by Wylde, J. D.
And then she was taking control. Kissing him. Pushing him back as they half walked, half stumbled toward the marble staircase. She pulled on his shoulders until he sat down on the bottom stair. And then his hands were sliding up under her shirt, cupping her breasts, stroking her nipples, his touch exquisite.
“I need you, sugar.” His plea was raspy, guttural. And he was pulling down on her shoulders until she was on her knees between his wide-spread legs. And his fingers were in her hair as her fingers feverishly fumbled with the button fly of his jeans. And then he was free of his boxers and she was holding him, cupping his balls in her hand, stroking his long, hard length with the other.
For the first time in her life a Foster wasn’t running away from something. No, she was running full-out, throw-caution-to-the-wind, jump-off-the-edge-of-the-cliff-without-a-safety-net, right to him. And then she was going down on him, sucking him deep into her mouth, licking and tasting him like she couldn’t get enough.
And she couldn’t.
Nothing had ever felt like this except when she was with him.
“Oh, yeah, baby, just like that.” His hands were tangled in her hair, guiding her head up and down. And his groans, his guttural hisses of pleasure were an aphrodisiac to her wounded spirit. God! She’d never felt so empowered. So alive. So wanted. So sure she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
Her heart kicked hard in her chest at the revelation.
And while she still reeled from that, Bobby Wayne gently pulled her off him. He stood, kicked his jeans aside. And before her world could tilt back on its axis, before she could question or second guess what she was doing, before she could run away, he was kissing her, inhaling her and she didn’t care if her world ever righted itself.
She was where she wanted to be.
And it terrified her.
“Bobby Wayne,” she breathed out his name.
His hands slid up over her stomach, pushing her shirt up over her breasts and over her head. Then they were sliding around her back, unhooking her bra. It fell to the floor, and they were naked.
“Bobby Wayne.” She placed her palm against his muscled chest. “We need to talk. There’s too much between—”
“There’s nothing between us,” he stated the obvious, his finger teasing the undersides of her breasts.
“Bobby Wayne, we need to talk.”
“No talk, sugar. There’s only room here to feel.” And then he was picking her up, his palms cupping her butt and she was feeling him. All of him. Every thick, long, hard inch of him. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she cocked her hips so she could rub against his engorged flesh. And she nearly whimpered at how good he felt. How needy she was for only him.
And how right he felt. How perfect.
“That’s it, baby, just feel.” And then his mouth was on hers again, his tongue eagerly mating with hers as he walked them across the grand foyer to his study. They stumbled through the doorway. Bobby Wayne made his way to the couch as Lauren reached a blind hand out for a light switch.
She found one. The room illuminated with soft golden light and her breath caught in her throat.
“Oh my god,” she whispered as she looked all around her. “Oh… my… god.”
Pictures she’d hung in here of Bobby Wayne’s NASCAR achievements – his first win at Daytona, his first championship – and every championship after had been replaced. With pictures… of her.
Pictures of her on tour. Pictures of her lifting high her Horizon Award. Of her holding her first album cover. Then another picture of her holding the disc when the album had gone platinum. And other pictures of her accepting awards at the CMAs and the ACMs and the AMAs. Her heart pounded. She turned back to him. “I- I don’t understand,” she stuttered.
And Bobby Wayne stood stiff and silent as she slowly slid down off his body. “I decorated this room for you,” she softly stated the obvious. So how did she end up on the walls? How did her career achievements end up here? She looked back at him waiting for an explanation.
And still he stood silent, exactly where she’d slid off him.
Barbara Jean would never, never have hung these pictures. Not when she’d destroyed all the other rooms Lauren had personally restored and decorated. This wasn’t exactly a shrine to her, but it did make a statement. A huge statement. One Lauren didn’t quite know how to interpret. She looked back at Bobby Wayne. “You followed my career?”
“I should have followed you.” And she heard real regret in his voice. Saw it in his eyes and in the downward set of his mouth.
His confession went a long way to soothing the hurt that had never quite healed in her heart.
“I knew the mistake I made… as soon as I said, I do. Barbara Jean knew it, too.”
“But… I…” Her heart pounded in her chest.
She looked around. Really looked. Beyond the pictures. To his clothes, his jeans, his tee shirts, and boxers that were neatly folded and stacked on his desk instead of upstairs in the dresser in his bedroom. To his boots and shoes stashed in a corner. To his books and magazines stacked by the couch and his files that littered the coffee table.
He’d been living in here for a quite a while. Longer than his recent accident; maybe as long as his marriage to Barbara Jean. But why? Why live in here surrounded with pictures of her?
He stepped closer to her. “I love you, Lauren. I don’t think I ever stopped. Hell, I know I never stopped.”
And he stood there, naked in front of her, with no barriers to his body, or his soul. And only a man who was telling the truth would do that.
Which mean that Jeremy had lied to her.
“Bobby Wayne,” she softly breathed out his name.
“I love you, Lauren.”
