Racer (Real Book 7)

Racer

“… thank you for the interview, Racer Tate. And that was Racer Tate! This year’s Formula One champion, live with us! At the Abu Dhabi Formula One championship …”

I head to the motorhome to change, and I realize I’ve got a bazillion calls from Seattle. I shower, dress in my jeans and a plain tee, then I hop on Skype to connect with my parents.

“Racer!! My boy!” My mom is practically yelling, her face blotchy. “I am so proud I haven’t stopped crying!” She seems so emotional as she presses a Kleenex to her face and buries her face in my dad’s chest.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, amused as shit.

My dad? He’s fucking grinning ear to ear.

The pride in his eyes, the pride is basically oozing off him as he looks at me across the screen.

“You make me proud, you know that? You make me proud. If I did nothing right in this damned life, the day I die, I’ll die happy, because you and your sister? Me and your mom did you right.”

I’m fucking wordless. I nod in silence, a language my dad understands well since he’s not someone you’d call expressive.

I feel my jaw flex while I handle this emotion—the fucking happiness of making your parents truly proud. I end up promising to see them soon before I disconnect, then I sit there and digest shit for the next minute.

I won.

We. Fucking. WON.

I picture Lana, and her big green eyes, staring up at me in amazement. Suddenly, I want her whole damn face to be soft and wanton and her lips open as she gasps and writhes beneath me tonight, and I want my hands to run down all her sweet curves, and then my tongue, tasting and exploring every damn inch of her until I get my fill of her and fill her up with me. Yeah, and I want her fingers in my hair, or on the back of my neck, caressing my goddamn chest—I want her as turned on with me tonight as she seemed about this win. I want her sopping wet—and the mere thought of what’s in store for me tonight has me throbbing in my jeans as I finally get to my feet and storm out of the motorhome.

The Heyworths drive us to a five-star restaurant nearby.

“How do you feel, champion?” Lana asks as she takes my hand and leads me to the restaurant entrance. “Do you feel hot?”

“Hot as shit.” I run my eyes over her to let her know exactly what I mean.

“You amazed me today,” she breathes.

“That was for you and your dad.” I lift her hand and kiss the back of it.

“I would totally race back for you.”

“Is that riiight?” I croon down at her as we walk inside, not certain she’s the ideal person to race anything that actually moves.

“That’s right,” she says effusively, nodding up and down.

“I better give you some driving lessons then,” I murmur, smiling as my mind begins concocting a plan.

They lead us to the back, into a large private room with a huge table set at its center. “I booked us a private room for the whole team,” Lana explains.

I’m wondering why the excitement in her voice keeps mounting when she beams and signals to a sign hanging on the wall. Its background is white, and it covers the wall, side to side, and written in red, the color of both Kelsey and my mustang, are the bold letters stating:

“BEST DRIVER IN THE WORLD”

I’m damn surprised, to say the least, and a wave of satisfaction settles over me as I slide my eyes back to her wide, expectant green ones.

My hormones go out of control.

She smiles at me, and the space between us is on fire, like her eyes. Like my goddamned veins and soul.

“Surprise!” she says, motioning to the room in general and, especially, the sign.

I frown down at her and warn, “You’re going to have to say it eventually.”

“I know,” she says with that smile of mischief.

I raise my brow as I pull out her chair and lower myself beside her, my eyes trailing over that little outfit she wears. She dropped the jeans in favor of a little red dress that reveals her legs and her tiny waist. Somehow Lana manages to make even the simplest clothes seem goddamn sexy—every piece of clothing on her makes me want to rip it off her.

She brazenly devours me with her gaze as I sit down.

“That was fucking crazy, what you did back there, crazy,” Drake says as the waiters start filling our glasses with champagne.

“Pushing the car like that.” Adrian’s eyes are bugging out as he snatches up his glass. “You’re a fucking maniac and a goddamned miracle.”

“I was scared,” Lana breathes, looking at me with a mix of emotions—mostly concern and lust. When she runs her little pink tongue along her bottom lip nervously and moves her head in consent, I’m fucking done for.

I lean over and whisper, “I had it, baby,” and watch with pure joy as her blush runs up her neck and cheeks.

