I run my hand down her hair and press a kiss to her temple, and I let her cry on my shoulder for as long as she needs. Nothing else is working, and I’m still not giving up. But I don’t how much longer I can keep her from giving up on herself.
Chapter 14
Lorelai Hargrove—July; Memphis, United States
Moonlight trickles through the grove lining the driveway, Massimo slowing so the engine quiets the closer we get to the house. Riding with him…it’s become almost routine over the last week.
Work out in the morning, and once the afternoon rain stops, we head to the garage and my Dabria. We cruise on the back roads for about an hour until we head into the city, exploring museums, art galleries, the Memphis Walk of Fame, and sampling the blues bars on Beale Street.
It’s been fun: visiting all the places I never bothered to see before, too wrapped up in my career to enjoy my hometown. When he first got here, it didn’t even cross my mind that he’d be interested in any of the touristy stuff. I’m glad he makes us go, though, and I’ve spent more than one afternoon laughing as he dances with street performers, gazes wide-eyed at paintings, or makes me take pictures with him in front of landmarks. He’s always taking pictures of us.
But still, despite knowing what will happen when we get to our destination each day—how the pressures of sponsors will disappear under his relaxed “We’ll figure it out when we get there and everything will be fine” attitude—I still have a panic attack half the time he starts the engine in the garage. And sometimes when he takes a turn a little too fast.
Somewhere in the middle of our journey, though, I always realize I’m okay.
I’m not thinking about the plates I’m not wearing, the pads missing from my knees and elbows. I’m not trying to remember the specifications of my helmet and exactly how thick it is.
All I think about is him, and wondering why I haven’t stopped him yet.
From tempting me with nothing more than a knock on my bedroom door, my helmet in his hands. From reaching back when we’re at a stoplight and very gently cupping the back of my thigh. Like he wants me to know it’s okay to be afraid, but he won’t let anything hurt me.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t stopped myself.
Since the first time he took my hands away from the passenger seat, I’ve wrapped my arms around his waist. I lean into the hard muscles of his back, closing my eyes and simply trusting him to get us there and home safely.
I’ve spent hours with my body tucked into his—my thighs around his hips, my legs bent into a shadow of his own—and throughout it all, I smile. The world is easier, simpler, a little quieter with the engine roaring beneath us.
The world is quiet now, my parents’ house dark as we pull past it into the garage and stop in the designated space for my Dabria. I swing my leg over the bike, pulling off my helmet and setting it on the table. When I glance over my shoulder, Massimo is off the bike and taking off his own helmet, hooking it onto the handlebar.
He runs a hand through his hair, his dark eyes licking the curve of my lips. My nipples peak under my leather jacket at the memory of only minutes ago, his fingers feasting on my jeans and squeezing me to the rhythm of the motor vibrating between my legs. Tonight, he held me more than on any of our other rides, and we rode forever. I didn’t even want to come home, but it’s nearly midnight, and we had to come back eventually.
I’m still reduced to just staring at him, enraptured, when his fingers curl around the snap-buttoned flap of his jacket, pulling it open with one swift twitch of his wrist and revealing the black T-shirt molded to his body underneath. “Continua a guardarmi così, sarò costretto a fare qualcosa al riguardo.”
Heat pools in my belly at the slick words, the speed at which he spoons them out and how everything in Italian sounds unmistakably dirty. Especially when wrapped in his voice: deep and thick in the summer heat and the dim light of the garage.
My secret Rosetta Stone lessons are coming along, but I’m nowhere near far enough in my understanding of his language that I caught what he said. So I tick my chin up, drawling with a smile, “And that’s supposed to mean?”
He shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it onto the table behind me. When he steps forward until I’m a single sucked-in breath from my chest grazing his, I’m lost, completely drowning in the smell of clean sweat and the product he puts in his hair. There’s also something that’s just him. Spicy and a little bit dangerous, but also warm and unmistakably familiar.
