I shrug. "Maybe." Definitely. "You won fair and square." No hard feelings, man. Well, except for the hard feelings in my pants, but I'm going to get those taken care of.
As I'm turning away, Biggs says, "Hey, quick question for you."
Fuck, I hope it's quick. "Yeah?"
"You happy on Gordon's team?"
I'm not sure what question I was expecting him to ask, but that one sure wasn't on the list. "It's a ride," I answer carefully, trying to figure out why he's asking the question. Is he looking to jump teams? Worried that I'm looking to jump teams and might threaten his ride? Both seem unlikely. Biggs is the biggest name on the circuit (and if he was born with that last name, he's the luckiest fucker on the planet because the endorsement deals alone are worth millions) and a second-place finish in this year's championship isn't going to change that. "Better than privateering."
Herrera grunts in amusement with a meaningful side-eye at Biggs. "Not what I'd call a ringing endorsement."
"A steady paycheck, all my expenses covered, and prize money." Hell, I made three grand today by finishing second without spending a dime of my own. (The other three grand goes to Darnell. That's been our deal since day one and I'm not changing it just because we're both getting a salary now.) Still, what's not to like? Sure, I have to put up with Paul's bullshit now and then, but it's been worth it so far.
"Yeah," Biggs says, "we all feel the same way. But what if you could have all that and have more control of the day-to-day operation of the team?"
I knew this was not going to be quick. "What are you getting at?" Cut to the chase.
"Just exploring my options now that you're kicking my ass and Herrera here isn't far behind."
Like a cartoon character, the lightbulb goes on over my head. "You're thinking of starting your own team?"
"It's crossed my mind. But only if I can put together the right group of people."
My eyebrow twitches. "And I'm in that group?"
"You and Alex and a couple other riders I think would draw out the sponsors, but I also want guys like Darnell." Something on my face must give away my surprise at that statement, because Biggs snorts and adds, "You don't think anyone's noticed that you get more torque and horsepower with the same displacement than anybody else? Or that no one's noticed you barely know one end of a wrench from the other?"
I hold up my hands in surrender. "You got me there. Without Darnell, I'd be lucky to finish in the top half of the pack. But I still don't get it. Don't you want to be the headliner of your own team?"
Biggs blows out a heavy breath. "C'mon, we both know I've got two, maybe three years left as a rider. Tops. The way you and Alex are breathing down my neck, maybe less. I don't need to be the star anymore. Been there, done that, ripped the T-shirt. I'm looking for another way to make a mark, and maybe that's by building a team that's not just a team in name only. What do you think?"
I think I'm late.
But I'm also interested. Being on a team with a heavy-hitter like Biggs without having to worry about showing him up because he's the number one rider could have a lot of perks. And Paul's not exactly paying top dollar. No way I'm committing to anything now, though.
"When do you need an answer?"
"I don't need an answer at all. Not yet. Just testing the waters."
I glance at Herrera, who's been nursing his beer—Corona, I see, so slightly better swill—while Biggs and I talk. "What about you? You in?"
"Considering it," he says. "But I'd be more likely to go if you and Darnell do."
"You just want my mechanic."
"Damn straight."
"You guys should be romancing him, not me."
Biggs cracks a grin. "I tried. He told me I had to convince you."
I'm going to have to smack Darnell upside the head the next time I see him. Assuming I can reach. He's a damn fool if he turns down a better offer on my account. And after I smack him, I'll have to get all blubbery and sentimental over the fact that he never will.
"Let's talk about it again when you have more details, then." I gesture at the elevator behind me with my thumb. "Gotta get that workout in now."
As I make my escape, it occurs to me that it's not really even a lie. I'm planning on getting the workout of my life.
Eleven
Lucy
Owen is taking his own sweet time getting here, but I'm ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that means he's been waylaid by someone in the lobby and not that he's changed his mind. I only have the point-one percent uncertainty because he made it so clear that he wants more than just one night of knocking boots.