“Still. What you did was so risky … you kept going faster and faster, and I kept worrying the gearbox would fail completely.”

She faces me with a look of bewilderment on her face, and I clench my fists at my sides because all I can do is sit here like an idiot while the thought of losing me seems to be tearing her apart.

“There’s always risk in anything worth doing, and it’s a risk I’m willing to take.” My voice comes out possessive, protective, because I need her to know that for her, I’d risk anything.

She bites down on her lip and reaches out to grab part of my thigh, and her concern for me wrecks me up. I’m more wound up than a knotted rope from the need to reach out, put my hands on her waist, lift her up in the air and force her down so that her lips land hard on mine.

“Promise me you won’t do that again,” she pleads.

“Lana,” I growl when she asks that of me.

“Promise me, Racer.”

I reach out, every instinct inside me demanding me to appease her, to remind her that she’s my girl—that she is mine, and that we will be in this together.

“I fucking promise I won’t do it—unless I have to.”

I shoot her a look that demands that she trust me. That reminds her I want something more than those damn trophies that will grace the shelves of my place in St. Pete later on.

I want her as partner, in every sense of the word. And I want her on my side, as I’ll try to understand and listen to hers.

I hold her gaze—until the sheer joy takes over our faces as the reality falls on us like a light beam.

“Baby, we got P1! FUCKING GOD, WE DID IT!” I growl, pulling her up and into my arms, tossing her up in the air and catching her, and the whole damn table is yelling when Clayton yells, “To RACER FUCKING TATE GOING DOWN IN THE HISTORY BOOKS!”

“TATE, TATE, TATE!” they chant as they slam their palms to the table in tune.

“No,” I say, setting down a giggling Lana onto her feet and pinning her to my side as I make eye contact with her father, brothers, and the rest of the mechanics in the room. “To HW Racing,” I say. “To HW Racing, and Mr. Heyworth!” I raise my glass to her dad.

We all guzzle down our drinks, and soon we’re having dinner, talking racing and recounting the good—and bad—of the season. Lana’s father soon calls it a night and returns to the hotel with Adrian, and my impatience grows from a simmer to a boil. After one last sip, I set my glass down, and mid-sip, Lana looks at me and I take her drink and set it down, too.

I lean closer to explain as succinctly as I can. “It’s time for me to claim my prize,” I husk out, smiling down at her.

I could fuck the wanton look she sends my way.

Whistles follow us to the door, and Lana is red, head to toe, but her dad has called it a night and I’m claiming my girl.

By the time we reach our hotel room, I’m close to busting the zipper of my jeans. My cock is so full and hard it feels like lead—hell even my balls feel like lead.

We kiss our way to the bed, and then we stop to look at each other—and hell, do I enjoy looking at this girl. My girl.

I place my hand on her hipbone, pinning her in place as I lean down and nibble a path up her neck. She squirms, and the scent of wet pussy reaches me—the sweetest scent I’ve ever smelled is coming from between her legs, because she fucking wants me like I want her.

I’m burning up as I shift above her, my cock grazing her thighs. The contact shoots a bolt of lightning down my spine, and I growl and pin her back down so she stops teasing me, adding fuel to a fire I can barely control.

My gut is twisted up with wanting for her as I finally reach her lips and I open them with mine, not interested in being a goddamned Casanova with her, only interested in her taste—having every goddamned inch of her mouth for me—making her move and beg and squirm and ache for me—and my kiss becomes wilder as her hands wander up the muscles of my arms and her mouth opens beneath mine.

I reach down to her wet panties and begin to tug them off, but get too impatient and rip them off instead. Lana lets out a surprised gasp, which I promptly smother with my mouth. Fitting my lips back dominatingly on hers, I tongue her deeply as I cup her pussy in my hand and begin to let my fingers wander. Desperate to explore and memorize her.

I find her clit and roll it in circles beneath the pad of my thumb, and my balls tighten in arousal when her hips start jerking upward as if on their own, as if desperate for more. I smile down at her, catching her startled, lust-crazed gaze before I bend down and lap up her taste. And for the next hour Lana knows of nothing but this. Me. Racer fucking Tate.