She was more nervous than she’d been sitting for her board exams. Thank God she’d skipped lunch—her stomach was doing backflips.
She inserted the key, the light turned red to green, and she pushed open the heavy door, letting herself into a luxurious suite with yet another breathtaking view of the Singapore skyline. In a daze she took in the vaguely retro furnishings, the immaculately ordered sitting room with patio, and two dark wicker chairs with white pads separated by a coffee table. She walked into the next room and stared at the white sheets of the bed, the orange blanket draped over the middle—a perfect complement to the abstract painting on the wall and the geometric patterned throw pillows.
The bathroom boasted white slippers laid out on white bath mats—his and hers. Unisex. There were enough white towels for a small army—no signs about conserving water here. The toilet was tucked away, the shower was glassed in, and in the far corner sat a white, ceramic tub in the shape of a bean.
How did one get used to this? Or perhaps the better question was, how did one get unused to this? Only one month into her Formula One world tour and already life would be a thousand times less glamorous after this. Then again, her real life had a richness, with her patient contacts, with colleagues and old friends, that left a void amidst all this splendor.
She’d seen the kind of women Maddux had been with. Nearly a decade younger, their bodies perfectly tight in all the right places, perfectly soft and curvy in the others. She ran a hand over first one breast, then the other. She’d never had any complaints about her barely B cups, but then her serious relationships boiled down to two fellow med students, a resident, and a too-busy-to-have-more-than-a-sexual relationship lawyer on a partnership track in San Francisco—which suited her just fine, starting out in her own practice. And here she was in a hotel suite with a Formula One racer several years her junior and light years more experienced.
What am I doing?
Each time she glimpsed his mouth, every time she got close enough to smell his pine and mint scent, her body went into arousal overdrive.
She stepped out of the bathroom to find Maddux standing in the center of the room.
He closed the distance between them in a few steps and yanked her into his arms, holding her up against his still damp, cotton blend swim shorts. His chest rose and fell with his ragged breathing. She stared into his eyes, heavy-lidded with desire. His face was serious, intent, tense. Then his lips brushed hers and she stopped thinking at all.
Brynn reveled in his full hard lips on hers. His kiss tasted of urgency and chlorine.
She moaned her pleasure as her tongue met the slick, wet thrust of his. His mouth left hers to catalogue her features, the now sensitive space under her ear, stroking, teasing, and leaving a flush of heat. Her pulse tripled as his tongue laved her neck. His body bowed with tension as he pressed against her, knees to chest. His impatient hands swept down her body, untying strings, leaving scraps of blue fabric to flutter off onto the carpet. He bound her hips tightly, urgently against his.
Her hands left his shoulders and drifted down to the muscles and ridges of his abdomen revealed by the Hawaiian shirt he’d left gaping open. She slid her mouth away from his, panting. Laying her cheek against on his warm, hard chest, she listened to his heart—thumping wildly, evidence of his passion. Her fingers brushed his nipple, giving it a tug between her thumb and forefinger that triggered first a gasp, then a thrust of his still-clothed hips into hers.
Her body shuddered and she clenched her thighs. Her fingers went to the waistband of his shorts, then lower, learning his thickness, the shape of his erection beneath the material, shaping and squeezing until he moaned, “Brynn, please” in a voice both husky and frantic. She untied the laces, then yanked apart the Velcro fly with impatient hands.
He half laughed and yanked his hips away at her vigor.
She muttered “Sorry,” pushing the damp cloth from his heated body.
His hand fisted in her hair, dragging her mouth to his as she explored his cock with greedy hands—the silken tip, the veins of the shaft. She stroked him, once, root to tip, firmly, and he made an anguished sound, thrusting into her hand.
He pushed her back, grabbed the cotton sheet, and pressed her down farther until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. But instead of joining her, he fished a cardboard box containing a foil packet out of the plastic hotel bag he’d carried into the room just minutes before.
She shivered, her nipples tightening into peaks of arousal. He met her eyes as his fingers not holding the condom caressed the tip of one nipple. She closed her eyes and moaned. It was indescribable.
She opened her eyes to a hungry, aroused, naked man. His body was extraordinary: broad, strong shoulders, a tapered waist, narrow hips, rock hard abdominal muscles that she followed with her hand until she reached his thick, jutting cock—now covered with the thin latex of the condom. She wrapped both hands around it, exploring, watching in awe as his face flushed and he groaned, thrusting into her greedy hands.
He pulled back, watching her hands on him. “God, Brynn,” he ground out. She leaned back on her elbows. His heated gaze met hers as his hands slowly spread her legs. One long finger trailed up her inner thigh. She shivered and rocked restlessly on the cool sheet as his fingers traveled to her cleft where she throbbed, slick and aching.
“Maddux,” she pleaded. Her hand at his shoulders desperately urged him to her. He gentled her with a deep kiss, while his long fingers stroked, coaxed—preparing her.
She reached for him and he rocked in her hand.
He urged her farther onto the bed, until she was lying diagonally on her back, watching, holding her breath as he spread her thighs apart with gentle hands. He knelt between her legs, then slowly, so slowly, he pushed the broad head of his cock against her, rubbing and stroking and spreading her moisture onto himself. She pressed down, desperate to have him inside her.