If he hadn't brought me the rose. Such a sweet, romantic gesture from a guy I wouldn't have thought had a sweet or romantic bone is his body.
On the plus side, it gives me something to do while I wait.
I pick it up off the dresser and take it into the bathroom, where I unwrap it and toss the clear plastic into the trash. The glasses the hotel provides are too short to make a good vase for a long-stemmed rose, but I manage to set it at enough of an angle that it doesn't topple out and then add an inch of water.
Once I've placed the glass and flower back on the dresser, I flop down into the rolling desk chair next to the window. The sun is setting now, and a pretty, golden glow filters into the room through the sheer curtains.
It's…romantic.
Damn it. I don't need or want romantic.
Yes, you do.
Shut up, id. You're going to get me into trouble.
But not as much trouble as I would have been in if Owen and I had come up to my room together, I remind myself. However long I wind up waiting for him, that was a smart move because Nick Womack just happened to be leaving his room at the same time I was entering mine, and if he'd seen me and Owen together, any chance we have of keeping our hook-up on the down-low would have been blown sky-high.
Womack finished second in last year's NMA series behind Tyler Biggs, and this was supposed to be his year. I know because I was one of the reporters who thought so. But instead, he's been bouncing between fourth and fifth place in the championship standings since the season started. His best finish of the season was a disappointing third behind Owen and Alex Herrera, two riders no one on the NMA circuit had even heard of a year ago, although Herrera at least made some headlines in Europe last year. To make matters worse, Owen made Womack look like a lapper in today's race, practically flying by him on the outside of turn three.
Needless to say, Womack is not Owen's biggest fan. Or mine. As if it's my fault he believed his own press and thought the universe owed him this year's championship.
I'll give him some credit, though. He was minimally polite, grunting a hello as he passed me on his way to the stairs. If he'd seen me with Owen going into a hotel room, though? No way would he have kept that quiet.
The sound of the door opening startles me enough that I twitch.
"Hey," Owen says, his voice a little echoey in the narrow entry, "sorry it took me so long. I ran into—"
As soon as he starts talking, I turn my chair and push hard to roll it back until I'm in line with the doorway and we can see each other. I hold up my hand to stop his apology, which I don't need to hear right now.
"Don't worry about it. Just get naked, Tex."
He raises one eyebrow in this super-sexy way that would make my panties wet if I were wearing any. Fortunately, I took them off, although I'm still wearing the blush pink sundress I put on to go to dinner. A dress that I know flatters my curves and my coloring and that Owen has been eying with intentions for more than an hour.
But I have my own plans.
And Owen seems game to pitch in and help, because after giving me that saucy look, he pulls his black T-shirt off over his head and drops it on the floor. Even though I've seen him shirtless before, the sight of his ripped chest and abs gives me heart palpitations. Seriously, movie superheroes wish they looked that good.
He starts to unbutton his jeans, then rethinks things and sit
s down on the edge of the bed. After toeing off his black skate shoes, he leans over and removes his socks, treating me to a mouthwatering view of the rippling muscles of his back. At this rate, I'm going to have an orgasm before he gets his pants off.
Of course, he didn't get his pants off the first time, either. Which is sort of the point of this exercise.
As he gets to his feet, he looks over at me. "Aren't you a little overdressed?"
I cross my arms under my breasts and smile at him. "That's the idea."
Facing me, he draws down the zipper of his jeans. Very. Slowly. "Want to inspect the merchandise?"
My lips twitch. "I've already inspected that particular part of the merchandise and found it satisfactory."
Owen stops what he's doing and blinks his eyes in feigned surprise. "Just satisfactory? Like, you give my dick a C? Cuz it seemed more like an A when you were moaning and begging and coming all over it."
From anyone else—and I mean anyone, even a lover—I would have found this statement skeevy and a total turn-off. But coming from Owen? Maybe it's the way he delivers the line, not like he's perving on the thought but like he's flashing back to one of the best and happiest moments of his life. It was certainly one of the best and happiest of mine, and now I've got to stand up before I leave a wet spot on my dress and the chair, because I'm gushing like he touched me.
