There’s no stopping my smile after I mentally translate all that. And because I can’t help but live my life on the edge, very tentatively, I reach out and sweep her hair over her shoulder, the very tip of my finger grazing her neck. Lorina shivers at my touch but doesn’t seem alarmed at me touching her or even opposed to it, and I may come out of this alive just yet.
“I am happy, cara. I am here, with you, and we are finally talking about the truth. I have what I want. Maybe not everything, but enough.” I duck my head, catching her eyes. “And what do you have?”
“A headache,” she says flatly.
I chuckle, but it’s not really funny. “You need to take something? I have, um…” I look toward my toiletry bag, but she waves me off, sounding wholly defeated.
“No, it’s fine, really. I just… I wish I knew what I needed.”
I lock my jaw before I serve up a couple of options that could get her feeling a whole lot better, multiple times. But I can’t be the solution to her problems on the track, and I won’t try to be. She’d probably kick my ass for even thinking I could. But it doesn’t mean it’s not impossible for me to watch her struggle like this. She’s always the first to punch off the grid, no matter what pole she’s starting in.
Lorina tosses her hair, but she stops halfway, her eyes deadlocked with the clippers on the counter. Her gaze flicks in my direction, the start of a wicked smile curling her lips. My pulse ticks up as my dick hardens and my hands start itching for a throttle because I know this look. But I haven’t seen it since before Jerez, and I’ve missed it.
She picks up the clippers, toying with them in her hand. Everything in me is cheering her on when she drawls, “Massimo, how good are you with these?”
Somehow, I get myself to keep a straight face as I swipe them back from her. “I am good at everything, Tigrotta.”
***
I can’t believe she talked me into this. Actually, yes, I can.
Lorina never trembles as she leans her cheek deeper into my palm, my eyes following the flat-edged thread of the clippers moving up toward one of the deep side parts I lined. I don’t know what the hell the press is going to think when they discover Princess Moto with an undercut, and I am definitely not looking forward to a run-in with her manager. But this was her brilliant idea, and it’s not like I was about to turn down having a little extra time with her, especially when she’s still wearing those sexy-as-sin shorts. So I said okay.
I glance at her, almost unable to believe how completely calm she looks in my hands. “Afraid, Tigrotta?”
She smiles, her eyes still closed and long eyelashes resting on her cheeks. “Nope.”
I chuckle, then slower instead of faster—because I am an evil, selfish, bad, bad man—I go over everything one more time. Debate whether to take off the guard and carve 77 into one side. Decide against it—baby steps.
Once I’m finished, my hand moves to just a single fingertip under her chin, tilting her face up to let the light reveal any imperfections. The only one I see is that her lips are dangerously close to mine, and I’m not kissing her. I set down the clippers, Lorina giggling and squirming when I rub my palms over the shaved sides of her hair until she’s full out laughing. “Can I see yet?”
I shut down my grin, pretending to be outraged. “No.”
She laughs harder as I grab my bottle of hair product, then start working it into what’s left of her long curly hair, both of us chuckling while I’m ruffling and tossing it. I’m probably grinning like a complete dork, but I don’t care. Because more than just getting to be alone with her, she seems completely cool with my arms on either side of her—comfortable enough that she picks up the cross on my necklace, inspecting it. “This is beautiful,” she says, her voice soft with the same reverence I feel about it.
I clear my throat, nodding. “My mamma, she gave it to my papà on the day they were married.” I smile at Lorina, then return my focus to her hair, twisting some strands and smoothing others. “Before he died, he gave it to me. Maybe one day, I will do the same.”
“Really?” Her voice is strained like she’s seconds away from laughing. “Would’ve taken your club-hopping ass for more of the terminal bachelor type.”
I tug on her hair a bit, just hard enough to make her barely wince. Try not to notice that based on the flare of fire in her eyes, she also seems to like it. “You forget, I am Italian. We are very romantic men, Lorina. We love our women, and we like to practice to make babies. That way, we are very good at this when it is time to do seriamente.”
She gapes at me, then cracks up laughing. I have to pull my hands from her hair from the force of it. “Oh my God, I am never gonna get you saying that out of my head.”
“Why is this so funny?” I tease her. But I’m not exactly joking. “You do not think about these things? You do not want a family one day?”
“I…” She shakes her head once she collects herself, looking everywhere but at me.
“You only think about moto.”
“Yeah,” she mutters, looking down.
I nod, going back to her hair, because I knew that already.
It takes her a minute before she finds the guts to peek up at me, her eyes calculating where I’m at while she worries her bottom lip. I wink. I really did suspect that. It may not be what I want, but it’s fine. My mother will never understand, but there are a lot of fights that have to happen before that one, and I’m not stressing about it now. “Pronta?”
Lorina lets out a relieved breath. “Whatever you said. Yep.”
Stepping back, I turn her around to face the mirror, and everything about her lights up.
“Oh hell yeah.” She leans forward to toss and play with it.
I chuckle as I wipe my hands off on a towel. I have to admit, I’m kind of impressed at what I just pulled off—her long curls are deliciously feminine against the shaved undercut, and the whole look is unjustly sexy.