His hips nudge mine as he dips his head another inch like he’s going to kiss me, and everything in me is screaming for it. For the richness of his lips, but mostly for the strike of his tongue. More than anything, I want him to bite me. I want to bite him. I want to scratch my nails up the Madonna on his back and claim the holy hell out of his cock, and he knows it. Because instead of brushing his mouth against mine, he smiles.
My pulse screams, heart thundering as he shifts so the space between his lips flirts with the edge of my ear. My eyes roll back at the quick flick of his tongue over my hooped earring, the lock bowing to his tongue and my earring slipping right out. Massimo chuckles darkly as his fingers retrieve it from his lips, then he tucks it deeply into the back pocket of my jeans, and I am so screwed.
It’s taking all my willpower not to sneak into his room every single night. To do nothing more than kiss him and watch his bedroom door close, leaving us on opposite sides of it.
I’m trying to stay focused. Focused on what, I can’t even remember when he pushes a little closer toward me, his erection testing the hollow space between my thighs.
A raw moan slips out of my throat, soft black cotton on his shoulder kissing my lips. My teeth scrape the seam of his shirt before I can help it, and his hand snatches my hip, holding me commandingly tight.
“What are you waiting for, Tigrotta?”
Somewhere deep inside me, something roars.
I don’t know if it’s more animalistic or machine. Just like I don’t have an answer to his question—why I can’t let go and just take him when I want him this much. My eyes travel over his skin, the tight tendons of his neck and the brutal shortness of the sides of his hair, his chest solid against my own. My knee hitches, and the roar grows louder.
I know what it is now.
It’s 1000 ccs. It’s 211 miles an hour. Pure speed and pure sex, and my eyes close as I bask in it, the noise and the adrenaline and the heat. The vibration. The need to win. For the first time in a long time, it feels like it’s supposed to.
I feel like I’m supposed to.
But at the same time, the fear is crawling closer, the same one that’s been choking me on the track. It’s the taunting whisper that my tires are cold. That the setup is wrong. That when I least expect it, it’s all going to crumble beneath me, sending me tumbling through biting gravel and toward the fatal stop of a wall that chomps bones.
“Tsk-tsk.” Massimo clicks his tongue, and my eyes fly open when he leans back, his eyes garter-belt black. “So much fear.”
Shame sinks in my stomach as he turns away, walking toward the exit of the garage. My left foot props itself on the table leg behind me. I know what I have to do. I know what I want to do. I just…
It’s Massimo, I tell myself. His gears shift cleanly, his form nearly perfect. He leans into turns with confidence, and he never wobbles. He knows how to ride, to control being out of control.
Screw it. I want what I want, and I’m tired of being afraid.
My left foot taps the table leg like it’s the shifter on my bike, and I push off.
Fourth gear.
I stride forward and grab Massimo by the arm, whipping him around with the confidence that carried me from the Rookie Cups to MotoB, then MotoA, and all the way to MotoPro.
“I am not afraid of anything.” Then I push him.
He stumbles back, dropping with surprise into a c
hair behind him. The weight of his muscle-cut body scrapes the chair legs over concrete, the seat tilting back in a freefall. I stomp down on the bar between the legs, and all four feet slam to the floor.
Thick black eyelashes blink once, then twice as I flip off every promise I ever made that I wouldn’t do this, and I straddle his lap. He’s breathing hard, growing thick in his jeans when I grab the hem of his shirt and tug it up and off, allowing myself just one second to drink in the decorated ink on his body. The mask and threat he wears every day of his life to intimidate those who see him.
But then his hands settle on my jaw, his thumbs gently sweeping over my cheeks and urging my mouth down to his, breathing, “Lorina…”
And he’s right: I am afraid.
But I won’t let the fear take me like it has at the circuit. So I drop my heel on the leg of the chair and shift to fifth, pushing his arms away.
