Fast & Wet

by Kat Ransom

  At first, he was so tense and worried he spent hours in the hotel gym working his energy out, taking out his frustrations on the equipment. But then he’d come back to our suite, and we’d have the most intense sex. It was every bit as hard and dominating as always, but extraordinarily intimate at the same time.

  The juxtaposition is still bending my mind.

  His body took mine easily enough, but it was the slow, teasing kisses that set it apart—the way his tongue licked my bottom lip. The way we shared breaths with our foreheads resting together.

  It was like he’d shattered and was giving me every piece to put back together. He was offering me his entire soul, every raw, exposed nerve within him.

  And I drank him in. I wrapped my arms around him and let the entirety of his lifeblood flow through me. It crept inside my veins, into the chambers of my heart, and into every recess of my mind

  He let me tell him that I love him. Amid mind-blowing passion, I asked if he could believe me now. All he could do was nod, hold me tighter, give me even more of himself.

  I can feel that he believes me now. He’s letting me love him now.

  All the demons he’s clung to, he’s cast them aside and made room for me to move into their spaces. Dark memories and shame have been evicted. I want to spend the rest of my life filling them with the feelings he deserves, instead.

  I thought I knew Cole before, I thought I loved him before. I thought I had all of him. But now, he’s opened up and given me pieces I didn’t even know existed, an expanse greater than the deepest ocean trench.

  As teenagers, our love felt dreamy and dramatic. He was off-limits, and I was clinging to him for salvation, rescue from mundane, freedom from perfection. He wanted me for who I was, and I loved every damaged piece of him. We shared components no one else got to see.

  But now, it’s so much more.

  He’s protective and honest. He cherishes me and treats me like I am his first priority, like I matter.

  He’s had me a thousand times, at this point, but he treats every time we’re together like it’s our first, like he’s seeing me for the very first time. He loves me like I am perfect, exactly the imperfect way that I am.

  Somehow, the inside of Cole, his beautiful inner workings, shine even brighter and are so much more gorgeous than even the sculpted and perfected exterior.

  “Tell me about the Concordia situation, the tires,” Mallory interrupts my daydream, and my ogling stare at the way Cole is leaned up against the hospital room wall.

  “Are you asking as a reporter?” If so, I don’t know what I could tell her. Silas has made it clear that any sleuthing needs to be done quietly and without dragging Imperium through the mud.

  “Right now, I’m asking as a woman who has as much to lose as you do. Are they safe?”

  Mallory stares ahead at Lennox. I know she feels the same fears, the same oppressive weight in her chest every time their cars pull onto the race track. In truth, nothing about this sport is safe. It’s safer than it was years ago, of course, but the word safe is misguided, at best.

  Alessi lying in his hospital bed proves that

  I shake my head, “Not entirely. Something is wrong. I’m getting closer to what, but everything is such a freaking secret around here.”

  “That it is,” she nods. “You know, if you need help, I have resources through Cooper Media.”

  “Thank you. I don’t want to be a conspiracy theorist or wrap my head in tinfoil, but…something isn’t right.”

  “You don’t need to be a conspiracy theorist, Emily. There’s so much money in F1, it’s impossible to throw a rock and not hit a scam or corruption or something illegal going on. You know what they say, there are no ethical billionaires. And we walk amongst them every single day.”

  Mallory is right, of course, and I shudder to think of what else she’s come across as a reporter with unprecedented paddock access like she has.

  “It could be an honest mistake or just an inferior product, though.”

  “Sure, and Olivier is out marching for women’s rights on the weekends,” she snickers.

  “Oh my god, does he give you the creeps, too?”

  “Oui oui. Lennox actually kicked him out of our garage the last time he came calling, but he’s kind of a caveman like that.”

  “Cole’s always watching, monitoring, keeping an eye on things. I think he likes watching Olivier sink his own ship.”

