by Katy Evans
She never once hesitates when she says her vows to me, but I notice her tear up with emotion when I say, loud and damn clear, that I, Racer Tate, take her as my wife, to have and to hold, till death do us part.
Because I mean it, and Lana knows me well enough by now to know.
We’re impatient to strip when we arrive at my apartment in St. Pete. It’s 3 a.m. We danced to our song—Favorite Record (Lana declared it ours and I fucking approve)—and then we mingled with our guests and are now ready to continue feasting in private by feasting on each other.
My girl reaches behind her to try to unzip her dress when I take her by the shoulders and gently turn her around.
On my nightstand behind me is a box with the keys to her new ride. A wedding present from me, purchased with a small part of my F1 winnings. A white Mercedes with beige interior and carbon fiber dashboard. Wheels like artwork. I want her to have the best always. But I’m not giving it to her yet. That comes later. Tomorrow. Now I need my fucking hands on her. My tongue on her. My damn smell.
“Allow your husband,” I say, relishing calling myself that name for the first time as I devilishly tug the zipper down her back and place a long, wet kiss on the back of her neck, the skin exposed because her hair is still up.
As her dress starts coming down, I slide my hands down her bare arms. She shivers, and my gut coils tight with need and desire. “Racer, I’m so happy right now.”
She’s whispering.
“I know.”
And I’m whispering too. I don’t know why, as we’re alone. But this moment feels fucking holy, and words are almost too superfluous for a moment like this. I turn Lana back around to face me.
She’s already breathing hard, and her heart is beating rapidly in that little pulse point at her throat. I drink her in, slowly, wanting to memorize this moment for as long as I live.
My wife in a flimsy strapless bra and an even flimsier white lace thong, in garters, hose that reach up to mid-thigh, and heels that she’s able to step out of as she takes a step closer to me.
Ivory skin, freckled nose, her hair still up with that veil, my gut coils back like a spring.
I want this girl like crazy. Not only with every atom, pore, and cell of my body. I want this girl heart and soul. I stare into those wide green eyes, flooded with love for me, and I watch them carefully as I start to work her lovely white lace bra open to reveal her gorgeous breasts.
I look at her, eye contact holding as I lean down, holding as I bring my tongue out to lick one puckered nipple, and my dick throbs mercilessly in my pants as her eyes flare wide and her pupils dilate even more.
I turn my head and torture the other nipple, slow and easy, making it stand up and quiver when I breathe on it.
“They’re always up when I’m with you,” she whispers as she leans her head to nuzzle my ear, and I raise my brows and straighten, my wife’s gaze mischievous and still shy. I don’t know why she continues to feel shy with me sometimes, but I like it. I like everything about her to the point she’s got me all jacked up just standing here with her wedding dress pooled at her feet and that fucking lace garter looking sexy as shit on her slim legs.
There’s a blue rose pin attached to her garter, and I finger it as I trail my eyes over her body. “What’s this?”
“Reese gave it to me.” Like a greedy siren who won’t wait for more, Lana’s unknotting my tie and pushing my jacket off my shoulders. “Something borrowed and something blue.”
I ease my arms out of my jacket and toss it into the air, then slide my fingers up the inside of her thigh as she undoes the buttons of my shirt.
“How about something hot and wet for the groom,” I murmur, easing my fingers into her white lace panties.
She groans on contact, and a more animalistic sound comes from me at the same time, and Lana presses a kiss to my neck, then starts slowly kissing the skin of my chest as she unbuttons down my shirt and pushes it off my chest.
“Girl, I love you so much,” I rasp, taking her mouth beneath mine, suddenly growing a little rougher and more desperate.
Lana’s tongue comes out to play with mine, and we stumble our way into the bedroom of my pad, where we’ll be living for the summer months before taking off again for next year’s F1 season.
My gut is churning from my need of her. My slacks are near bursting from the length and width of my damned greedy dick, and when Lana caresses it with that magic hand of hers, I growl and roll her to her back, the kiss turning more desperate.
Her panties are so flimsy I grab them to pull them down her legs and, instead, end up tearing them off her. Something I’ve started to do lately. My bride gasps in delight and I smile and look down at her, all bare for me except for that garter.
I like it.
Licking my teeth, I run my hands down her body, watching her pant, her breasts rising and falling, her pupils dilating.
