Burning Rubber: Extreme Racing, Book 2

by Pamela Britton

  He smiled.

  “You’re my favorite driver,” said a middle-aged man. Derrick smiled politely back. It was something he heard at least twenty times a day, sometimes while signing autographs, sometimes called out to him while being driven from media appearance to media appearance, most of the time when he was in the garage, fans lining up against the fence. He appreciated the compliments, he really did, but today he wasn’t in the mood to make small talk.

  “She’s here.”

  He’d been right in the middle of signing his name, the pen pausing mid-stroke, head snapping up.

  “She’s getting her credentials right now,” Diane said, her fingers pressing against her ear bud. “She should be through the credential line in about twenty minutes.”

  He glanced at his watch, the sun arching off the face of it for a moment and temporarily blinding him. He should be about done here in that amount of time. The smile he gave the next person was genuine. Now that he knew she’d arrived, that she hadn’t chickened out at the last moment, he felt about ten pounds lighter.

  “How you doin’ today?” he asked a man with a grey beard. Always amazed him how diversified his fan base was.

  “Great now that I finally get to meet you.”

  He spent the next few minutes engaged in conversation, Derrick counting the minutes until he could hop in the golf cart painted to match his black and white race car and run off to meet Callie. He’d told Diane to take her to his motorcoach, something he rarely did where women were concerned. Unlike most of his fellow drivers, he didn’t enjoy dating more than one woman at a time. Sure, there was a time when he’d been younger when it’d been exciting to play the field. Not so much anymore. Now it seemed…old.

  “Okay, folks,” Diane announced. “That’s it for the day.”

  There were groans, but Diane knew the drill. She held up pre-signed race cards. “Feel free to grab one of these.”

  And they were off, the crowd behind him descending upon the colorful promotional item like they were dollar bills.

  “Let me guess,” Diane said as she led him down the length of the big rig, the crew that sold merchandise during race weekend waving goodbye. “You want me to take you straight to your hauler.”

  Derrick nodded. He would bet Diane thought he was on his way to a romantic tryst. That the X-TREME Racing League thing was all a cover. Either way it was frankly none of her business. Now his old PR rep, Patti, he would have told her everything. Like so many things connected to the sport or racing, the employees he dealt with seemed to change faster than the lug nuts on his car.

  They arrived in record time, the track where he was racing relatively small compared to other places, so it was a hop, skip and a jump to the infield where his motorcoach awaited. It looked like a recreational vehicle dealership in the driver/owner lot. His personal bus—because that’s what they were—was painted black and red, the crimson portions resembling the tendrils of a jelly fish as they snaked their way along the sides of the vehicle. A nearly identical bus sat on either side, although one was dark blue and the other was brown, but they all had shiny chrome rims and a row of blacked-out windows along the side.

  “Don’t forget, you have qualifying in an hour.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. It was always something. Sometimes he felt like a rat on a wheel. Go here, go there. Do this, do that. It’d practically taken an act of God to carve out time to spend with Callie.

  “Is she inside?” he asked.

  “Yup,” and Diane’s eyes twinkled. “I asked Matt to put some champagne on ice.”

  Matt was his motorcoach pilot, man of all trades and general gopher during race weekends. Every driver had one.

  “It’s not like that.” Derrick tipped his chin down, peering at Diane over the rim of his sunglasses.

  “No?”

  “No,” he echoed, although he hoped it might be. Then again, he wasn’t certain what Callie was up to. Someone from her office had set up their meeting. He’d been tempted to call and ask her what that meant, but feared he might scare her off if he sounded too anxious to see her.

  “Good.” She gave him a wide smile. “Then I don’t have to worry about finding you in your skivvies when I come back in an hour.”

  Derrick decided then and there he liked this new PR representative of his. “No, you don’t.”

  He hopped out of the golf cart, anticipation a steady presence in the pit of his stomach. His hands shook as he punched in the pass code on the number pad, the beep-beep-beeps followed by a slight pause before he heard the door click open.