  As I say that, both Cole and Lennox look out the door at us, like they know we’re talking about them. And then they start wrapping things up with Alessi, saying their goodbyes, and I know we all need to leave for Russia soon.

  Our time is up, and the next race waits for no one. It’s there breathing down their throats, and mine, too.

  “Mallory,” I turn to her before the men arrive, “I can’t explain it, and it won’t make sense even if I try to, but the rain is making things worse.”

  “The wet tires, you mean?”

  “No, I think it’s all the compounds. But they’re even worse when they’re wet.”

  Mallory nods. I can see that she remembers all the accidents and blowouts and other unusual failures that have plagued the track this season. And, of course, there’s Alessi right before our eyes, who is in a hospital bed right now over another incident that happened under wet conditions.

  “Figure this shit out, Emily. There’s too much at stake, and I can tell you better than anyone, the truth will never come to light if you don’t push for it, drag it into the light. Bad things happen around here in dark corners. Let me know if you need an extra flashlight.”

  “I will.”

  Everyone says their goodbyes, Mallory and I even exchange a hug, before we head to the airport to leave for Russia.

  Mom and Dad have been calling, but I’ve been avoiding them. As another call comes in from them now, I reject that, too.

  Honestly, I’ve been plenty busy with Cole and Professor Tillman the last few days, but I still have a nagging feeling about my parents that I can’t seem to shake.

  It started out as a niggling suspicion, quickly enough dismissed like a breeze passing through. But no matter how much I ignore it, the thoughts are creeping back in and setting up camp in my gut.

  Why didn’t Cole get the letters I sent? Why did Mom call him, how would she even know his number is the same? Why is the Major General mysteriously silent after years of terrorizing me about Cole?

  There may be other secrets hiding in dark corners, but do I want them dragged into the light, too?

  Live in the moment, Em. Stop thinking.

  Things are so good with Cole right now. Meanwhile, Alessi is in the hospital over something I might be able to help with, something I might be able to stop from happening again. Cole, Lennox, and every other driver on the grid could be in harm’s way.

  That’s my answer.

  Any demons who might be lingering in the dark will have to stay there and are probably figments of my overactive imagination, anyway. It’s time to put my head down and get to the bottom of Concordia and these tires.

  Twenty Five

  “Braved the forest, braved the stone. Braved the icy winds and fire, braved and beat them on my own. Yet I’m helpless by the river. Angel, angel, what have I done? I’ve faced the quakes, the wind, the fire. I’ve conquered country, crown, and throne. Why can’t I cross this river?” Puscifer - The Humbling River

  London

  Cole

  Rain trickles down the uncovered windows that let in a gray haze of dewy morning light. It’s silent, save the occasional clap of thunder or a boat making its way down the Thames.

  Emily’s been pressed into me all night. Every night since we’ve been home.

  She wiggles her little ass into me harder, trying to bite back a smirk as if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing to me.

  Reaching between us, I slide my fingers between her thighs, which she so willingly parts for me. “You’re always so wet for me, gorgeous girl. You h
ave any idea how much that turns me on?”

  “I might need some convincing.” Her voice is soft in the mornings, her hair fanned out around the pillows, her body small and warm under my arms.

  Angling my hips, I slide into her from behind and groan as her tight heat envelops me.

  In Russia, she told me she had a five-year birth control implant and, if possible, the sex is even better between us bare. I’m consumed with filthy thoughts about coming inside her, and she outright demands it now.

  As God is my witness, there is nothing hotter than a good girl who gets very naughty in bed.

  My hands wrap around her and cup her tits, her hard nipples pushing into my palms as she arches her back.

  She turns her head. Our lips meet over her shoulder before she whimpers into my mouth, “Make love to me.”

  I growl and pull her body in tighter, sinking as far into her as I can get, though it’s never deep enough. It’ll never be deep enough. “You want it slow, baby?”