“Racer, I need you,” she breathes.
I shake my head no, smirking, as I continue exploring her very slowly, and she sits up on the bed and suddenly straddles me.
I don’t complain when she drops her pussy to my hard dick and rubs against it, the only thing separating us the slacks of my tux, which I’m still wearing.
She looks at me, and I look at her, and I’m hot enough to explode as I grab her face in one hand, and tease my tongue along her lips again. “What do you want, wife?” I croon, licking her slowly, side to side, then I tease the tip of my tongue inside.
“Give me you,” she breathes, reaching between our bodies to stroke my hard dick.
She turns me on like a brand-new radio when she gets greedy for me like that.
“All of me,” I growl, as if that’s the only condition of her getting a piece of me: it’s all or nothing and that’s the way it is. She’s humming with anticipation as I lower her back down and then step back to remove my slacks.
She watches me—eyes running over my muscled chest, my hard abs, then down my happy trail, taking in my fully elongated dick, and my hard legs and thighs. Her breathing quickens, and she eyes me like I’m fucking perfection when the only perfect thing in this room is looking at me.
“All of me,” I repeat as I crawl over her.
She licks her lips in anticipation, then raises her head and kisses me on the mouth and drops her head, smiling up at me.
I raise my brows. The look she’s giving me is a full on, love-me-fuck-me look. Hell, I’m so game my adrenaline is pumping, my body straining for the release I can only find in her.
My cock continues throbbing as I grab the base and tease the head up and down her folds. I lean forward and whisper something naughty in her ear, that I’m going to fill her with my cum, and she laughs and takes a bite out of my chin and rocks her hips up to my dick to lure me.
I nearly lose control.
I crush her mouth beneath mine, holding her face tenderly in my hand as we taste each other. I can barely keep my head straight as I run my hands down her sides, cupping her lovely breasts, her smooth skin, her abdomen.
I caress my hands along her sides and squeeze her ass, my tongue and hers mating like mad, her nipples brushing against my chest, heaving up and down ‘cause she’s worked up so bad by what I’m doing to her. Her whispers that she loves me only make my cock throb harder and I can barely see straight. My eyes lock with hers, and hers look heavy lidded and watchful.
Growling softly, I lick my way up her throat, to her mouth, kissing her everywhere as I start to drive inside her.
It’s as if the world stops and doesn’t start moving again until I’m fucking embedded, balls deep, inside her. Inside my wife.
For the first time with no condom. Nothing between us. Just her.
She feels so damn perfect I’m straining every muscle in my body to make this moment last.
I move, deliberately deep. “Every piece of me,” I thickly murmur down at her, moving and moving, wanting to flood her, to fucking fill her with me until there’s nothing else.
She’s tight, hot and wet for me, and I’m driving harder and harder in the danger zone, her heart beating with mine. I never want to pull out, to come out of here—out of her. Fucking her. I cup her cheek and ease back to glance down at her stomach.
“I want your belly growing, Lana. I want your body swelled up because of me, and a baby you and I are going to make right there, inside you. A baby that I put there.” I kiss her to show her I mean it, moving faster and faster.
Lana is clawing at my back, her nails sliding down to grip my ass and dig into my tattoo. “RACER!” she’s crying out.
My fucking wife, taking me, my seed, everything I want to give her and giving me everything back.
I come inside her with a harsh growl, and Lana detonates when the spurts of my cum shoot up inside her walls. She trembles beneath me, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she arches up, clutching me as her lifeline.
She tucks her face into my neck when we’re done, and I run my nose along her hair, smelling and kissing her as I whisper that I love her.
“I love you,” she says, gripping my jaw and looking deeply into my eyes, tears glistening in hers. “Thank you for coming into my life. Thank you for being you. For showing me how to love again, and how to love like this …”
“Crasher,” I rasp, stroking my knuckles down her cheeks, “you’re the one who showed me how to love. And I’m never going to love anything or anyone the way I love you.”
It’s a vow. Like the ones we spoke in church, this one in a moment of intimacy when my wife’s sweet, malleable body is entwined with my larger one and is still gripping me inside her. Her cheeks are flushed, and I peck her lips every few minutes as we caress each other, relaxed and in fucking love.
