Racer (Real Book 7)

Lana

I’m still reeling. While people approach him, he cuts a path straight to me, his gaze penetrating and target-like; making me want to bolt.

His lips do that little upward tilt they do that seems so sexy, and for a second, I feel like I’m lightheaded.

I gulp, and then feel mad at myself for acting like some idiot as fucking devil-Racer Tate reaches me, throws himself into a seat next to me, and turns to look at me expectantly with the most gorgeous grin on his face.

I don’t know what to say.

This guy has left me sort of speechless.

“So …” I say, staring in the distance at his beat-up mustang, then at him.

“So …” he says too, in his deep voice, his smile a little more wicked than it was two seconds ago. He glances at my mouth.

Oh god.

Why am I licking my lips?

It only made his eyes narrow and darken.

I open my mouth to speak, failing to find words. He smells like sweat and soap and shampoo, and I feel my traitorous nipples push up to my top again. Why do they do that when he’s around?

“This is illegal,” I state.

His voice is husky from exertion, and his eyes glint with laughter. “That’s why it’s fun.”

I look away from his eyes, trying to focus and clear my head. He leans over and peers into my face, his face shadowed by the moonlight and his jaw now carrying a little scruff. “Are we in agreement?” he presses.

“No.” I glare and shake my head, meeting his cocky gaze. “You’re reckless, Racer.”

“So are you, Alana.”

“It’s just … Lana.”

His brows fly up in surprise. “And a bit of a liar too.”

I purse my lips, still glaring as my gaze goes back to his car. Girls are rubbing against it as if it were him, and I find it disgusting. Why are women always acting so slutty around race car drivers and bad boys?

“You crashed your car,” I say flippantly.

“You crashed my car,” he contradicts, amused.

I laugh, then scowl in his direction. “You crashed it more. I can’t believe you were making such a fuss about me crashing into you when it was just a little kiss—”

He leans in to peck my lips—fast but firmly. “That’s a kiss.”

I lose my breath.

My eyes wide.

He eases back, lips smiling as he comes to his feet and stretches his hand out to take me by the elbow and help me to my feet.

“Let’s get out of here.” He starts walking, leading the way.

“And go where?”

“Anywhere I can get my hands on you.” He’s serious. His hand is sliding into the back of my neck and I feel tiny as he guides me forward by the nape.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” I breathe, looking sideways at his profile.

He smirks, shooting me a sidelong glance. “I know exactly what to do with you.”

I gulp.

He studies me with a growing smirk, his eyes fierce and savage as he tugs me closer and closer to him with that hand. He’s guiding me to the parking lot. To my car. “Have your keys?” he asks.

I nod dumbly and unlock the car.

He eases me into the back of my car, following me in and shutting the door behind me. Suddenly I can smell sweat and warm guy, all too close to me.

He pulls me up a little close to his very hard, muscled side, his eyes trekking up my neck, to my jaw. “I wanted to taste you the second I saw you,” he husks out as he runs his big palm down my arm.

“Why would—”

He leans his dark head, and his tongue is in my mouth.

He touches my lips lightly, moving and parting them beneath his, and I’m going to stop him any second now, except oh my fucking god!

He kisses me for ten seconds, and when we pause for air, I try, I really try, to grab some while I can.

His eyes are really blue, really dark and really beautiful. He’s looking at me in ways I’ve never been stared at before, his eyes trekking my whole face, and for just a second I want to pretend I’m just a girl. I missed the parties, the make-outs, the guys, and suddenly here is this guy and I feel so drawn to him I’m trembling.

He drags me to his lap, and he’s so hard I’m turning to putty in his hands.

He leans over. I stutter when he reaches out and takes a strand of my hair, leaning in. To give me …

The most ferocious kiss I’ve ever been given in my whole life.

“Who the fuck are you, huh?” He covers my face with one hand, and stares down at me, smiling against my mouth, inhaling hard.

“Who the fuck are you?” I breathe.

My wet dream or my worst nightmare?

He presses his mouth to mine, a little more tenderly, sliding his fingers into my hair. He starts to kiss me again, tonguing me really hungrily, as if he needs me to live.

