Okay, yeah, I knew that was about pain and grief and needing to feel something, anything, that wasn’t touching the raw nerve that sent her brain spiraling into hell. But we’d connected. No matter how cold she ran afterward, with her “it didn’t mean anything,” we’d connected.
I empty the tiny bottle of shampoo into my palm and rub it into my hair, in desperate need of a haircut to tame my curls. But Ani hadn’t seemed to mind that night. I can practically feel her hands twisting in my hair, taste her on my tongue like honey as she pressed me closer.
I shouldn’t be thinking of her like this, not with her in the connecting room. All the same, guilt and shame are a match to the gasoline of desire.
I slide my hand down my chest, stopping to brush a nipple, then lower, grabbing my dick and squeezing the head. Pleasure slices through me, sharp and hot, and the memories guide my hand. The way she climbed over me, told me what to do, how to please her. Ten years ago, her fingernails in my skin taught me that pleasure was better with an edge of pain, and I bite my lip now remembering the throaty way she’d begged me to collar her with my hand in the backseat of her BMW.
My hand shuttles faster over my cock, the fantasy that’s lived on repeat in my head taking over. Ani in my bed, where I’d have room to spread her out and really make love to her. Where I could hold her open and lick, kiss, nibble until she shook with need. Where I could lie back and let her ride me, teasing the hard nub of her clit with my thumb until she collapsed onto my chest in a sticky mess. I can see her now, her long brown hair free from its braid and spilling like silk across my sheets. A sheen of sweat over skin flushed pink with pleasure and lust. The vision I conjure in my sex-starved brain is so potent, I can taste her—smell her—even.
I brace myself against the shower wall, groaning as the first surge of my orgasm threatens to knock me to my knees. I thrust sharply into my hand, and the pleasure whites out my fantasies and all I can hear is the dull thud of my own heartbeat under the shower spray.
Shampoo stings my eyes, and I wipe at them, barely able to right myself to rinse the suds away. Well, that certainly took my mind off my pre-race jitters. I laugh to myself, then finish my shower with Spartan efficiency.
Five minutes later, dry and in street clothes, I check the messages on my phone, only to see one from her.
I’m downstairs having breakfast. You should eat something too.
In the tiny eating area off the hotel lobby, she’s attacking a plate of biscuits and gravy and staring at her phone. I take the seat across from her, and she glances up at me.
“Good morning.” She looks back down at her phone.
“Morning.” I fiddle with the edge of my seat. “What do you recommend a somewhat-nervous first-time racer have for breakfast?”
“Whatever the fuck doesn’t make you sick. How am I supposed to know?” She gives me an exasperated glare, then relents. “Fine. Dry toast, a little bacon. Juice if it doesn’t give you heartburn.”
“Thanks.” I stand and head over to the buffet, such as it is. The bacon is rubbery and there’s only white bread for toast, but the coffee is fresh and hot, so I fill myself a cup and grab a bagel instead of toast.
“Why’d you bother to ask for a recommendation?” she asks, eyeing my bagel as I sit back down.
I shrug. “Because I wanted to know. I don’t have to agree with you to be curious about what you’d think or suggest.”
She snorts. “More like you saw how nasty the bacon was and had to eat something.”
“More like,” I admit. “So, were you this nervous the first time you raced?”
“I’ve never raced,” she says calmly, returning her attention to her phone. “And I’m so fucking jealous right now, you’re lucky I don’t steal your car and hide your body.”
Somehow, it’s exactly what I needed to hear. As much as I’m surprised to learn she’s never raced, her deadpan threat makes me laugh, and I can’t help but appreciate her twisted sense of humor more than ever. I pull out my own phone and we finish our breakfast in silence.
After I polish off the rest of my bagel, she taps the table once and then says. “Showtime. Let’s go win this thing.”
* * *
The crowded track is different from Tate Field in a lot of ways. There are spectators in the stands, and the smell of fried food emanates from the concessions area. Tiffani seems to be glowing with excitement as she drives the Chevelle off the trailer into the pit to look it over.