He resisted her machinations and continued to press forward, entering her, too slowly, making her desperate. She gasped, shutting her eyes tightly. It was too much; he was too much, it had been too long. She rolled her hips in an attempt to accommodate him. He withdrew and pushed halfway inside—tormenting her. Her hips bucked on the bed. A tingling radiated from the soles of her feet up her thighs.
“Oh, God,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. He withdrew again and her body rose up, a cry escaping her. Her hands went to his hips and she grasped them, frantic, her eyes opening, locking on his as he pressed forward again, sheathing himself fully inside her. She tilted her hips, her movements wild. Her body went rigid, little cries escaping her as she wiggled, close. Desperate.
He started to move, more frenzied now.
She clutched at him, at his hips, shoulders. “Please,” she begged.
He kissed her, licked the inside of her mouth and groaned his pleasure into her, making her frantic as he stroked in and out of her, establishing a relentless rhythm.
She came with a long, thin wail, swept over the edge. Boneless, half-conscious, she was vaguely aware of his final thrusts. He came with a hoarse shout, then stilled.
He shifted them both to the side, so she lay on one of his arms, his free arm tucked around her hips.
He was staring with something akin to shock.
She froze.
What had she done?
She sat up and he followed, on his knees, reaching for her.
“Oh God,” she said, through numb lips, hunching over.
“I know, right?” he whispered, against her neck.
“What the hell did we just do?”
His body tensed against hers.
“We just had mind-blowing sex,” he said, in that exaggerated drawl.
The drawl that was most pronounced when he was uncomfortable or put on the spot.
She turned and put a hand out, which he used it to pull her back down beside him.
“That was the best—”
She covered his lips with a finger. “I don’t want it to be rated.”
/> He frowned and pushed her hand away. “What? I wasn’t—”
“I don’t want to be compared, then,” she amended.
“Wasn’t it good for you?”
She nodded against his bicep.
“Fucking amazing,” he said, rolling onto his back.
“Let’s not,” she muttered, rolling away and putting space between their bodies.
“Not what?”
“Not rehash. I don’t want to be reminded.”
“Of who you’re in bed with?” he drawled, his expression closed. “Or of how fucking spectacular that was?”
“Of how many times you’ve had this particular conversation,” she said, her stomach knotting up.
He sat up against the headboard. “You think I have a speech prepared?” he asked. His expression indicated he was torn between irritation and amusement.
“You have sex with a lot of women,” she said.
“So?”
“Well, I don’t want to hear the same spiel you always give,” she said, sitting up.
“I don’t have a spiel,” he said, softly, raising her hand that was toying with the folds in the sheet to his mouth. He flipped her hand, exposing her palm, touched his tongue to the center. Her body, still sore from him, constricted.
“But even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you.”
Chapter 13
Once she was asleep, Maddux crawled out of the bed and padded over to the bathroom, gently closing the door. He put the lid down and sat on the toilet. He leaned his head on a hand that shook.
He’d avoided serious entanglements with women for so long, he wasn’t even sure he had the vocabulary to describe his feelings. If he did, it would be riddled with words like infatuated, reeling, and terrified.
There had been chemistry from the beginning—then it had mutated into something more and sex had just pushed things over the abyss. Into what, he had no idea.
He’d broken so many rules with her, he’d lost track. She was involved at least on some level with another man. She wasn’t the kind of woman who would be easy to get over. There was no future with a doctor with a practice in California.
He’d never actively tried to protect his heart—he understood, logically and logistically, that long-term relationships were an impossibility in this phase of his career. That was always made perfectly clear. Not that he hadn’t been infatuated or broken up about the end of some of the better relationships or sexual experiences he’d had.
There wasn’t time in his life for this kind of intimacy, nor was there the space in his psyche to give it. He’d long suspected that part of his ability to drive and take the risks he did out on the track was because he didn’t have the distraction of caring for a person to the same degree he cared for his driving. His career demanded the front seat and relegated everything else to the rear. Between the practicing, the training, the driving, and the press meets and sponsor requirements, there wasn’t time for it. Sure, there were drivers involved with women—hell, there were plenty of married F1 drivers, guys with long-term relationships, guys with kids—but he always marveled at the willingness of a partner to make those kind of sacrifices. Who would want to play second fiddle to a car? A sport?
Casual relationships were his mandate as long as he was living out this dream. He’d tried and failed at long-term things with some terrific women in his karting days, then again in his Formula Ford days. Once he got to F1, he made a conscious decision to avoid any kind of relationship—cut all strings was his motto. He was always up front about it; it wasn’t always well received.
And now this completely unavailable, inappropriate woman had wormed her way into his … well, if not his heart then an organ pretty damn close. And to make matters worse, the sex had just bumped it up to a place he hadn’t gone since, hell, since Jillian in high school.
He’d gone so long without the intimate connection sex brought, the intense, focused transcendent experience versus romping recreation, he’d forgotten what the experience was like and how bonding it could be. And there was no going back. There was no way to go forward casually, either. That was the hell of it.
His brain knew the only option was snipping the strings.