"A+," I admit, my voice a little raspy as I get to my feet. "But I gave you the full Monty. It's only fair. Also, I don't want to take the chance of you tripping over your pants again, because rushing you to the hospital for a head injury is not my idea of a fun night."
That makes him laugh. "You got me there." Without further fanfare, he unzips the rest of the way and drops trou. Boxers, too.
His cock is only partially erect, but even in that state, it's impressively proportioned. Of course, it's never just the pen; the penmanship is equally—if not more—important, but let's face it, a Crown pen beats a Bic any day.
He exudes confidence as I look him up and down, totally comfortable with both his nakedness and my perusal of his body. And why shouldn't he be? He really is movie superhero gorgeous from head to toe, although his build is more Loki than Thor: lean whipcord muscle rather than bodybuilder brawn. His skin is scarred in quite a few places—both shoulders, one forearm, his left hip, both knees—but the marks only draw attention to the sculpted perfection of what lies beneath. Motocross really does do a body good.
My brain kind of shorts out, and my body takes over as I close the space between us. When I'm within arm's reach, he snakes out a hand, wraps it gently around my wrist, and draws me against him so I feel the length of his hot, hard flesh pressed against me. His dick stretches noticeably against my belly.
"You're not going to take off the dress?" he asks softly, settling his lips next to a sensitive spot just below my earlobe.
I shiver, goosebumps racing across my skin in sharp contrast to the sparks of heat warming my blood. "Nope," I manage to answer. "Don't need to." Grabbing his free hand from where it rests on my hip, I guide him under the not-quite-knee-length hem of my dress and up beneath it.
He sucks in a breath when his palm reaches my ass and he realizes I'm pantiless. Pantifree? Whatever.
"Fuck, yeah." Groaning, he releases my wrist and grabs the other cheek with his newly freed hand, and then lifts me off the floor, grinding the soft spot at the apex of my thighs against his now steel-stiff cock. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss goes instantly feral and filthy, all ragged breathing and thrusting tongues. My nipples are tight, aching peaks against the cotton fabric of my dress, and my clit throbs in tempo with them and with the movement of his hips and tongue.
Zero to sixty in three seconds flat. Forget Disneyland. I'm going to Owen-land, and that's the happiest place on earth.
Twelve
Owen
It only takes three seconds of kissing Lucy for my dick to turn to granite and my brain to go to mush. I can feel how she's melting into me and smell how wet she is, and I know if I just pile-drive her, she'll take it and love it. She'll moan and squirm and cream all over me just like she did the first time, because I do to her exactly what she does to me.
But even though I'm both as hard and as dumb as a fence-post right now, I remember that I want more than just a quick fuck. More of her.
More for her.
Easing her back to the floor, I break our mouth-fucking kiss and mutter, "You gotta take off that dress or I'm gonna rip it off."
When she looks up at me, her big eyes seem even bigger on account of being ninety-percent pupil. She nods and steps away, pulling the barely-there dress over her head and tossing it over the top of the flat screen TV. The sight of her naked, brown skin and the generous curves of her tits and ass is enough to make my dick leak a little precum. This girl is my personal wet dream come true.
And I want to be hers.
“What curls your toes, beautiful?” I ask, giving her a gentle push toward the bed. “What makes you so hot, just the idea almost makes you come?”
Her cheeks get a little dusky, and she sits on the edge of the mattress, not meeting my eyes. “I don’t know,” she lies.
I know it’s a lie, because everybody has that thing. Or maybe more than one thing, but for sure the one.
“Yeah, you do,” I tell her, running my hand over her thick curls. “It’s okay. You can tell me. I won’t judge.”
She bites her lower lip, shaking her head a little. “It’s just…so personal.”
“Sweetheart, what’s more personal than having my dick in you? Which has already happened, by the way.”
