft, dainty moan she makes only drives me on. She eases my cock out from my jeans and holds it in her iron grip. She’s fished a condom out from somewhere and slowly rolls it onto my shaft.
“I like that,” Sophie murmurs. “I like seeing you desperate.”
I shudder as she strokes me. What is it about this girl that drives me so wild? Everything I told her, and yet so much more. I can’t put a name to it. And it’s becoming a real problem.
I mean, if I, Jagger Richards, can’t keep up my reputation as the sleaziest racer on the planet, then who am I?
Sophie shoves her skirt up over her hips and pressed her lips to mine. She tastes like cherries, juicy and sharp. I suck her lower lip between my teeth and nibbled, and she squeezes my shaft harder in return.
Oh. I’m the guy who gets to fuck this wild woman. Well, I guess I can live with that for now.
“Is this okay?” she asks, angling her hips above me.
I groan. Like there’s any other response. I lean forward, dying to feel her fucking squeezing me once more.
She sinks her hips onto mine. I groan as I slide into her, every inch of her tight pussy like a fist around me. Oh, fuck.
“You feel so fucking good,” I growl, low in her ear. I grab her by the hips and help her as she bounces up and down, those gorgeous tits jiggling, my cock ramming inside of her.
Sophie laughs. “I’m just getting started. Hope you can keep up.”
I shudder. What the fuck is this girl doing to me? She arches her back and tosses her hair over her shoulder as a look of sheer bliss washes over her.