They were the words she’d longed to hear. Words she’d never thought she’d hear again. And they were words she didn’t know what to do with, or how to react. The urge to run like the born-and-bred Foster she was bore down on her hard. “I—” Her heart pounded. She’d made such a mess of things. “I don’t— I don’t know what— what to do.” Jeremy thought she was ending things here. She’d thought she be ending things, too. Yet now…
And Bobby Wayne knew her – better than anyone – better than she knew herself because he reached for her hand. Laced his fingers with hers and held her right where she stood. And he kept talking to her in that sweet slow drawl he had, talking to her like she wasn’t having a panic attack. Like her world wasn’t being completely altered by just his presence.
“I still love you, Lauren.” He squeezed her fingers. Tugged her closer into the welcoming heat and strength of his body. I still want you—”
And then there was no talking. Just Lauren in his arms. Her mouth on his, surrendering to him, kissing him. Her hands sliding into his hair, holding his head close, part of her half afraid he’d come to his senses. Or maybe she’d come to hers.
And then there were his hands. Sliding down over her body, making short work of her jeans, and she no longer cared about what made sense, just what felt right.
And being here with Bobby Wayne Forsythe felt more than right. It felt perfect.
His fingers slipped between her legs to stroke her… tease her. And she was panting. Begging. And he obliged her every demand, driving her closer and closer to completion as his finger slid into her wetness, back and forth, his thumb circling her clit.
And then she was tumbling over a precipice, gasping as a blinding orgasm rocked through her, tumbling her back onto the couch when her legs gave out. And he was holding onto her, like he’d always done, and she’d wondered how she could have been so dumb to have let him go. To have walked away from him when he was her everything.
He was between her legs, pushing her higher as he was thrusting into her, driving her toward a second orgasm.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” she panted as she wrapped her arms around his big shoulders, holding on tight.
And he was gasping for breath, whispering of the wildly erotic things he
wanted to do to her, driving her – no, driving them both over the edge. And she was crying out his name as another orgasm rocked through her body and he was growling out his as he followed her over the same edge.
Together they slowly tumbled back to earth, weak and sated in each other’s arms.
And Lauren knew. She would never be the same again.
And what did she do about that?
* * *
She hadn’t moved a muscle, yet Bobby Wayne knew her mind was reeling. He could practically smell the brain cells burning. And once she got into clean air and she cleared her senses, she’d pull away. And then it was only a hasty exit out the front door and he’d lose her again.
“I know this isn’t what you planned when you came back here.” He gently brushed a dark wavy lock of hair from her flushed cheek. “Give me another chance, sugar, please?” he begged. “Give us another chance.”
She breathed in a shaky breath. Her fingers gently pushing his hair from his forehead and he could see the battle waging in her beautiful eyes. Her lips trembled as she opened her mouth—
“Don’t say anything sugar, unless it’s what I wanna hear.”
“Bobby Wayne,” she whispered his name out on a breathy sigh and he prayed it wasn’t regret.
“Just feel, baby. Just feel.” And Bobby Wayne settled his body between her legs, the erection he always seemed to have every time she was near pressed against her moist, hot center. “Forget about everything outside of here,” he whispered, desperate enough to play the house and home card. “Remember what Olivia and Adam found here. And Jane and Brennan had here. And most of all, remember what we had here – what we can have again if we just give ourselves a chance.”
“I’m scared,” her voice was barely more than a whisper.
“I know you are.” He brushed a finger over her thundering pulse. “Believe me, I know about being afraid.”
Her brow furrowed.
“I do.” His body was healed enough he could physically get behind the wheel, but his head… well, he didn’t want to think about his head. Or Toby O’Brian, the young upstart filling in for him. The one getting all the media attention now that he was yesterday’s news. Bobby Wayne owned his own team. It wasn’t like he was going to replace himself. But what would he do if he couldn’t race again? What would he—
“We were happy here.” Her softly uttered words pulled him back from the dark abyss of his uncertain future.
“We were.” The happiest he’d ever been. He shifted until he settled in behind her on the couch. He pulled her close. Even without the heat of sex, her body melted into his, the fit perfect. Like two puzzle pieces joined. And he knew their joining was more than just a sexual attraction, or a winning chemical combination. It was the joining of two souls, two hearts beating as one, and he wanted that for the rest of his life.
Her arm wrapped over his stomach as she settled her head against his shoulder. Her tumble of hair fell over his arm. Her nose pressed into his neck, her perfect tea-cup breasts lightly grazed his chest as her breath feathered against his chin. And his dick laid happy and hard right between his legs.
He made no move to slip into her. Instead, he marveled at the contentment which settled around him just holding her close, having her in his arms. Having his heart beating steadily against hers.
“Give us a chance,” he whispered against her temple. “Give me a chance.” And he waited with his heart in his throat the anxious seconds for her to stay… or walk away. Again.
She looked up at him with the softest, most beautiful golden eyes he’d ever seen. Shining as brightly as the flickering flame of a candle. A gentle smile turning up the corners of her mouth filled him with hope. And—
“Why can’t I tell you no?” she breathed out against his jaw.
“Because you’re where you belong?” he told her, but it was more a question, one he was anxiously waiting for her to reply. His life, his future happiness depended on what she decided.
“I am,” she whispered against his neck before she surrendered, slipping her hand down between his legs, giving him that second chance.