That makes her huff a little laugh. “True. But I don’t know if I can say it out loud.”
“What if I tell you mine first?”
Another huff. “I bet I can guess.”
I’m standing in front of her, my cock about level with her chin. I can guess what she’s going to guess. “Okay. Go for it.”
“Blow jobs.”
I grin, because I was right about her guess and she’s wrong. “Nope. Don’t get me wrong. You want to suck me off, I will enjoy the fuck out of it. But that’s not my thing.”
Her eyes meet mine, and she raises her eyebrow. “Really?” Her tone is skeptical. “Then what is?”
I sit down beside her and take her hand in mine. “Doggy-style. For me, there’s nothing better because I can watch. It’s like my own personal porno. And the best visual is when my dick’s in your pussy and you’re rubbing yourself off while I fuck you. Jesus, I’m about to blow just imagining it. Especially imagining doing it with you because you have a seriously amazing ass.”
“Wow.” Her breathing has gotten a little more uneven. “That’s really dirty. And really, really hot.”
Whew. That’s a relief. If my hottest fantasy was her biggest turn-off, things would get pretty awkward.
“Your turn,” I prompt, squeezing her hand.
“Why don’t we just do yours? Sounds good to me.”
“We can do mine, too. After we do yours.” She makes a face, and I can see she’s still struggling. “Assuming I have all the necessary equipment,” I amend with a smile. “I mean, if your fantasy is fucking two guys at the same time, I’m going to need some help.”
“You’d do that?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
“It wouldn’t be easy for me, but if that was what you really wanted, yeah. Is that what you really want?”
She snorts. “God, no. I mean, in theory, it’s definitely a turn-on but in practice…I don’t think so.” Once that confession is out, her shoulders relax. “Okay. I like oral. A lot.”
“Fuck, who doesn’t? There’s more to it than that, though, isn’t there?”
“Um…yeah. There is.” Her voice goes a little shaky. “God, I’m such a perv.”
“Baby, we’re all pervs. Tell me.”
A shudder escapes her and the words finally come out in a rush. “Fingers in my ass. I want you to finger fuck my ass while you eat my pussy.”
<
br /> Jackpot!
I cup her cheek and turn her face toward mine. “Baby, that is something I would love to do for you. As often as you like.” Then I kiss her and push her back onto the bed.
Now that I know what she wants, there’s no rush getting to it. While our tongues tangle, I skim my hands over her body, learning the dips and swells of her body, figuring out where she’s sensitive, what makes her gasp and moan and arch. She sighs with pleasure when I tweak her nipples, squirms and shudders when I pinch them just so. When I finally slide my fingers between her folds, she shifts her hips and spreads her legs for me.
Her pussy is slick with her juices, and damn, I want to fuck her, but that’s not what I’m here for. Not yet. Once I find the right rhythm and pressure, it’s only a matter of minutes before she stiffens and grabs my arm, digging her fingernails into my biceps. Then she’s shuddering and making low, animal noises in her throat that almost make me lose it on the sheets.
I break the kiss and watch her face as the orgasm tears through her, and it’s a fucking beautiful sight. I won’t get to see it when my tongue is buried in her pussy, so I need to get my fill now, just in case I don’t get to do it again.
That’s not a place I want to go, though. Not now.
She opens her eyes and gives me a contented smile. “Wow. And that wasn’t even what I asked for.”
“That’s next.”
Her head drops back onto the pillow. “That’s okay. You don’t have to—”
Moving fast, I slide down so that my face is between her legs and hook my arms under her knees. “But I want to.”
“But—”
I press a kiss to the strip of brown curls just above her clit. “Not up for discussion.” With the fingers of one hand, I spread her pussy lips and touch my tongue gently to her clit. She’s probably still too sensitive for me to start anything serious, but I want to savor the taste of her before I get too busy with her pleasure to truly appreciate it. She’s salty and musky and so goddamn sweet, I could eat her all night. Hell, maybe I will.
Holeshot: A Motocrossed Romance Page 6
