She offered up a heartfelt smile when the waiter retreated. “Thank you.”
“You can thank me by getting a goddamn move on. If I don’t get out of here soon, my dick is going to explode.”
Her gaze dropped south, and then her eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Yes, oh. Watching you eat that dessert was a fucking religious experience for me, too. The entire time, the only thing running through my head was ‘Jesus Christ.’”
I slid out of the seat and captured her hand, the extra room afforded me by being upright providing a welcome relief. As we waited for the car in the cool night air, my dick deflated—thank God—but the second we found ourselves in the confined cabin, blood rushed to my groin once more.
I shoved the car into gear and hit the gas. It surged into the traffic.
Madison gripped the sides of her seat. “Jesus, Tate. You’re not on the racetrack now.”
“Sorry,” I muttered. I needed to take her home, then get myself home and jack off. If I didn’t relieve this pressure soon, I might find myself permanently damaged. Blue balls were not a pleasant experience.
Twenty minutes later, most of that traveled in silence because I needed all my concentration to negotiate the busy London streets while tamping down on an urgent need to come, I pulled up outside Madison’s apartment building.
She unclipped her seat belt. “Want to come up for a coffee?”
I grazed her cheek with the back of my hand. “We both know it wouldn’t end with coffee.”
“Is that so bad?” she asked, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
“You’re not ready,” I replied, inwardly cursing the sensible part of me that wouldn’t let me take her up on her offer. “If I come up with you now, I’m going to spend all night fucking you, and I guarantee you’ll wake up tomorrow with a head full of regrets. It wasn’t five minutes ago that you professed to despise me. You need more time. I don’t want a fling with you, Madison. I want something deeper, more meaningful, and only when you’re ready for the same thing.”
I curved a hand around the back of her neck and drew her to me. I fully intended the kiss to be chaste, but the second our lips touched, I couldn’t control myself. I kissed her passionately, forcefully, wrapping my tongue around hers. My chest heaved, my lungs screaming for air, but I didn’t stop. Hell, I couldn’t stop.
I unhooked my seat belt and shuffled closer. My free hand brushed the side of her breast. She covered my hand with her own and moved it until I cupped her. I flicked my thumb over her nipple, unable to get as close as I’d like through her clothes, but she clearly felt it because she moaned.
No. This had to stop. I pulled away, my chest heaving. “See what I mean?”
She was panting, too, and even in the dim light her flushed cheeks were visible. “Are you sure you don’t want to come up?”
I laughed. “I’m trying to be honorable.” I leaned across and opened her door, then kissed her again. “Now go.”
She smiled. “Thank you for tonight, Tate. I had a great time. I’ll see you in Hockenheim.”
I frowned. “When are you flying over?”
“A week on Wednesday.”
“That’s nine days away. I’ve got a few commitments between now and then, press stuff mainly, but I kind of hoped to see you before Hockenheim.”
Her face lit up. “Oh, yeah, sure. If you want to, that is.”
I grinned. “I’ll call you. Now get out before I change my mind.”
I waited until she got safely inside the building, then drove away. I broke every speed limit on the way home. Fortunately, I didn’t pick up a ticket. I hurled the car into my allocated parking space and strode into the private lift that went directly to my penthouse. The second the doors closed, I unzipped my jeans.
Blessed fucking relief.
By the time I reached the bathroom, I’d already shed my clothes. I flicked on the shower and stepped into the stall without even waiting for the water to warm up. The cold had no impact on my raging erection. The head of my cock was swollen almost beyond recognition, and my balls were tight against my body. I wrapped my hand around my length and stroked, estimating I’d last less than a minute.
I didn’t even make it to thirty seconds.
After I’d come, I’d expected relief, but my persistent dick barely deflated. I showered quickly and dried off, but by the time I’d climbed beneath the sheets, my erection returned. The problem was, I didn’t need my hand. I needed Madison’s pussy.
Urgh. Maybe I should have taken her up on her offer, even though it was blindingly obvious she needed more time. She’d come around too fast, especially given her antipathy toward me over the last two years. I kept waiting for a backlash, and therefore, fucking her on our first date wouldn’t be fair to her. She’d regret it and ultimately hate me.
I closed my eyes and went over the Hockenheim racetrack in my mind, a track I knew well and had experienced great success there in the past. In my mind’s eye, I sat in the cockpit and traveled through every corner, down each straight, the roar of the crowd audible over the throaty growl of the engines. On the third imaginary lap, my dick finally relented, and I could get some damned sleep.
I woke to the sound of my phone ringing. Squinting through one eye, I groaned. I answered with a curt, “Hello, Mother.”
Suffice to say I didn’t have a great relationship with my parents. For years they’d made it clear I ranked as the number two child, the spare. Only after Cam had died had they turned their attention to me. My lingering bitterness was hardly surprising. Still, I might not have been free to follow my dreams of a career in medicine, but at least racing allowed me to do the next best thing. Not that I’d ever share details of what I spent my money on with my parents. They wouldn’t be interested anyway.
“You didn’t call after the race on Sunday,” she said, her voice dripping ice.