“That’s gorgeous,” she tells me, turning to check out the full view. I nod to myself—like that’s something I haven’t known for years. Lorina turns to face me, an enigmatic twist to her lips. “You gonna do this for me every day?”
“No. And you buy your own.” I pick up the bottle of hair product, flip it in the air, then tuck it into my back pocket.
She bites her lip against a smile, only growing more dangerous as her mood climbs. But waiting for her claws to come out has always been the best kind of terrifying. “You know, you don’t have to cover up your tattoos all the time. With the hoodies and sweaters and the endless string of dress shirts.”
I instinctively cross my arms, rolling my eyes like I haven’t systematically kept this from her over the years. I even had a clause put in my contract that forbids my sponsors from photographing me shirtless—Vinicio told them it was against my religion. No one realizes I say my rosary to Lorina alone. “I get cold.”
She levels a look at me, her voice a soft reproach. “Massimo…”
Fuck. There is no resisting that. “I, um…” I shrug, long resigned to the truth. “I thought maybe you would not like to see them. You like sweet, soft. Owls and horses, and furry tigrottas.”
Her shoulders fall, a disappointed sigh right behind it. I’m always disappointing her.
“It is not a bad thing, Lorina,” I say quickly. “I know you are invincible on moto, but I like that you are also…”
Delicate. And beautiful. And everything that is good in this messed-up world, but I can’t say that to her. Not yet. Even though with the way I can feel myself looking at her, it should be entirely obvious.
“Massimo?” She shifts her weight, biting her lip again, and I wish I could tell her that she doesn’t have to be nervous. Not with me. Not like this. Whatever she wants to know, I’ll tell her. “What does cara mean?”
My grin widens, even though I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I’m
not wearing a shirt and she can probably see my heart beating straight out of my chest. But my Tigrotta doesn’t back down from anyone or anything, and she never looks away as she waits for the answer I’m happy to give.
“‘Darling,’” I confess. “It means ‘darling.’”
All the air in her lungs rushes out, her hands falling to her sides, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s going down a mental checklist of all the times I’ve called her that. Times when I knew what I was saying and she didn’t, but now she does, and she looks pissed.
“Goddamn it, Massimo,” she says, and I’m the asshole who smiles. Because she’s not mad. Not really. She just loves the way she hates me and hates that she might love me. But she might.
I jerk my chin at her, waving toward myself. “Let’s go, Tigrotta.”
She bites out a curse I don’t catch, then storms forward and shoves at my chest. She’s an explosion of strength that knocks me back into the counter, but her palms catch my jaw on the rebound, Lorina crashing her mouth to mine. I scramble to lock her against me before she vanishes like she does in my dreams. But she’s real, and it’s happening: her nails scraping down my jaw as her tongue sweeps hungrily into my mouth, a moan crawling from my stomach and vibrating raw through my throat. I have no idea how she manages to kiss like she races, like it’s win or death, but it’s fucking fantastic, and I’d be happy to die right here and let her win, always.
I have her hips before I can think I should’ve gone for something higher. My palms flatten on the small of her back, sneaking under her shirt, and God, she’s so soft. She pushes herself closer against me, kissing me harder, deeper, and my hands obey, plunging down over the back of those shorts until I know every curve my eyes have spent years worshipping. A moan rips through her that I want burned in my memory, so I squeeze her ass again and score another.
“Massimo,” she whispers, her knee hitching on the outside of my jeans. There’s nowhere for her to go with the counter behind me, and time to move.
I shove us off the counter but keep her body pulled against me, her teeth scraping my lip, and I nearly buckle. She undoes mine, on my belt. That’s it—gotta get her up. Gotta get her naked. I can do the love stuff with her later.
Downshift into carnal instinct—hitch thigh around waist. Bend and lock arm under ass. Lift, turn, set down on counter. Check for braking markers.
Lorina shakes back her hair as her legs tighten around me, her hands on my belt tugging me closer. Kiss her. Deep. Keep hands on her waist. Wait for opening. Fuck, she tastes good. She squirms, her leg drawing higher up my side because she wants it, and the red lights are out. Go.
I thrust against her so hard, her head throws back in a gasp, covering my hiss because zippers freaking hurt. Take her neck with my tongue, her hands scraping up the back of my head to hold me to her, and hard left of my hand to her soft inner thigh.
She moans. I crave. Don’t back off the throttle.
My fingertips dare farther up toward the hem of her shorts, my name a moan and a prayer on her lips, and I am never letting us out of this bath—
Her ass vibrates against the counter, a harsh grating noise that reminds me of grinding gears on a transmission. It’s the worst sound I have ever heard. Even crueler, Lorina slams the brakes: a frustrated curse taking the place where my name was only a breath ago, her hands already loosening and letting me go, and that’s it. Race called on account of thunder and lightning.
I drop my forehead to her shoulder, breathing heavily and desperate for another taste of southern lemons. But her fingertips are sweet on my neck like she’s not ready to let go either. It should make me feel better. Except there’s no explaining that to my dick. Fucking mobile phones.
Jesus, my hand is under the hem of her shorts. I force myself to move it so it’s flat on the counter beside her. Her leg drops from where it was hugged around my side, and I hate the English language when she says, “That’s probably Frank. I’m supposed to be going home to Memphis this morning. For the break.”