I park the borrowed truck in the designated area and make my way back to her, nerves once again eating at my gut. She’s checking out everything under the hood, though I’m sure she did the exact same thing before we left. Next, she checks the tire pressure in my new racing slicks. She glances over at me and gives me a thumbs-up.
“You’re racing in the third heat, which is nice because you don’t have to wait very long, but you won’t know until the end of the day whether you qualified or not.” She bites her lip and stares out at the other cars. “That Charger is a beast, but unless they’ve modded the engine, yours should be faster. Ooooh, look at that Coronet Super Bee!” She practically squeals. “I haven’t seen one that nice since—Oh, wait! Tío Javi!”
She darts around me to fling her arms around a lanky Latino guy in his mid-fifties with acne-scarred skin and curly hair. His rumble of laughter surrounds us as he returns the hug. “Tiffani Ellis, how the hell are you?”
She mumbles something into his chest, giving him another squeeze before letting him go. “I missed you.”
He grins down at her. “Missed you too, kiddo. How’s Tom?”
Her face falls, and the guy gets quiet, his own smile disappearing. “Sonofabitch. When?”
“Last summer.”
“I’m sorry, gorda.”
“Thank you. Where are you now?”
“I’m foreman at a Ford dealership down in Charlotte. It’s all right. Ana is about to graduate from UNC. One more to go, then maybe I can retire.”
“I wish I’d known y’all were here. I’d have made plans to see you.”
“What are you racing? Is this your Chevelle?” He runs his hand over the front fender. “Fucking esplendido.”
“Thank you. It’s mine.” I step forward and hold out my hand. “Matt Adams.”
“Your boyfriend?” he teases Tiffani, then shakes my hand vigorously. “Javier. I used to work at American Heavy Metal. I remember you.”
A memory ricochets through me, and I can picture him with a buzz cut; he and Tom Ellis always laughing together. “Of course—I didn’t recognize you with hair.”
A bark of laughter. “I’m not in the Reserves anymore. No more military haircuts for me.”
Tiffani smiles at him fondly. “I can’t believe you’re racing the Coronet. That new paint job is—” She whistles. “Gorgeous work, my friend.”
“Hey, let’s have a beer later. We’ll reminisce about all the cars we’ve loved before. You still got my number?”
She looks startled, then smiles. “Yeah, I still got it. Thanks for all the times you covered for me at work.”
“I know it’s hard when your dad is the boss, gorda. I always had your back. I gotta go. Racing in the first heat.” He rolls his eyes. “Hope I still got it.”
Tiffani gives him another effusive hug. “You’ll always have it, Tío Javi. Go kick ass.”
He wins his heat, to Tiffani’s enthusiastic cheers. We watch as a Charger and a Stingray go up to the line.
“Unless the driver of that Corvette has a perfect reaction time, this isn’t even a contest,” Tiffani whispers under her breath. It’s more of a contest than she lets on. The Corvette was slower at takeoff, but gained heavily in the later half.
“I think he’d have won over half a mile,” I say as we drive up to the pre-stage area.
“Yeah. But we only get a quarter to do our thing.” She grin
s at me. “Make it count, okay?”
I nod, and she hands me my shiny new helmet.
She helps me line the car up, makes sure my wheels are straight, then covers her mouth with her American Heavy Metal T-shirt, my cue to do my burnout and stage the beast.
The engine growls and roars, smoke filling the air around us, and I lurch up to the pre-stage. I keep my eye on the lights, only easing up to the stage as the pre-stage light comes on for the guy next to me. My stomach flutters as the first amber light comes on. The second. As the third comes on, I punch the gas, certain my reaction time will cover the time between that and the green light.
The Chevelle leaps to life, and I shove my foot to the floor, the g-forces shoving me back into my seat. I see the line ahead, and I focus on getting the car there, just there—I yank the parachute release, feel the instant tug as I brake. And then see the other car lurch past me.
I crossed first.