No “Good morning, my beautiful son. How are you?” or “Congratulations on your win. We’re so proud of you.” It was strange really. Years of experience had taught me that love and praise wouldn’t be forthcoming, but still, somewhere deep inside me, in a part that had never quite grown up, I continued to hope I might win the love of my parents.
Such a futile dream.
“Correct, I didn’t.”
She huffed, irritated. “Would you care to tell me why?”
Not really.
“I had a shitload of press to do, and I was tired.”
“Language please, Tate,” she scolded as if I was ten instead of almost thirty. “You could have called yesterday but you didn’t then either.”
Ah, yesterday. I almost sighed out loud as the feel of Madison’s lips, the firmness of her breast, the little sound she’d made when she’d become aroused entered my mind. I had an urge to call her. To do that, I needed to placate my mother, otherwise this call would last much longer. Whenever I showed irritation and a desire to cut her infrequent phone calls short, she’d make them last longer on purpose, to punish me.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I was out at the track doing some testing ahead of Hockenheim.”
Not a total lie. I did spend time at the track, testing the strength of Madison’s dislike toward me.
Aaaand the test results were very successful.
“Oh, well, good. It’s important to keep the pressure up. That American isn’t far behind.”
“Jared, Mother,” I ground out, barely managing to keep the annoyance from my voice. “His name is Jared.”
“Whatever,” she said, and I could almost imagine her dismissively slicing her hand through the air.
“Did you have a specific reason to call?”
She snorted. “Can’t a mother ring her son without there being an ulterior motive?”
I refrained from replying in the negative. Mother always had an ulterior motive.
When I met her question with silence, she continued. “If you must know, I wanted to remind you about tomorrow night.”
I frowned and put my phone
on speaker so I could access my calendar. When I spotted the offending entry, I couldn’t help expelling a groan.
“So, you had forgotten?” she said. “Really, Tate, what does that personal assistant of yours do? She’s completely incompetent. I’ll happily fire her if you can’t find the courage to.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” I snapped. Zoey was amazing, but my mother hated her. Probably because Zoey stood up to the old witch.
“I’ll expect you at eight then,” she said. “Don’t be late.”
It was a good thing she immediately hung up, because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to filter my reply. I tossed my phone aside and scrubbed my face. Every two months, my mother held a dinner for a few business acquaintances, and she expected, no, demanded, I attend. I hated going. My parents chose these events to clarify my shortcomings when compared with Cam, and although I should be immune to their contempt by now, it stung.
I despised the fact their cruel words still smarted. I didn’t want to admit that they could still hurt me.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, they usually invited their close friends, Charles and Arabella Scott-Jones, a couple of vacuous socialites, and their insipid daughter, Daphne, who my mother and Arabella had decided would be a perfect antidote to my philandering ways. Daphne would drop her knickers and spread her legs in a heartbeat. Me, on the other hand… urgh. No thanks. She had a pretty enough exterior, but nothing under the hood, so to speak. I’d choose brains over beauty any day of the week.
Madison had both—in abundance.
The stirrings of a plan formed in my mind. I hadn’t taken a date to one of Mother’s gatherings since she picked out Daphne as my future wife—like that was ever going to happen—because it wasn’t worth the ensuing argument. Plus, I hadn’t cared enough about any of my dates to force the issue.
Until now.
Madison had changed all that.
I picked up my phone and called her.
“Hello,” she said, her voice drowsy with sleep.
My mind immediately conjured up an image of her in bed, stretching, her breasts thrusting upward, legs writhing. My morning wood strengthened into something with promise.
I see another hand job in my very near future.
“What are you wearing?” I asked.
“Tate?”
She sounded a lot more awake now. I wondered if she’d answered the phone with her eyes closed. If she had, I didn’t like how sultry she sounded. Who had she been expecting to call?
“It’s early.”
“Is it?” I glanced at my watch. Six-fifteen. Goddamn my bloody mother. She’d deliberately rung me so early. “Sorry, I didn’t realize. Do you want me to call back?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m usually up by now anyway.”
“So, what are you wearing?” I asked again.
She chuckled. “Flannel pajamas.”
“Liar.”
“Incorrect. They’re blue check. Aww, were you hoping I’d say a negligee? A black one? No, wait, a bright, tarty red one.”
Could the woman read minds? How did she know that? I was such a cliché, not that I’d admit that to Madison.
“I thought you’d be more of a camisole and shorts kind of girl actually.”
“Now who’s the liar,” she said, laughing. “Why are you up so early anyway?”
“It’s difficult to sleep with a boner.”
She laughed again, a sound I’d started to crave. I pictured her, sitting up in bed, her knees curled into her chest, crinkles around her eyes, wide, broad smile, straight white teeth, a hint of pink tongue.
Fuck, I needed to get laid. Correction, I needed to lay her. If I hadn’t been so magnanimous last night, I wouldn’t have painful balls this morning. For all I knew, a one-off might have scratched the itch, although I doubted it. I’d bet that screwing Madison would only intensify my appetite.
I took hold of my dick and stroked.
“I’ll have a copy of Playboy sent over, see if that helps,” she said.
“I’ll settle for a picture of you right now, even if you are wearing grandma pajamas.”
