The claiming of my heart.
My God. The woman is my fucking kryptonite. How did this happen? How did I let her own me? More importantly and fucking shocking, I want her to own me.
Every fucking piece of me.
Game over baby.
She’s my motherfucking checkered flag.
“Don’t I get my good luck kiss?” Colton looks over and smirks at me as he pulls his lucky shirt over his head and throws it on the couch behind him. My God. The man knows how to knock the wind out of me. He stands before me, that arrogant as sin grin spreading his mouth wide and his eyes reflecting all of the dirty things he’d love to do to me right now.
And the thoughts are not unreciprocated.
“Good luck kiss? Or good luck…” I let my words trail off, raising my eyebrows at him, my eyes licking their way over the bronzed skin and defined lines of his naked torso and stopping at those completely devastating lips. I let my gaze rest on his amused sparks of green as he watches me appreciatively take in the sight of him.
He quirks his eyebrow up as he unties the loose sleeves of his fire suit around his waist. “Good luck what?” he teases as he takes a step toward me and leans over, bracing his hands on either side of the arms of my chair.
I look up at him and feel a million miles away from where the two of us were twenty-four hours ago. I feel like it was a really bad dream but am oddly glad it isn’t. There is something between us now, an ease or contentment I guess, that has shown us we can muddle through. That we can fight and love and despise, but in the end, we can find us again. That we can use each other’s pleasure to bury the pain.
“Not sure…I’ve never done this race thing before…” I smirk as I give into the temptation—take what really is mine now—and tease my fingertips up his chest and tickle them along his jaw until they find their way into his hair.
He dips his head down and captures my mouth with a languorous exploration of his tongue against mine. The slide of my fingertips over his skin. The hum of approval deep within his throat. My soft sigh he breathes in and deepens the kiss. He shows me how he feels about me with an underlying urgency and complete veneration.
The pounding on the motor home door has me jerking back from Colton and him swearing one of his favorites as he looks over at it. I look up at him and allow the emotions to flow through me, welcome them in their still dreamlike state. My achingly handsome rogue standing before me, really is mine.
“Showtime?” I ask on a sigh.
“Checkered flag time, baby.” He smirks and presses one last, chaste kiss against my lips. I catch him by surprise as I cup the back of his neck and slip my tongue between his lips and just take. Take everything I’ve needed and wanted and been too afraid to ask for over the past few months. And although I catch him by surprise, he gives unflinchingly without questioning. I end the kiss and pull back a fraction to look into his eyes—telling him without words how much he just gave me. A smile ghosts his lips, that lone dimple I love deepening, and he just shakes his head at me, trying to figure out what that was all about.
“Checkered flag time, baby.” I smile at him as I rise from the chair. He reaches behind him and tugs on a new T-shirt—an endorsement T-shirt—to wear beneath his fire suit now that the requisite lucky T-shirt has been worn for the superstitious allotted amount of time. I glance over at the clock and am struck by the nerves that start fluttering when I realize that there’s only a short time left before the cranking of the engines while he seems so calm and collected.
“Don’t worry,” Colton says bringing me back to the here and now, not realizing that I had pressed a hand to the butterflies in my stomach. “They’ll hit me the minute we walk out of the RV.” He points to my stomach and then nods his head toward the door before shoving a hat on his head. His lucky hat. And I smile softly when I realize it’s the same hat that he wore on our date to the carnival.
Mr.-I’m-So-Sure-Of-Myself wore his lucky hat on our first official date. As if my heart could swell any more.
“You ready?” he asks as he walks a few steps and then turns and holds his hand out to me.
“Hey, Ace?” Colton stops with the door ajar and looks back at me with curiosity. Time for me to show him just what’s waiting at the finish line. I’d found the skimpy pair of black and white checkered panties that have Revved and Raring embroidered across the butt at a little novelty store back at home. With the state of things between Colton and me, I’m not sure why I’d even brought them on the trip, but obviously with last night’s turn of events, I’m glad that I did. His eyes widen as I unzip my shorts and wiggle my hips, pushing them down so that he can see a hint of the lace and checkering on the fabric. “This is the only checkered flag you need, baby.”
His smile widens and the open door is forgotten as he strides two steps back toward me and yanks my body against his. He stops a moment and stares at me, mouths a whisper apart and emotion brimming in our eyes before he crashes his lips to mine in a kiss of pure hunger and carnality. He breaks away just as suddenly as he starts it and looks at me with a smirk. “You can bet your ass that’s one checkered flag I’m definitely claiming.”
I can feel it.
That complete certainty that hits you like a fucking freight train on very few days in your life. I have it today. I feel it today. It’s in the air circling around me as my head flickers here and there through what I need to do today when I hit the track and the rubber connects. Stay clear of Mason—the fucker’s got it out for me—like I knew he had his sights on that barfly last year. It’s not like he was waving a flag or anything staking his fucking claim. Bad blood is never good on the track. Never. Stay high and tight through turns two and three. Binders light. Pedal heavy. Bring it in low on one. I keep repeating my responsibilities in my head, over and over. My way of making sure that I don’t have to think down the chute. Just react.
Today I’m taking the checkered flag, and not just those dick hardening panties that fucking Rylee has on. Sweet Christ, am I claiming that flag. But I can feel it. Everything feels right with the world, and shit, maybe I’m being a pussy but that right feeling started when I woke up with Rylee wrapped in my arms, head nuzzled under my neck, lips pressed to my skin, and heart beating against mine.
Right where she’s supposed to be.
I take a bite of another of my pre-race superstitions—a Snicker’s bar—and look up to search her out. She’s sitting quietly out of the way toward a corner, and her eyes lock with mine immediately. Her lips form that shy smile that turns me motherfucking inside out, and instead of the fear that usually snakes through my system, I feel settled. At ease. Can you say fucking pussy to the whip? But you know what? I’m okay with it because I’m pretty sure she’ll be gentle with me. Won’t crack it too hard. Well, unless I want her to.
“Wood?” I turn and look at Beckett.
Now Becks on the other hand is still going to hand my ass back to me in a hand basket once the stress of this race is over and he realizes it’s minutes before a race and I’m thinking about my fucking voodoo pussy. My fucking Rylee.
I flash a quick smile at Ry before I turn to Becks. “Yup?” I say as I stand and begin the routine of zipping up my suit.