Since Belgium, my BP seems stabilized, something I’m thankful for. Sometimes it’s like a shadow that’s with me wherever I go, there but not quite touching me. Others, it feels like it’s one that I can outrun. I’m learning to live with it, and so is she.
At some point in my life, I thought I was fucked by getting stuck with bipolar.
All I knew was that somewhere, somehow, some asshole had fucked me over in the health department. Taking something crucial for a normal man and making me less than what any normal man in the world was. I fought to be more. Better. Faster. Smarter. If only to fucking feel good enough. I managed well, thanks to the support of my family. And their acceptance. But it was her who changed my idea of this shit.
It’s easy for people to like you when you’re fine, when you’re fun, when you’re on top. But when you’re down and shit gets hard, only the true stuff remains. Who you are to the bone, not a lot of people can appreciate it, some of that shit can only be seen by someone with eyes that can really look deep. And see you. None of the other stuff.
This BP only makes me realize that the connection she and I have, the fucking love, the trust, the highs, and even the lows, what we have—isn’t for sissies. But Lana and me … What we have.
This love is real.
DEAR READERS,
Thanks so much for picking up Racer.
I always had a soft spot for Remy and Brooke’s son, and though I wasn’t sure when or how I would write his book, he took care of things quite easily. One morning he popped into my imaginary world, and from that moment on, just like his dad, he never let me go. I really hope you enjoyed his and Lana’s story as much as I did writing it.
XOXO,
Standalones:
TYCOON
RACER
White House series:
MR. PRESIDENT
COMMANDER IN CHIEF
Manwhore series:
MANWHORE
MANWHORE +1
MS. MANWHORE
LADIES’ MAN
WOMANIZER
Real series:
REAL
MINE
REMY
ROGUE
RIPPED
LEGEND
Although writing is a personal thing and sometimes quite a lonely profession, publishing is a whole other beast, and I couldn’t do it without the help and support of my amazing team. I’m grateful to you all.
To my family, I love you!
Thank you Amy and everyone at Jane Rotrosen Agency.
Thank you CeCe, Lisa, Anita, Nina, Kim, Angie, and Monica.
Thank you Nina, Jenn, and everyone at Social Butterfly PR …
Thank you Melissa,
Gel,
S&S Audio,
and my fabulous foreign publishers.
Special thanks to Sara at Okay Creations for the beautiful cover
and Julie for her wonderful formatting,
to bloggers for sharing and supporting my work throughout the years,
and readers—I’m truly blessed to have such an enthusiastic, cool crowd of people to share my books with. You are the greatest, for real!
New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author Katy Evans is the author of the Real, Manwhore, and White House series. She lives with her husband, two kids, and their beloved dogs. To find out more about her or her books, visit the sites below. She’d love to hear from you.
Website:
www.katyevans.net
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorKatyEvans
Twitter:
@authorkatyevans
Sign up for Katy’s newsletter:
http://www.katyevans.net/newsletter/
COPYRIGHT
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet without the publisher’s permission and is a violation of the international copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents, and places are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. Ebook copies may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share with a friend, please buy an extra copy, and thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Copyright © 2017 by Katy Evans
Cover design by Sara Hansen at Okay Creations
Interior formatting by JT Formatting
ISBN-13: 978-0-9972636-6-4
ISBN-13: (print) 9781635763546
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
PLAYLIST
THE BEST
CAR TROUBLE
PURRING
RACER EFFING TATE
TROPHY ROOM
FAMILY
FLIGHT
OFF LIMITS
FIRST TRACK DAY
QUALIFYING
HYPED
RACE
BREATHLESS
FLOWERS
FALL
ON
HIS ROOM
RESTLESS
TROPHY
TRAVELING
FUCK-UP
FRUSTRATIONS
HEADSET
REAL
NOT PERFECT
DRIVE
TRACK
DAD TALK
NOSE TO GEARBOX
MOVES
PENDULUM
BLACK HOLE
ITALY
NOTE
MEDICINE
MORNING
GOOD
MINE
FREEDOM
U.S. GRAND PRIX
PREPPING
HIM
OKAY, #38
P …
1
PACKING FOR HOME
BEST DRIVER IN THE WORLD
HIM
HER
DEAR READERS
TITLES BY KATY EVANS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT
COPYRIGHT