Once the car stops, I look for Tiffani, her tiny form back at the start line jumping up and down. We did it. I did it. I lift my hand and wave to her.
The rest of the day is nowhere near as exciting as those 13.82 seconds. But it’s ridiculously fun to watch the races with Tiffani, and even more fun to watch her make her way through the pit, giving advice and handing out business cards. Some of the men seem surprised, others shake her hand like old friends. And it hits me, then, all in a rush—she’s exactly where she should be. She’s the head tech at the premier classic car shop in the South, and she’s damn good at it.
As the last few heats are getting ready, she comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist. “You’re ranked tenth right now. Even if all six of the cars still to race beat your time, you still qualified. Congratulations.”
I turn and hug her back, drinking in her sweet smile. “Thanks.”
“Let’s go get cleaned up, then we’ll call Javi and we’ll all go celebrate.”
“Hey.” I tug her hand as she starts to walk away. She turns back, a quizzical expression on her face.
“What’s up?”
“You’re really good at all this. Thanks for crewing for me today.”
She blushes and grins. “Thank you. Come on, let’s go, I wanna dance.”
Chapter Twelve
Tiffani
The giddy rush of the race still sings through my veins as we arrive back at the hotel, and I can tell Matt is just as excited. As we approach the doors to our connecting rooms, he grabs my hand and swings me into his arms.
“Hey.” He smiles down at me, eyes sparkling. “I’m gonna go take my contacts out and put my glasses on and turn back into dorky Matt Adams, but thank you—” he clears his throat “—for whatever you did to my car that made me feel like Superman today.”
My lips tug up at the corners. “I tuned your engine and taught you to drive it right. You drove the shit out of that car today. I’m so proud of you.”
And turned on as fuck, but I don’t say that part. I’m already fighting against the weeks of sensual undercurrent since the night he ate me out up against the back wall of American Heavy Metal. Instead, I say, “I hope you like to dance, because back when I was crewing for Tío Javi, the parties after a race were the best part.”
A half hour later, he knocks on my door, and I open it to see him in a tight black T-shirt and ripped up dark-as-sin skinny jeans. My mouth goes dry. Matt is hot—has always been hot—but this Matt? Twenty-seven-year-old Matt knows he’s hot. And when he leans forward to press a kiss to my cheek, I go weak in the knees.
“You are stunning,” he murmurs against my ear. “You look great in coveralls, but this is—holy shit, Ani, do we have to go out?”
Guh.
But yes, we have to go out, because otherwise, the pretense of celebration falls apart and we have to face the fact that our chemistry hasn’t disappeared in ten years, and that night in the car wasn’t a one-off. And that we are every bit as good together as I never wanted to be with anyone ever again.
I smooth my hands down the front of my little black dress and shake out my hair. Freed from its braid, it’s a wavy, messy tumble and I don’t care. “I want to dance.”
He holds out his arm. “Then let’s go.”
In the Uber to the bar where Javier has said he’ll meet us, Matt’s hand rests on the seat between us, his pinky finger trailing up the outside of my thigh, inching my skirt up and sending a wave of lust through me.
I clench my thighs together and place one hand over his, biting my lip between my teeth. “Matt.”
“Ani,” he whispers back, a smile in his voice. I meet his gaze across the car, and it’s all over.
I don’t know who moves first, but our lips crash together, his hand burying itself in my hair. He tugs in a slow, circular motion, dragging me into the position where he can plunder my mouth with his own. I whimper into his mouth, biting at his lower lip until I taste salt and metal—blood.
“Fuck.” He breathes the word into my mouth before kissing me again. This time, his hands travel over my body, staking their claim. My breasts, my ass, the curve of my waist, each caressed and cupped and teased until I’m practically climbing into his lap.
“We’re here.” The Uber driver’s voice cuts through the fog of our lust, and Matt breaks the kiss. He presses his forehead to mine and takes a deep breath.
“Walk in front of me into the club,” he mutters. “Please.”