“Sorry, but these bad boys are for my eyes only.”
“Good thing I’ve got a fantastic imagination then.” Another stroke had me biting back a groan.
“As much fun as this is, are you going to tell me why you’ve woken me up at such an ungodly hour?”
The untimely reminder about Mother’s stupid dinner deflated my hard-on. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Nothing, I don’t think. Hang on, I’ll check my calendar.” A pause. I could hear her breathing, slow, steady. “Nope, my diary is clear.”
“Not now it isn’t.”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked, a hint of excitement to her tone.
Sadly, I was about to disappoint her. It might be selfish to introduce her to the toxic environment that doubled as my parents’ house, but I needed her by my side to stand a chance of surviving an evening with my overbearing mother and distant father. Not to mention Daphne fawning all over me.
I shuddered as I recalled the last dinner a couple of months ago. Daphne had cornered me on my way back from the bathroom. She’d made her intentions very clear. Translation: she’d greeted me completely naked and asked me, bluntly, how much longer I planned to keep her waiting.
I wasn’t the type of guy who could be cruel for the sake of it, but the time had come to send a very clear message to Daphne.
Not gonna happen, sweetheart.
And I’d chosen Madison to help me convey that message.
“My mother hosts a dinner every few months. It’s not a huge gathering, maybe thirty or so people, but it’s become a kind of tradition. I want you to come with me.”
I held my breath, waiting for the excuses to start rolling in. I would, in her position. In fact, had there been a straight-up choice between attending another one of these insufferable evenings or sticking a needle in the end of my dick, I’d be on my way to the nearest haberdashery shop right this second. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a choice. Believe me, I’d tried to get out of these events on several occasions. I’d soon learned that the retaliation from my mother simply wasn’t worth the aggravation. She played the role of wounded victim to perfection.
“You want me to meet your family?” Madison said, surprise evident in the way her voice rose at the end of her sentence.
“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “Once you’ve met them, you’ll likely run a mile and never want to see me again.”
She giggled softly. “I’d love to come.”
“Great,” I replied, relieved. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Madison
I’d forgotten to ask Tate about the dress code, but given he came from money, and he’d mentioned a significant number of guests, I plumped for an emerald-green cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline. I considered it to be an appropriate length—right on the knee—and I paired it with silver heels and a matching clutch bag. I’d even attempted to put my hair up in a chignon. It wouldn’t win any prizes for hairstyle of the year, but I hadn’t completely disgraced myself either.
I finished the ensemble with a pair of diamond stud earrings, a gift from my parents when I’d graduated medical school, and a silver heart-shaped pendant from Dean that he’d bought me for my twenty-first birthday present. He’d spent a month washing cars in our neighborhood to afford it, because he loved me that much.
My heart clenched, and a wave of grief stole my breath. It was so odd, the times it hit me, usually when I least expected it. Clinging on to the back of the chair, I waited for the ache in my chest to pass. Dean was the first person I’d ever loved and lost—both my maternal and paternal grandparents died before my fourth birthday—and I hadn’t been prepared for the physical agony that came from losing someone so special. Even now, two years later, the pain could still bowl me over.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror wondering, not for the first time, whether dati
ng Tate meant I’d betrayed Dean. Tate had shattered my beliefs in his culpability for Dean’s passing so easily that I couldn’t help thinking Dean would be disappointed by such weakness. When I’d mentioned this to Kaz after I’d called to tell her about tonight, she’d scoffed.
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Mads,” she’d said. “All that’s happening is that you’re finally realizing Tate wasn’t to blame for what happened to Dean. He made the decision to get into the car and race that day all by himself. Tate being his hero was irrelevant. The only reason you blamed Tate was because it helped you to focus your grief of losing Dean, but there was no foundation for it, hence nothing for Tate to shatter. All he needed to do was show you who he really is, which is actually a terrific guy.”
I took a deep breath and sighed. So much truth in her words, yet I still stood by my beliefs that Tate could do more than simply pocket a huge income from his driving and his sponsorship deals, and direct some of that into the right message. I intended to use his clear attraction to me to achieve my goals, and I refused to feel one iota of guilt over that objective.
At precisely seven-thirty, Tate knocked on my door. I’d fast come to the conclusion that he was a stickler for punctuality, which wasn’t too surprising given what he did for a living. He couldn’t exactly turn up an hour late to a race.
I gave myself a final once-over in the mirror, then drew back the door.
Whoa.
Talk about hot.
Tate was wearing a tuxedo. Actually, wearing was the wrong description. Tate rocked the tuxedo, and rocked my world at the same time. My mouth emptied of saliva. Damn, the man scrubbed up well. And he’d had a haircut. He’d retained his trademark stubble, but it suited him. Clean-shaven Tate wouldn’t look right.
“I’m glad I guessed the dress code,” I said, hoping a hint of humor would cover up my obvious drooling.
“I knew you would.” He stepped into me, his arms curving around my waist. “Have you got a spare lipstick?”
I frowned at the odd question. “Yes, in my bag.”
“Good.”
Gridlock: Full Velocity Series - Book 2 Page 8