  I can’t stop my smile as she whimpers her ‘yes.’ This is her new favorite thing, this slow, passionate burn where it feels like we’re two candles melting into one. It’s her appetizer, as soon as she gets off like this, she begs me to take control, to fuck her hard until she loses herself in the surrender.

  Lately, she wants the slow and quiet before the rough and dirty. I want to give her all of it.

  Love isn’t a sufficient word anymore for how I feel about Em. Love was ten or so steps behind whatever ethereal dimension I’m flying through these days.

  “Touch yourself,” I breathe into her ear as I take her hand and move her fingers over her clit. With a deliberate and torturous pace, I continue pushing into her, then slowly dragging out.

  As if on cue, because I know her body better than I know my own, she rocks her hips and starts pushing, grinding hard backward into me. I’m so turned on watching her, feeling her spear herself onto me, using me to get herself off, that I let her. I guide her hips and help her.

  I revel in everything that she is and the fact that she’s mine.

  Just like old times, Emily was there to pull me out of my depths of despair in Singapore. She drew me back above the surface where buried demons don’t exist. It’s funny what having someone believe in you can do, how they can salvage you from your darkest hour.

  She’s the only one who has ever loved me even after I made a mistake. The only consequence was that she loved me even more. It snapped something inside of me, something ancient and frayed that wouldn’t believe she could love me.

  She lit the wick on fire, and it’s burning at both ends, now. For the first time in my life, I feel like I deserve her, that I can be worthy of her. And I will be.

  Emily tenses and starts shuddering around me, begging me to come with her, to fill her up. Her words undo me like they always do.

  In every way I know how, I tell her how much I love her as she clenches and cries, then collapses in my arms.

  As the rain continues to come down and she looks out the windows, safe and tucked into me, I can’t think of anything in the world that is worth getting out of bed for.

  Except, maybe Em’s stomach, which has just rumbled louder than the thunder outside our walls. I chuckle, and she throws the covers back, the loss of her heat and skin making me growl.

  “Get up, I’ll make you eggs,” she starts piling her hair up onto the top of her head, stretching her naked body out before me like the goddess of seduction and temptation and everything that makes men lose their goddamn minds.

  “Get back in bed, I’ll make you come again,” I counter.

  “After, today is Eggs 101.”

  I put a pillow over my head and grumble. She’s been on a kick teaching me to cook basic food, forbidding Liam from bringing over the prepped meals I’ve sustained life on for the past several years.

  I have no intention of ever cooking my own eggs, and I’m grumbling about it, but she knows as well as I do that I’ll be in the kitchen with her in a matter of minutes.

  I can’t pin place where it was, exactly, that I handed over my balls, but I haven’t seen them in weeks.

  Never been happier.

  “I’m going to jump in the shower, then I’ll be right there.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the kitchen, as promised, but paying no attention whatsoever to the omelet instructions.

  “You’re killing me with these damn pajamas,” I kiss her neck from behind while she whisks and talks about Gordon Ramsey’s eggs and why they’re the best. Something about the heat and the creme fresh, molecular gastronomy.

  I’m fondling the penguins on her pajamas instead, which are wearing headphones and eating popsicles. Obviously.

  Dressed up to the nines in silk and heels can be hot as hell—but dressed down, when a woman is comfortable and casual, that’s another level of sexy.

  “You’re awfully handsy this morning,” she says as she pours the eggs into a skillet.

  “Penguins get me hot,” I run my hands down her sides and rest them on her hips. The truth is that I just need to be touching her at all times. If my hands are on her, she is real, she’s here.

  “Uh-huh,” she ignores me. “See all the nice, fluffy layers in here?” She slips the omelet onto a plate and makes a point to show me her master creation, her own kitchen-based composite she made out of nothing.

  “Everything is an onion to you, layers upon layers, something out of nothing.”

  “Not nothing, lots of little somethings that are better together. Eat,” Emily hands me my omelet, and we sit at the breakfast bar together, watching the lightning outside.