  This was it.

  He had a feeling whatever was about to happen, it would change his life forever.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mr. Derringer, I’d like to talk to you about joining the X-TREME Racing League one last time.

  No. That didn’t sound right.

  Mr. Derringer, I’m sure you’re aware of how badly we want you.

  No. That was terrible.

  The door beeped. Callie’s heart, which had already been pounding like a contractor’s hammer, hit a whole new level. When the lock clicked open, her fingers dug into her jean-clad legs. When the door started to swing open, she pushed her glasses up her nose and pasted a polite smile on her face, the picture of demure professionalism, or so she hoped.

  “Callie?” he called, peeking his dark head in, the sudden brightness in the room causing her to blink. He wore sunglasses and a black polo shirt and as he climbed the steps and entered the spacious bus. She was kidding herself. The moment—the very instant she spotted him—all she could think of was the last time she’d seen him, and what she’d done to him, and how it had thrilled her to hear his cry of release, and the thought of doing it to him again. Well… She squirmed on the couch as if doing so would soothe the itch tickling her sex drive.

  “I missed you,” he pronounced.

  He meant it. The moment he whipped off his sunglasses she could see the sincerity in his eyes.

  “Yes, well. Mr. Derringer, thank you for meeting to agree with me today. I mean,” she shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Agreeing to meet with me today.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked.

  “The X-TREME Racing League needs you, Mr. Derringer.”

  “What about you?” He edged closer. “Did you miss me?”

  Yes. Every day. “We’re offering competitive purses. An easier schedule. Faster cars—”

  “Shut up.”

  She jerked her head up. “Excuse me.”

  “I want you to answer me, Callie.” He squatted down next to her and—oh, Lord—placed a hand on her knee. “Did you miss me?”

  No. Don’t be silly. Of course not.

  “Yes,” she muttered miserably.

  He gave her a smile so gentle, she wanted to cry.

  Callie knew what he would do next. Her whole body quivered in anticipation.

  Now’s the time to put a stop to this, Callie.

  The voice in her head was shrill. Veronica’s voice. Snotty. Bitchy. Snarky.

  To hell with you, Veronica.

  She jumped him.

  Derrick didn’t know what surprised him more. The way she suddenly jerked his head toward her, or the way she hooked a leg around the back of his thighs, tripping him, forcing him down on top of her.

  He didn’t care.

  All he knew was that he needed to act fast, before that damn fool of a brain of hers sent off warning claxons. He pulled his lips from her mouth and latched onto her neck, nipping and licking and suckling the sensitive flesh just beneath her ear until he felt her shudder and moan and tip her head to the side to allow him better access. To hell with slow. Slow didn’t work.

  There.

  That was better. He didn’t give her any chance to balk as he slid his hand between them, down her pants. Last time she’d made him come like a teenager. This time it was her turn. His hand slipped the button on her jeans free, wedged his fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans next, pausing
only when he found the elastic band of her underwear. He scaled the edges of those, his fingers finding the soft skin of her center.

  She jerked her hips.

  He knew what she wanted, was happy to give it to her, his fingers dipping into the soft folds of her womanhood.

  “Derrick,” she keened.

  He nipped her earlobe at the same time he lightly pinched her. She jerked. He pressed harder. She’d begun to pant and when he drew back for a moment, he found her eyes were closed, her glasses having slid off the side of her nose to hang there like she was Mrs. Claus. He smiled, his heart softening at the sight. Her mouth had parted too. He took advantage of the opening, slipping his tongue inside her mouth and lapping at her sweet softness.

  She’d gotten into a rhythm now, her hips moving toward his hand, then away, then toward him again. Over and over and over again. He knew she was close. Any minute and she’d rocket into the stratosphere. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Not without tasting her first.