I quickly unbuckle his belt, then rip the leather free from denim loops. It comes out in a blur and snaps the air like a crack of thunder, his cock swelling beneath me. The predator in him bows to mine when I grab his hands, pinning them low behind his back. He hisses and hardens, nipping brutally at my jaw. It nearly ruins me, the grace of his lips and the knowledge that he’d probably do this sweetly if I let him. But I can’t let him have this win.
I pull the belt tight around his wrists and hook through the metal clasp. “The word is ‘gearshift’ if you want me to stop.” He nods in acknowledgment, but the truth is, neither he nor I care about being safe. We get off on danger, and Massimo keeps his mouth shut.
As soon as he’s secure, I stand, ditching my boots and my jeans. I leave my shirt and jacket on, a last defense against him. Massimo’s eyes are fully black as they devour the lower half of my body, his breathing picking up even further when my fingers undo the button and zipper on his jeans—tugging them down over his hips and leaving them at his knees.
Damn it, he’s so beautiful: cut muscle stained with ink, a hard cock punching up into the night air. I tremble as I look him over, hesitating at the rich color and silkiness of his skin, the mouth-watering size of him.
The corner of his mouth turns up. “Afraid, Tigrotta?”
Afraid? No. I’m terrified this is going to change everything, and not for the better. It won’t fix what’s wrong inside me, won’t promise me that I’ll start winning and somehow keep my contract, and it can’t be undone.
If I do this…at best, I’ll never be able to stop. At worst, after tonight, he’ll walk away, because pretending to care about me was the key to reaching his true finish line. But as dangerous as I know this is and despite the fact that there’s nothing to save me when this all comes crashing down, I can’t deny that he’s what I want. He’s the win, his body the trophy, so I lift my chin, and I answer, “No.”
My knee bends and straightens, my heel tapping the floor.
Sixth gear.
I straddle his lap again, his eyes locked on mine as I pull my panties to the side. I should tell him I’m on birth control. I should ask when he was last tested. He doesn’t ask me either of those questions.
In one smooth motion that scares the holy shit out of me, I sink down on him. My breath squeezes in my throat at the first thick stretch of him filling me, my body warm and soft enough that it gives way to how punishingly hard he is. Massimo’s head falls back, a moan ripping out of his throat, and I rise, drinking in his heavy gulps for air. I lower all the way down once more, slipping around him more easily as he grows impossibly thicker inside me.
“Porca vacca…” he groans.
I cover his mouth with my palm. I don’t want to hear his voice when I can’t risk kissing him right now. Not like this. He was never supposed to be mine, even though it feels like he always has been, and if it hurts this much to lose racing…
I leave room for him to breathe under my palm but not much more, draping my other arm around the back of his neck so it won’t hurt on the edge of the chair. Then with one swivel of my hips, I start to ride.
I fuck him with no fear, because according to the ink on his chest, fear is death.
And I don’t move slowly, because according to his back, speed is savior.
Hard and fast, I take every ounce of pleasure from every inch of his cock, losing myself in the fact that his eyes are sharp but his lips are soft, teasing my palm with strokes of his tongue and scrapes of his teeth. All it does is spur me on more.
The fantasy of kissing him as I recall the taste of his tongue in scorching detail but won’t let myself submit to focuses every nerve of my existence on one thing and one thing only. It’s not the burning in my thighs or even the strength of his beneath me. It’s the fire in my heart and stomach, stoked from the moaned growls rumbling from his chest and up into my hand.
I arch back and rock harder at a different angle, searching for that spot as my legs lock around the chair. My thighs hug his hips, and I love that the monsters on his arms are cradling my calves, my crossed ankles resting above his bound hands. The leather of his belt flirts with my skin, the buckle a sharp bite of pleasure, and when he curls his hips up into me, he finds what I’ve been searching for before I can get there myself.