  I’m suddenly feeling pretty impressed with myself with a smart, gorgeous woman in my bed every night, our apartment filled with her moving boxes and a damn fine omelet in front of me.

  She catches me smirking, so I say what I’m thinking, “All those smart guys in college had you right next to them all those years, but here you are.”

  “Hmm, I guess you’re just lucky,” she teases me with a roll of her eyes.

  “Nope, luck has nothing to do with it. I won.”

  “Oh, that’s right, because everything is a competition.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  She shrugs and swallows down a gulp of coffee, “Maybe. I wasn’t exactly putting myself out there, so perhaps they never had a fair chance.”

  “See, I think they never had a chance to begin with.”

  “I’m glad your ego is back, and while I am not encouraging it, you’re probably right.” She starts gathering up dishes, but I put a hand on her wrist to stop her because that’s the deal—she cooks, and I clean—so she sits back down to continue.

  “No one else ever stuck. They weren’t you. When I say I’m not like this with anyone else, I mean everything,” Emily waves her arms in a circle to make her point. “I don’t feel like anyone else has ever known me or accepted me the way you do.”

  “I know what that’s like.”

  “I know you do, and I love you for it,” she pops off her stool again and kisses me.

  “I love you more.” Because this is the kind of shit that I say nowadays. I’m never going to hear the end of it from Dante.

  “I don’t know about that, but I do know if you don’t stop strutting around half-naked, we’re never going to get all these boxes unpacked.

  The living room is full of stacked up moving boxes, each meticulously labeled, color-coded, and organized. Emily has moved so many times in her life that she has a system and, I’m pretty sure, a spreadsheet. I know better than to mess with it.

  “Tell me what color goes in what room. I’ll move them all.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I’m a man, Em. I lift heavy things to impress women. That’s my job.”

  A few hours later, about half the moving boxes have been broken down. The rest are all in the correct rooms, and Emily has been busy unpacking while I worked out and get started on the dishes now.

  She
has music on throughout the apartment and is bopping around, singing, while the rain comes down hard, the river rising outside.

  Dante texts and asks if we’re partying tonight, I tell him to fuck off. I am shockingly domestic these days.

  “Can I make some space in the master closet?” Emily calls from the bedroom.

  I turn the music down and answer her back from the kitchen, “Yep, of course.”

  She actually doesn’t have that much stuff, a byproduct of her professional moving skills, and the fact that she left most of it behind in the states when she came to Cambridge. Klara offered to sell her furniture and anything she left behind, so we had the place boxed up and ready for the movers in one day.

  Ninety percent of the dishes are loaded into the dishwasher when I hear a crash in the bedroom, and Emily yells a string of expletives. “I’m okay, just dumped a shelf,” she calls.

  I dry my hands off and make my way to the walk-in closet to make sure she hasn’t killed herself, and sure enough, the top shelf has all but collapsed. There are shoes, boxes, a couple helmets, clothes, shit everywhere on the floor.

  She’s kneeling on the carpet trying to clean it up, apologizing like it’s her fault, while I try and fix the shelf above our heads.

  I’m so focused on the shelf I don’t even notice when she goes quiet. It isn’t until the I register the change in her tone, the breathy whisper of her voice, that fear and panic race up my spine. I don’t even have to turn around to know how much I’ve just fucked up.

  “Cole, what is this?”

  Don’t turn around. This isn’t happening.

  “What. Is. This.” Her whisper isn’t just surprise, fear, or panic now. Anger is seeping into her, her voice is shaking.

  Despite every cell in my body willing me to keep my back turned and not acknowledge what I know she’s looking at, I let the shelf continue to dangle and turn my body toward her. I position myself in the doorway so she can’t run.

  I force myself to glance down and see what she has in her hands.

  Dozens of letters spill out of an overturned shoe box. Articles, photos, and printed emails cover the floor, Emily’s hands flipping through them all, trying to make sense of it all.