I nod. “Me too. To Ravenna.”
With the last bit of my willpower, I straighten, nearly having to push myself away from her. Lorina blows out a breath, then slides off the counter. But she blushes fantastically when I have to tug at my jeans or risk passing out from the pressure against my swollen cock. She’s a whole other shade of red when I rehook the buckle on my belt. That she…broke. Cool.
“I, uh,” she starts, grinning as her eyes close, then shaking her head. Her eyelashes finally flutter open, and she giggles. “I totally have no idea what to say to you right now.”
I rack my brain for something cool. Smooth. Debonair. “Um…”
I bet her panties are crystal white. Cotton. And a thong.
Fuck my life.
Lorina’s hands fly to her mouth to cover another giggle at my apparent inability to even freaking speak, and any other day, I’d be pissed that she straight up just laughed at me. Especially when I’m so hard, my dick could probably cut a diamond. But her giggle is possibly my new favorite sound in the universe, so I don’t really care.
She pulls her hands away, doing her best to sound serious. “Sorry.”
I shrug it off, and it helps a little—a lot actually—that she doesn’t back away, doesn’t glare, doesn’t hit me or tell me she hates me as I get my shit together and take a step closer to her to close the deal. She only smiles and looks up at me, patiently waiting to hear whatever I wanted to say and couldn’t get out the first time.
I wish I had the guts to tell her how serious this is to me. That I’m ready to commit to her, only to her, even though she’s still struggling with it: how to be my biggest rival on the track and the most important thing in my life away from it. But I don’t know how to say those things to her, no matter what language we’re fumbling to communicate in.
I do the only thing I can think of: I slip my bottle of hair product from my back pocket, holding it up between my fingers. Lorina’s eyes search mine, her smile sweet but her voice still a little nervous when she whispers, “Yeah?”
I nod. “Done.”
Lorina beams and snatches the bottle from me, and I can’t resist my own smile at the words she doesn’t know how to say either.
She’s ready to try to trust me.
I just can’t screw it up.
Chapter 12
Lorelai Hargrove—July; Memphis, United States
With the sunny heat of Memphis filling me up, I ride my mare like I stole her as she bounds past the training pen and leaps over a stick like it’s a fence.
“Damn it, Lori! Slow down!” a cowboy yells, but the colt he’s training in the pen is fine, and he can take it up with my mom. He probably will, but she can deal with it too.
She’s been constantly on my ass since I got home three days ago—asking me a thousand times what happened to my hair and if there’s anything she can do to help me deal with my “problems.” I don’t need her help, just some freaking space. Because I’m definitely not thinking about the fact that I haven’t heard from Massimo since leaving Germany. But it’s fine.
This time is different, and he’s not going to screw me over. Not like in the past. I have nothing to worry about. Yep. Gonna be fiiiine.
“Ya!” Betty hits her next gear, churning dirt under her hooves as she breaks away from the massive barn and heads straight past the barracks for the farmhands, barreling right into the grazing fields. The fierce drug of freedom fills my veins as we fly past foraging horses, even though a nudge from my conscience says I should probably be riding my bike—the Dabria I keep in my dad’s gearhead garage. But I haven’t gone near it since I’ve been back.
I’d hoped Mason was right and coming home would make me feel better. That I would feel like myself again. But it didn’t, and I don’t. My bedroom is a montage to the ranch life I was supposed to embrace, but barrel racing never did it for me like
moto did. Worse, I don’t know what’s left of me without a contract; who I am once you take away the sponsorships and the leaderboards, the single focus to win. I thought I knew, but maybe I was wrong.
Maybe that was never me to begin with.
At least I know who I am out here, where the sun is threatening either a righteous burn or a glorious tan as the rays sink deep into my arms. Where I can let go of everything that comes with battling on the track and not even care about tight right turns or sharp left corners. Until Betty White starts taking us toward the creek and not turning for the bridge.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn with a laugh. But she crashes through the bank with abandon anyway, a delighted squeal bursting out of my lungs from the splash of water licking up my legs and hers.
It’s cool and refreshing, adrenaline pumping through me as she barrels up the other side of the bank. She lunges forward to the crest, my body catching the ripple of momentum. When her hooves find flat ground, she doesn’t hesitate to launch into a full-out run as I duck a little lower over the saddle.
“Go, girl, go…” I urge her on, a smile breaking across my face from the wind in her white mane and the loose strands of my ponytail slinging onto my back.
Trees blur past us, fluffy clouds streaking by in the clear blue sky as Betty cuts across the field like she’s never tasted freedom. When we enter the grove, she slows to dart around trees, dancing over roots and ducking under branches. It’s a pure rush, giving her room to decide our course based on her instincts. Just to ride, without questioning brake times and gearshifts. But not being in control is fantastic until she comes to a harsh halt when the grove stops at the line of my driveway.
She plants her front hooves, my body lurching forward.
“What the hell?” I sit back, unsure why she didn’t just cross the driveway or turn toward the house. Leaning down, I pet her neck soothingly. “What’s wrong?”
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