His heart wanted no part of it.
He turned on the shower, his brain proposing a litany of helpful suggestions for getting rid of her for good. By the time he turned off the water, he was pruned but had come up with Belamar as his excuse. He’d just tell her how awkward and uncomfortable and potentially career damaging this whole relationship of hers with Belamar was. Maybe give her an ultimatum. It wasn’t a lie. It truly made him uncomfortable. Even more uncomfortable after the mind-bending sex. He shrugged into the white hotel bathrobe as if suiting up with armor. He could do this.
He opened the door, sending a fog of condensation into the cool room.
The bed was empty. There was no trace of Brynn or her things.
He slumped against the door jamb, both depressed and relieved by her self-banishment.
Maddux stepped into his now dry board shorts. He stared at the button down, loud tropical print shirt she’d made him buy. A grin tugged at his mouth.
He picked it up, balled it up, and raised it to throw into the circular trash can against the wall.
He sniffed the air.
Then put the shirt to his nose.
It smelled of her. Coconut and chlorine and summer.
What the hell. He shrugged into it, grabbed a bag full of his things, briefly lamenting the fact that there were still two unused condoms, and walked out the hotel room door.
The lobby was crowded, as usual, packed full of tourists trudging gear, rolling suitcases, heading into the attached shops, or hoping to get up to the SkyPark. An Asian teen-age boy sat in a wheelchair in the middle of the lobby. His legs lacked muscle tone, indicating the wheelchair had been in use for some time. He sat, head down, staring at the thick paperback book open on his lap. But Maddux didn’t notice him for any of those reasons. He noticed the boy because he had on his head a green Supernova F1 cap.
Maddux walked over and crouched down.
“Hey.”
The boy looked up, his glowering gaze turning to one of astonishment when he saw who knelt next to him.
“Maddux Bates!” he said, excitedly in heavily accented English.
Maddux grinned. “Saw your cap. Fifty-fifty chance, you might be a Hawes fan.”
“Hawes? Hell no. I’m with you all the way, sir.”
“Don’t put money on it for the championship this year; we’re a bit behind.”
He and the boy discussed the season, the car, past greats, and the coming year until a suited man stepped over and introduced himself as the boy’s father. There was more enthusiastic hand pumping and lamenting of his season.
“Like me to sign the cap?” Maddux asked.
“Would you?” the boy asked, expression hopeful.
“Sure, let me see if the front desk has a pen.”
The woman at the front desk, though frazzled, managed to produce a permanent marker without too much trouble, and Maddux signed the cap, then knelt next to the boy for a few photos the boy’s father took.
“See you next year, eh?” Maddux said. “If you give Pippa Atica at F1 public relations a call, she might be able to get you into the paddock for next year.” He scribbled her number on a sheet of paper the boy’s dad held out.
He shook hands and walked out the front door, into bustling night in the Marina district in Singapore. He took a final look up at the hotel—all the way to the Skypark on top. The hell with it. He wasn’t going to start living conservatively now. His lips tilted into a grin. She thought she could blow him off, did she?
• • •
His phone rang early the next morning in Nagoya. He’d taken an overnight flight with plans to sleep in.
“God damn it,” he groaned, reaching for the phone on the nightstand.
“Maddux? Pippa.”
“Yeah,” he yawned. “Can I give y
ou a call in a bit? Late night.”
“No, this is rather urgent.”
He rolled bleary eyes to the ceiling. What Pippa considered urgent issues were no such thing.
Urgent was struggles with the engine, the hydraulics. Not public relations bullshit.
“What is it?”
“Do you want the good news first or the bad news?”
He blinked, trying to clear the sleep from his vision.
“I’d like to get some more rest.”
There was a deafening silence from the other end of the phone.
“Bad, I guess.”
“The bad news is T. Linberry has decided to go with another athlete—a professional tennis player. We were hoping to re-sign with them, but a certain photo of you surfaced today, wearing a Tommy Bahama shirt.”
“What?”
“They called our offices here in the UK this morning in a snit after photos of you in a—” she seemed to be searching for an appropriate words, “a pink Hawaiian shirt turned up on a Formula One fan Facebook page.”
Fully awake now, he sat up against the headboard. “Fuck.”
“Our thoughts exactly. But—”
“I’ll talk to them, it was a … a joke,” he muttered. “Set up a call with Bob Hammond at T. Linberry.”
“They were on the fence about renewing your contract next month anyway. Seems you haven’t gotten them as much exposure this season.”
“Yeah, well. Hard to top last season,” he said, sarcastically. “It doesn’t get much better than that.”
“Nevertheless, they’re going with Toby McFadden.”
“Who?”
“The American tennis player. He’s dating Winna.”
“Winna?”
“The Siberian supermodel?”
“Ah.” He’d never heard of her. Maybe that’s what would attract more sponsors.
“Maybe you could hook me up with a ‘Winna’?” he joked.
“Excuse me?” Pippa asked, her tone icy.
Did she honestly think he was asking her to pimp for him?
“So what’s the good news? Tommy Bahama wants me?”
“No, and that would be an image killer. Really, Maddux, the shirt was pink. And you’re a decade younger than their target market.”
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