I feel myself melt, my whole body respond and vibrate in the most pleasant ways.

There’s a knock on the window. “Dude. The prize is … ahem. Outside.”

As we hear a guy speak outside, Racer glances past my shoulders at that someone who knocked, then at me with a curl of his lips. “We’ve got spectators. Want to take this somewhere more quiet?” he asks.

“Where?” I ask, breathless.

Horny.

Out of my goddamned mind.

“Somewhere I can have my hands on you nonstop,” is all he says.

I blink, sort of woozy at the idea of it.

He pulls me close, and plants a soft kiss on me—again our tongues hungrily meeting. My eyes shut as I feel myself float in his hot embrace and demanding mouth, then I open my eyes and stare into those gorgeous blue eyes of his.

I need this so much I can’t even breathe. But I manage to whisper, “I have a hotel room.”

His voice is also low, husky with arousal, and his eyes look heavy and half-lowered as he looks at me. “Works for me. I can’t wait to see you in bed, crasher.” He cups the back of my head, nuzzling my face with his nose and jaw before he eases back and looks at me with hot eyes.

He reaches for the door.

We step out of the car and he shelters me from the crowd as he takes my keys, ushers me to the passenger door, then goes around and slides behind the wheel. He ignites the car.

“You still need to fix my car,” he says warningly, eyes straight ahead as he drives to my hotel, a smile curving his mouth.

“No, I haven’t agreed you’re the best driver in the world yet.”

“Best kisser too.”

“Really.”

“Baby …” he rolls his eyes.

“I don’t agree on that either,” I lie, shaking my still-woozy head. He laughs quietly, and then we ride in silence with my mind going a thousand miles a minute wondering if I’m going to regret this. Why am I doing this? My mind still on the cherry-red mustang—and the motherfucking, crazy-ass devil behind the wheel.

He’s the best street racer I’ve ever seen. My heart is still wanting to leap out of my throat.

How long has it been since I’ve seen driving like that?

Have I ever—ever—seen driving like that? Certainly not in the streets. And if this guy—the guy I found on the internet, Racer Tate, can do what he just did with a mustang, I can’t even begin to imagine what he can do with an F1 engine.

On my flight here I couldn’t sleep for fear I wouldn’t find anyone good enough. Promising enough.

Now I doubt I’ll get sleep tonight wondering if I’ve found him and whether I have balls enough to actually go get him.

Street cars aren’t like F1 cars. They drive differently, and while one guy can dominate one kind of car, he can totally fail at another.

And not only that, but …

There’s some sort of weird chemistry leaping between us that I can’t deny. Yes, maybe I need to get laid, but maybe working with a guy I’m so attracted to isn’t the best idea.

He’s so damn good I can’t imagine not asking him to come with us. I’m nervous when he asks for my hotel name and drives me there, and still nervous as he parks my car and comes open the door to my side. I rub my clammy hands together as I step out, aware of his eyes raking me hungrily, top to bottom.

“Come here.” He reaches out to shut the door behind me and tug me towards him with his free hand. “Come here,” he rasps again, his gaze intense and so hungry he looks down at me like a lion as he reels me in, looking so hungry I’m shaking in my knees. “Come up on your toes and kiss me.”

“Why,” I breathe.

A brief smile. “Because I asked you to.”

“You’re arrogant and self-centered.”

“You’ve seen nothing, baby. Come on. Do it.”

I hesitate.

He smiles, grabs my ass, lifts me, sets me on the hood of my car in the hotel parking lot, devours my mouth visually with his eyes as he leans over and brushes my mouth with his, and then proceeds to devour it with his mouth too. “I wanted to let you take it easy, do it your way. So you don’t. We do it my way now,” he rasps menacingly, locking his mouth with mine again.

He kisses me for a whole minute.

Hotly.

Perfectly.

Completely.

I like his way better but I’ll never admit it out loud.

His smile fades as he eases back to let us catch our breaths; his eyes shadow darkly as his gaze trails my face slowly, almost in amusement but also with something really sober there too. “Fuck, you turn me on.” His eyes gleam brilliant as he helps me down, takes my hand, and leads me toward the lobby.