Fire licks up my spine, my stomach tight with white light bursting from my breasts to my toes at every swollen flex of his head. I hold onto it for as long as I can, but as soon as it starts to back off, my body cries for more.
I lean forward, and Massimo’s eyes are midnight fire and somehow still soft. I can’t resist uncovering his mouth so my thumb can sweep over his bottom lip, tasting it for me. He kisses it, and my eyes squeeze shut.
I’m not supposed to love riding him more than my motorcycle. Racing was always supposed to come first.
“Lorina?”
My eyes fly open, and I cover his mouth with my palm once more. Before he can call me another one of his pet names. Before he tells me he loves me again. Before he can say anything that’ll make me forget that for the last ten years, all I’ve cared about was beating him.
His words are poison. They sink too deep, and there’s no way to get them back out. Just like the regret, because his brow furrows at me silencing him once again. So I rest my forehead to his temple where I can’t see. I can only feel.
My body starts to roll and ride him again, but something feels different. The kisses he presses to my palm. The way his head leans into mine. How it feels like every measured thrust of his hips is a promise he’s somehow capable of making, even when I have him bound and captured beneath me.
The rhythm between us slows, but it only intensifies what’s really happening. It’s not just the culmination of ten years of sexual tension that, once satisfied, will fade into nothing. If this were nothing, the aroma of his skin wouldn’t be seeping deep into me. Calling to me. Commanding me to tilt his chin up, my mouth touching his jaw. He trembles, the muscles popping and flexing beneath my kiss. It beckons my hands to move, fisting in his hair and bending his neck back so he’s trapped and I’m safe.
His eyelashes flutter with each swivel of my hips, and I dip my head. Just close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath. My tongue tests the air between us, tasting his bottom lip. Massimo jolts, his own body locking taut beneath me.
A sound crawls from his throat I’ve never heard another man make, blistering heat pumping into me, and I crave all of it I can get—riding him harder until his eyes squeeze shut, making sure Massimo’s well past his breaking point. Only then, after one final thrust of my power, do I downshift all the way to first gear and release him.
My body unfurls, my forehead finding his shoulder where I’m sure my eyes are hidden from seeing the truth in his, and I wait for it. The high from being first. The peace from knowing it was me. Just me. At least Massimo doesn’t say anything as I catch my breath and he searches for his own, our bodies still locked together and his hands bound behind his back. But then he dips hi
s head so his cheek smooths against mine, and the feeling of pride, of power…it never, ever comes.
My chest starts shaking, and I bite my lip, blinking rapidly. It didn’t work. Massimo still hasn’t moved or even uttered a single complaint, and I don’t get why he’s so patient with me when I’m always such a bitch to him, tonight more than any other time in our history.
He was so sweet to me all day, working out and talking, and then going for our customary sunset ride on my Dabria. Then we came back here, I tied him up, fucked him in the garage, and I wouldn’t even kiss him. And I accuse him of hurting me when I least expect it?
Massimo exhales, and his voice is so soft, I barely hear him when he breathes, “Let me be free, cara.”
I shake my head, still refusing to look at him. “No.” He sighs, frustrated, and my mouth moves over the words, “You’ll touch me or kiss me, and then I’ll cry because I screwed this up. You deserved better than this, and I…”
I never care about the consequences until it’s too late.
Because I only ever think about winning, about myself.
I take a deep breath, telling myself to let him go so he can run. Back to the other woman who lets him kiss her when they’re together, who doesn’t tell him she hates him when it’s the last thing she feels. Who appreciates the way he tries to help and doesn’t yell at him.
I raise my head, trying to find the words to apologize for all the ways I’ve failed him, but I never find a single syllable. He’s still him, the same man I’ve always known. Dangerously sexy jawline, a mouth that melts panties as easily as it spurs off insults that strike me straight in my soul. And even though I deserve those right now, his eyes are…different. Fully delved into that rare gentleness that’s been sneaking out of his voice the last couple of months and only when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
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