  The zipper of her jeans had worked its way down. It took him less than a heartbeat to strip them to her knees, her underwear sliding part of the way down. When he glanced up at her, he nearly gulped at the look in her eyes. Gone was the cool professional who’d greeted him at the door. In her place lay a sultry vixen taunting him to do her with her eyes. He thought he imagined the look until she somehow managed to swing her legs over the top of him and kick off her shoes at the same time. His huff of surprised laughter turned to a groan of desire when she shucked off her jeans and underwear in a single move. Her shirt came off next, then her bra and her glasses, her entire body exposed to his view in a matter of seconds.

  Holy crap.

  He’d known there were curves beneath that buttoned down exterior, but, wow.

  Her hands found his zipper. He batted her hands away. “No.”

  “Derrick—”

  He flipped one of her legs over his head so she lay open to him. She was one of those women who waxed regularly, her bare skin an open invitation to feast on her mound, and for some reason the thought turned him on, his dick swelling in anticipation of the pleasure to come. He’d shifted down her body before she could stop him. He’d been craving the taste of her. Had lain awake at night fantasizing about what she would be like if he finally managed to get her in his bed. Had imagined her sweet moans as he brought her to a climax.

  Sweet. Salty. Hot.

  That’s what she tasted like. God damn, his whole body spasmed in response, Derrick’s own juices oozing. She’d about made him come—and she hadn’t even touched him.

  “Derrick.”

  Derrick didn’t let up for an instant. He delved deeper, his tongue finding her center.

  “Oh, shit,” he heard her cry.

  She’d begun to swell, her body’s salty essence causing a groan to catch deep in his throat. When she began to move as she had earlier, up and down, side-to-side, he knew it’d be a matter of moments. Knew she’d come in his mouth as he’d come inside hers. He delved even deeper, suckled her sweet button, used his tongue to dip into her center.

  She’d spread her legs as far as they would go, drove herself against his mouth. Hard. Fast. Her moans increasing in tempo until, finally, she screamed, back arching, hot, sultry fluid flooding his mouth. He gobbled it down, felt a tiny orgasm roll through his own body in response.

  Fuck me, he thought. Never had he come without a woman touching him.

  “Derrick,” he heard her cry. “Give it to me. I want you. Now.”

  Now?

  Was this his little engineer? The woman who’d conceived the X-TREME Racing League? The person who’d given him a hard-on not just with her body—although there was that too—but with the cars she’d designed?

  “Derrick,” she ordered again when he didn’t move fast enough.

  He thrust himself up her body with his knees.

  “Protection?” he ground out through clenched teeth, reason returning for a brief instant.

  “Screw it,” she said.

  “Callie,” he warned. “I won’t be able to stop myself from coming inside you.”

  “Don’t care,” she panted, her hips on the move again. “Fuck me, Derrick. Now.”

  “Shit,” Callie heard him groan. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  She locked her heels around him, urging him inside. He tipped his head back when he plunged inside. She wouldn’t allow him a moment to collect himself, used her body to get him to thrust deeper, harder, faster. In that moment he knew she didn’t care at all that he was Derrick Derringer. She could give a rat’s ass who he was. She wanted him, just him…like he wanted her. Now. No strings. No complications. Just wild, uncomplicated sex.

  “Deeper,” she ordered.

  He gave it to her.

  His cock flexed, hardened, grew thicker. He’d reached a critical mass. The heat of his ejaculation filled her at the exact moment he cried out in pleasure. She screamed, hooked her legs around him tighter, drawing him in deeper. God, he couldn’t fuck her fast enough.

  “Derrick,” she screamed. With each pulse of pleasure he could hear her sigh in delight. Her hips lifted, locked into position.

  Slowly, reluctantly, they both floated back to earth, though Derrick hated it. He wanted to do it again. To recapture the erotic intensity of coming inside of her.

  He shifted a bit, drew back to look into her eyes. “Hot damn, Callie. If I’d known it would be like that with you, I’d have jumped you sooner.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  He didn’t jump her, she’d jumped him.