He laughs to himself and shakes his head. “You had to be staying in this hotel, didn’t you?” he asks me with a small frown.

I frown, not understanding what he’s saying.

He clenches my hand in his and leads me toward the revolving doors. And I can feel the gut he put in his driving in the way he’s commanding me, in the certainty of his stride and the way he holds my hand as if it’s his to hold.

He leads us to the elevator bank when out of the corner of my eye I see the young girl who was with him at the IndyCar track.

She runs over from the end of the lobby while her father—his father—follows more calmly.

“I thought you’d meet us after dinner with her!” she says, eyes wide.

Racer looks down at her, his eyes sliding to his father, and then back at her.

“We ran late.” He looks at me, and I realize his family maybe doesn’t know about the illegal race tonight. He told his family he was … having dinner with me?

“Iris, this is Lana. Dad. Lana, my sister and my dad,” Racer says in an exasperated tone, as if he knows there’s no getting around it.

“Nice to meet you.” I smile at his sister and then his handsome dad. “We’re done though,” I quickly add, smiling as I pry my hand free of Racer’s hold.

This was insane—what I was about to do.

Seeing his family look at him in concern, and me in interest (as if they want to know who I am to him) only makes me remember my own.

“Thank you for dinner,” I tell Racer, and I can see the shadows in his eyes as I step into the elevator alone and hold his gaze as the elevator door closes.

His angry

Lust-filled

Possessive

Gaze.

I lean back on the elevator mirror and exhale.

“Fuck,” I groan.

I was about to go to bed with the guy and then what? I didn’t come here for a fling, I came here for a driver, and Tate is a damn good one too.

I pull out my key and head to my room, then shut myself inside and pace the shit out of the carpet.

Focus, Lana! I scold myself, trying to calm down my body.

After a few minutes, I feel more sane and go through what I found.

Racer Tate. He reportedly started street-racing when he was eighteen … his talent blew everyone out of the water. But he was difficult, and he didn’t play well with others. Off the track, he got in a fight with one of his competitors when he took Racer out on the first curve. Racer didn’t like it. It was all over the news—he was arrested—his parents intervened—he moved from Seattle to St. Petersburg and “cleaned” his act. Until he was spotted racing and the rumors began.

Apparently he now travels the country, looking for races, and keeping some home races very tight and secretive.

All I know is that this guy is not just a star, he’s a comet, someone with rare talent that is near impossible to find. Sometimes there are drivers that when you watch them drive, you know they are destined for greatness. This guy is one of them. Sometimes, some people just have it, and it hangs over them like a bright light that makes everyone else stop and take notice.

But does he have it to shine in F1?

He’s ballsy. A little bit of extra ball, but that makes a good driver, and he’s so damn smart and fast. If he did this with a mustang … but am I really thinking of putting this guy behind the wheel of one of my father’s cars?

Yes. Yes I am.

But for a hot little second I wonder if I’m thinking with my brain or with whatever’s tingling between my legs.

Before I know it, I call the concierge and say my friend Racer Tate’s family is staying here and I need to return his cell phone. They give me the room number, and nervously, I dial. Hoping he’ll be there.

His sister’s voice answers.

“Yea?”

“Is … Racer available?”

She groans and I hear her march across the room and whisper out in a hiss, “One of your damn groupies.”

“Why the fuck did you say I was here, Jesus,” he growls in complaint, picking up the phone. “Yeah?” He sounds exasperated.

“Racer?”

There’s a silence.

“Where are you?” he husks out.

“I … um …”

“Give me your room number,” he growls quietly into the receiver.

“No. If I give it to you, you’ll spend the night, and that can’t happen. I’ve had time to … collect myself.” I exhale.

Silence. Then, “It’ll take me one second to uncollect you, Lana.”

Oh god. This man will be the total explosion of my ovaries.

“That’s why I won’t tell you and even if you found out, I’m not opening the bolt so don’t even try,” I warn, still feeling hot inside and unable to quench the way my hormones respond to his voice on the other end of the line.

“I want to talk to you seriously,” I add. “There’s a … I’ve been in town before. I knew someone who lived here. Would you meet me at the museum of Seth Rothschild tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll be there,” he growls.