Knowing I made him as weak and turned on as I am gives me a delicious thrill of power. I did that. With his hand in mine, I lead him into the darkened club, where dance music fills the air, even if the floor is still mostly empty.
My body responds to the music almost instantly, my hips swaying and weaving. Behind me, I feel Matt crowd closer.
I weave through the clusters of people between us and the bar, making a beeline for the man who had been my dad’s second in command in the shop for years—until he moved to North Carolina and I took over. “Tío Javi!”
He greets me with a hug and a kiss on my cheek. “Tiffani, meet Eli and Alex, my crew.”
Alex is tall and slender, with bedroom eyes and a sweet smile. He kisses my cheek and squeezes my shoulder. Eli is his opposite: short and stocky with a wild grin. He’s barely older than Tyler, but flirtatious and bold. “No way a woman as hot as you fixes cars for a living. Unreal.”
I laugh off the comment, because I’m used to it, but Javier smacks him on the backside of the head and mutters something in Spanish I don’t quite catch.
“Guys, this is Matt Adams—we were friends in high school. He was driving the gold Chevelle this morning.”
I perch on a barstool, dragging Matt up beside me. Javi orders a pitcher of beer and Matt’s arm rests behind my waist. Staking his claim. I shiver, though it’s warm in the club. I want to be claimed. Anticipation for the evening ahead sends a current of desire through me.
Javier’s voice pulls me from my smutty thoughts and back to the present. “I am so sorry to hear about Tom. I would have come to the funeral.”
I swallow, the lump in my throat making it hurt. “Thank you, we kept it very small—just family. I didn’t know how—I didn’t want to—”
Matt’s hand squeezes my shoulder.
“I get it, gorda,” Javier says, then changes the subject. “Who’s running the shop now?”
“All of us, kind of.” I take a shaky breath. “Tanner came home, and she’s doing the bookkeeping and management. Tyler’s still doing the computer stuff. Tegan’s handling parts, inventory, and service advising, and Duke and I are fixing cars. We hired a new kid part-time and so far he’s working out pretty well. We hope he’ll go full time this summer.”
“That’s amazing. Tom would be so proud of you.”
“Thank you.” I take a deep swallow of beer. “That means a lot.”
The conversation moves to lighter subjects—who
’s gotten married, who’s having babies, what businesses are still around and what new ones have come along. When a lull falls over us, Eli turns to me and gives me a wicked smile.
“Do you dance, Tiffani?” He holds out his hand, and I nod, taking it and following him out to the floor.
He swings me into his arms and gyrates loosely to the beat. “Put your arms around my shoulders, mi reina,” he whispers. “Your man is watching. Let’s give him a show.”
Yeah, right. As if anything I could do would make Matt jealous. But I loop my arms over Eli’s shoulders and let him propel me through a dance more intense than I expect. His hips rock against mine, and his hand wraps around my waist, steering me expertly. It takes me a moment to figure out the pattern of his steps, until he leans into my ear and whispers, “It’s just a box step, baby. Slow, quick, quick. But dirty for the dance floor.”
I throw my head back and laugh. As if I’ve ever learned a ballroom dance, let alone translated it to the dance floor of a club. But the words echo in my ears slow, quick, quick, as he turns me around the floor, and before I know it, I’m following him as if I’ve been dancing like this all my life. I lift my arms over my head and he swivels his hips into mine. It’s fun, more silly than sexy.
As the song changes, he nods over my shoulder and takes my hands in his own, kissing them dramatically. Then he grins and dances away. “Have a good night, mi amor.”
Matt’s hands come around my hips and he spins me to face him. The song is a little slower, and the temperature in the room seems to raise ten degrees when he pulls me against him.
We dance.
Dancing with Matt is nothing like dancing with Eli. This time, when my arms go over my head, hands slide from my wrists down, down to my rib cage, raising goose bumps along my sensitive skin.
When our hips roll together and apart, hands slide everywhere. His along the bare skin of my arms and shoulders, mine over the hard muscles of his chest, the soft cotton of his T-shirt damp under my fingers.
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