  It was a moot point and Callie decided not to argue the issue. Truth be told, she’d begun to feel a bit self-conscious. They’d reached the awkward moment, the point when sanity returned and something close to embarrassment caused her cheeks to burn.

  Fuck me, Derrick. Now.

  Okay. Fine. That was definitely embarrassment staining her cheeks.

  “My leg is going numb.” She wiggled a bit.

  “Oh. Sorry.” He pulled out of her, causing her cheeks to heat even more.

  She was raw. Well and truly chaffed thanks to his heaving pounding.

  A pounding you asked for.

  She sat up and scanned the floor for her clothes. Her pants were nowhere to be seen. One of her shoes appeared to be hiding too, only one brown slip-on in front of the couch. She spotted her shirt opposite from them, one of the sleeves looking like a deflated white balloon. Who knew where her underwear had gotten to, but she’d take the shirt in a pinch. Callie darted forward to snatch it up.

  Her underwear were beneath.

  How she’d managed that, she had no idea, but she was never more relieved than to slip the shirt and underwear over her skin. To hell with her bra. She shoved her foot in the shoe, as well, though God knew why. “Glasses, glasses, glasses,” she found herself muttering, searching for the elusive brown frames.

  “You’re about to step on them.”

  So she was, Callie privately admitted before moving toward them, her gait crooked thanks to the single shoe. She thought she heard Derrick chuckle, didn’t care, just bent and scooped the frames up from the ground. There. That was better. She instantly spotted her jeans, their dark color blending into the carpet beneath Derrick’s feet. She had to cross over to him, her footsteps thud-thumping the whole way. He sat there, his feet (really big feet, she noticed) resting on one of the legs.

  “You’re on my jeans,” she pointed out dryly.

  “Am I?”

  She was like a dog, afraid of meeting its master’s eyes. Afraid she might see a command within them. Sit. Stay. Lay down.

  Spread your legs.

  “Derrick, please.”

  He sat there, naked, the smell of sex hanging in the air between them. “Well, I don’t know,” he drawled, his Southern accent at once familiar and strange. She’d listened to him give so many interviews over the years she felt as if she’d known him forever, and yet she didn’t. “I think I kind of like you dressed like that.”


  “And I think I’d like you to put on some clothes,” she shot right back, finally gaining the courage to look him in the eyes.

  “No,” and she could tell what he was going to do an instant before he actually did it.

  “Derrick,” she warned.

  He pulled her down on his lap, anyway.

  “Now this I like even better.”

  He’d managed to pull her off balance in such a way she straddled him. Actually, he probably had years of experience manipulating women in such a way. Decades of pulling women toward him. His hands went to her hips, pressing her against him in a manner which made it instantly clear what he wanted to do…again.

  “We have to talk.”

  “I’d rather not.” His hands slid up her sides and caused goose bumps to sprout on her flesh—dear Lord it was frightening how quickly he could do that to her. In a flash every shred of modesty faded, in its place sat a woman who could only be called a harlot.

  “I need you to join XRL,” she wheezed before all shred of sanity disappeared.

  He slid his pelvis against her. Was he still hard? How the hell did he do it?

  “I’d rather join with something else.”

  He was like a drug, the kind that got into your blood stream and made you crave another dose over and over again. “No,” she said even as she felt herself sinking down into him. “You need to join the XRL now or we’re not going to do this again.”

  She didn’t mean the words to sound so threat-like, she really didn’t, but, surprisingly, they came out sounding rather stern too.

  “Is that a bribe?” He slowly eased her back onto the couch. Her shoe fell off.

  “Yes.” It surprised her how level her voice sounded. “It is.” She forced herself to stop moving even though every muscle in her body wanted to rub her slick core up and down the length of him, to maybe even slide her underwear aside so she could guide him into her. She closed her eyes, hoping he didn’t see what a fraud she was. “I’ll let you screw me any time day or night if you join the XRL.”

  Good God, Callie. What the hell has gotten into you?

  “Done,” he clipped out sharply.