And a whole lot more.
Chapter 8
One week turned into two. They talked. They hashed out old grievances. Made new memories, too. Hand in hand they walked the grounds of the estate, enraptured by the everlasting beauty of Jane’s garden and the solemnness of the Harrington family plots. They’d slogged through the mundane chores of everyday life, passionately soared to new heights of ecstasy at night in the makeshift bedroom he’d created in the study, and Lauren was happier than she’d ever been in her life. Neither talked of what their future would bring and that was okay with Lauren. Now was what mattered.
And now was pretty damn near perfect.
The Foster-Forsythe name carried a lot of weight in getting the house quickly renovated and restored back to its pre-Bimbo Barbie state. Bobby Wayne’s checkbook and the promise of a big, fat bonus had the crews working long shifts; and in the two weeks’ time, the front doors were refinished and the front entry floor restored. The master bedroom had been put near to rights, as well as most of the main staircase, which was almost finished.
Although Bobby Wayne had visited the doctor, he’d made no trips to the garage. As a result, there had been a steady stream of Forsythe Racing Team employees who’d traipsed across the entryway to the library, which had somehow become his off-track racing office. Lauren avoided the inquisitive looks from his pit crew, the appreciative looks from his substitute driver, and the narrow-eyed glares from his ex-wives who were still a major part of his racing organization.
Ex-wife number one and ex-wife number two, that is.
Barbara Jean had defected, resigning whatever position she’d held after the divorce what with her now dating a rival racecar driver, which was a good thing in Lauren’s opinion. She didn’t know what she’d do if she’d run into the woman. She still fostered a lot of anger and yes, jealousy.
“You ready, sugar?” Bobby Wayne walked into the study.
Lauren nearly stumbled over her tongue. “Oh my god,” she whispered.
“What?”
The man had to ask? Was he serious? “Have you not looked in the mirror?” He was eye candy at its very best. The snap-button shirt he wore hugged broad shoulders and was tucked into a well-worn pair of faded Levi’s that molded to his thighs and cupped his crotch. The black cowboy hat she’d gifted him to disguise them in their outing was pulled down low. She’d seen her share of racecar drivers who’d won in Texas. And she’d seen her fair share of country music singers who’d donned the hat, too, in their acts.
None of them wore one quite like Bobby Wayne did, or looked as good in it as he did.
“What?” he asked again, his brows pinching together.
“You look hot.”
His responding smile told her he liked her comment. And the air shifted as his hot blue gaze slid slowly down over her. The tiny lines radiating out from his eyes crinkled. “You’re the one who looks hot, sugar.”
“I’m naked.”
“I know.”
He slowly walked toward her. It was just one booted foot in front of the other, soft, faded denim-covered legs moving toward her with that slow, easy gait he had, but he was right. She was hot. For him. The rough tip of his finger sensuously slid down her neck, down her chest, and over her breast to circle her nipple. He leaned in, kissed her neck, his mouth sensuously teasing that little spot near her ear that…
She dropped her head to one side giving his tongue more access to her sensitized skin as the rest of her body melted against his.
“And might I add,” he nuzzled that sweet spot right below her ear. “It’s a good look on you.”
Tingles of awareness radiated out from the spot of contact. And… reluctantly she pulled away from him. “Enticing as that might be—”
“—and it would be,” he cockily added, as he dipped his head for another lick.
She squeezed up her shoulder
to block his sensual assault. “We’ll be late if we don’t get goin’,” she needlessly reminded him of the private appointment he’d made with the antiquities dealer.
“We could be comin’ hard and fast instead of goin’.”
And damn, if that wasn’t the most tempting offer she’d had in about eight hours. She resisted… barely. “You’re the one who wanted a bed,” she reminded him as she reached for her shirt.
He heaved out a heavy sigh before plucking the shirt from her hands and tossing it over his shoulder.
“Bobby Wayne!” She made a futile attempt to grab what was already out of her reach. “We’re gonna be late. We can’t—”
“I don’t know about you, sugar, but I can do it just about on-demand.”
And didn’t that thought just make her insides cinch up nice and tight?
“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna jump you.”
“Damn,” she grumbled.
“Ha-ha,” he teased back. “But if I have to wear a disguise, sugar, so do you.” He pulled a bright red piece of cotton from his back pocket, handing it to her.
It was an official Bobby Wayne Forsythe racing shirt. She hadn’t had one of them since she’d walked away. She looked up into his handsome face. “Does this mean I’m part of your team?”
“It means you’re the most important part of me,” he solemnly told her.
Her heart melted. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Or it would have been my pleasure,” he playfully teased as he tugged the shirt over her head. And she was quite sure he was making up for not getting laid by taking his sweet ol’ time smoothing the soft cotton down over her chest.
“You done?” she teased, swatting at his hands.
“I guess as done as I’m gonna get.”
She turned to catch her reflection in the mirror. The bright red tee shirt hugged her small curves. His car’s number thirty-five was embroidered across her breasts like false advertising of her bra size. Her hand rested between her small breasts. Her self-consciousness at their petite size had her once again wishing for things she didn’t have. Just like when she’d been a kid.