SCORE (A Stepbrother Sports Romance)

by Mia Carson

  I know my dad used to fool around with other women at the races, and I know they used to fight about it. I loved my dad, but I knew he didn’t want us with him when he traveled the circuit. He would say he didn’t want me to be there because he didn’t want me to see anything bad happen to him; even though that may have been part of the truth, he mainly didn’t want my mom around so he could have some fun while he was away from home. That was why neither of us had been there when he hit the wall. Neither of us knew when his car exploded, trapping him inside as it burned. Neither of us knew he was dead until we got a call from the team owner that evening. I’ve hated motorsports of every kind ever since.

  With these hurtful thoughts running through my head, I reached my little home quickly. The flowerbeds were starting to bloom and would look lovely in a week or two, no thanks to me. My gardener/caretaker/neighbor could take all the credit for them; I paid him to keep my yard nice and for the fresh coat of white paint on my humble three-bedroom, single-story house. At least that, thanks to my dad’s success before he died, was paid for and all mine. As was my Mustang. I looked back at the red, late-model convertible as I opened my front door. I loved it, and when I cruised in the sunshine with the top down, I looked and felt sexy. I hated racing and racetracks, but I could never hate cars.

  I let myself in and hung up my keys, but barely had my jacket off before my phone rang. My boss, Geoffrey, was calling. I worked in PR, handling clients on an account-by-account basis. If our firm took on any new business, I went to meet them, hang out with them, and be their PR rep for a while until we figured out what strategies to put in place and how best to promote them.

  It could take a week or it could take six months. It could keep me here in Austin or it could take me all over the world. And it could involve me doing anything from organizing a red carpet dinner to sending a selection of call girls to a competitor’s room and causing some very bad press. My job was never dull, and Geoffrey was calling this time because we had a new client, a potentially lucrative client. Tomorrow I was to attend a black tie dinner at the Four Seasons.

  ***

  I spent Saturday going over the brief our office had prepared for me and surfing the web for research. The glossy brochures and leaflets showed me a major tire manufacturer that wanted to launch a new product while at the same time totally revamp its US brand image. It was a tall order, but far from impossible. They were attending a banquet at the Four Seasons that night because the Moto GP, which was like the Formula One of motorcycles, was being held at the Circuit of the Americas, just outside of Austin, all weekend. In fact, the race teams had been there Friday and Saturday, practicing and qualifying, and they were having a big dinner tonight because the main race was the next day at 2:00 p.m. Not awesome for me, but I couldn’t let my resentment towards motorsports get in the way of my job.

  I thought about the new client in the macho motor industry. Hi, New Client, meet your dainty new PR rep. That was not the ideal recipe for success on my end unless, unfortunately, I could knock him dead. Sure, a male PR professional would get on the client’s good side, become his BFF over the course of the evening, and be smoking cigars in a hot tub with a couple of hookers by the time they had the deal sown up.

  I had a different mountain to climb, however. I had to make him want me, make him feel like I just might fuck him at the end of the evening, without him realizing I was doing it. It didn’t matter if he was in a committed relationship or if I never actually delivered on my promise. There simply needed to be a subtle undertone to our relationship, and I’d have him right where I wanted him.

  The first step in this process was to blow their minds as I walked in. Easy.

  I showered, curled my long dark hair into the beautifully thick mane it was, and let it cascade more than halfway down my smooth, slender back. I shaved so my long shapely legs, as well as other parts of me, had that ‘just waxed’ look and feel. I’d always managed to keep my figure trim. I blamed good genes. My mother was a former Miss South Carolina, after all, and my dad would never have been so popular with the ladies if he wasn’t in such great shape. I went to the gym regularly, just to be on the safe side.

  Two major components can transport a girl from looking good to looking oh-my-god-amazing. First order of business was a stunning bra. My boobs, which I’m happy to say were a little on the big side without being outrageous, meant it could be hard to get this right and totally disastrous to get it wrong, so I had mine custom made. A good bra needed to look perfect when you were wearing it by itself, lifting and enhancing brilliantly, and it needed to look invisible when covered. Luckily for me, at only twenty-five, my girls were still perky and always ready for action.

  The second rule of looking oh-my-god-amazing was going commando. That’s right. Looking that little bit better than anyone else eventually came down to attitude, looking effortlessly sexy simply by carrying yourself correctly. And walking around without underwear, being the only one who knew there was only the slightest piece of delicate material between your naked pussy and the rest of the world, always felt incredibly sexy and extremely empowering. I had an undefinable air of confidence. I could always tell when I saw a woman in a club, at a party, in the theater, wherever, who wasn’t wearing panties; it was easy to tell by how they effortlessly affected everyone around them.

  My tight red cocktail dress plunged enough to accentuate my ample cleavage—an excellent negotiation tool—hugged my flat stomach, and curved out beautifully over my firm butt, then slashed across my legs just above the knee. Black Manolos and a Dior clutch purse, just big enough for my cell phone, a credit card, a lipstick, and my emergency twenty-dollar bill, was everything else I would need before it was into the Mustang and downtown, looking so hot that steam, not smoke, came out the tailpipes.

  James

  I was a happy man. I could quite comfortably have died in this moment and place. Even with my eyes closed, I could visualize Suzi’s deliciously full lips slipping softly up and down my stiffening shaft as her hot mouth and velvet tongue enveloped my cock. I could feel her long, sharp-nailed fingers gently tickling and fondling my balls.

  I opened my eyes to find the reality better than I’d imagined. Her big eyes were closed, her soft curls of long brown hair tossed over to one side of her head, and yes, it was a real treat to see my hard dick disappearing into those soft, sensual lips. When she opened her eyes and saw me smiling at her, she slid her mouth off me slowly, sucking me all the way to the tip.

  “Good morning.” She smiled as soon as her mouth was empty.

  She continued to stimulate me gently with her hand until I circled my finger in the air, signaling her to turn around. She hopped up, and I got a glimpse of those impressive, beautifully tanned breasts as she turned away and tossed a leg over me. She put her hand between her legs, grabbed my cock again, and lined us up. As she lowered her pussy down slowly onto me, that fabulous, heart-shaped ass of hers pushed down towards my stomach. She touched down on my hips and looked over her shoulder at me. Smiling as she ground her butt against me, she forced my dick deeper inside her with an accompanying moan of pleasure.

  I pushed my hips up gently, and we started to move in time, pulling away from each other and thrusting back together, groaning at the amazing sensations of our slick parts sliding into and over one another. I could feel her wet against me, and as I started to fuck her faster, a little deeper each time, her moans became louder and more desperate. I swear my cock grew bigger with each thrust as her cries got higher and longer, until her body stopped moving, and I felt her pussy clamp and twitch around me as she threw her head back.

  “Oh, my god! Oh, my god!” she cried as she came over my cock, grasping her breasts with both hands as I bounced her on me. Her stunning body writhing in pleasure on top of me meant my own climax approaching.

  “I’m going to come,” I whispered hoarsely to her. She leaped straight off me and scooted down to take me quickly in her mouth again. She enclosed the throbbing tip wit
hin those beautiful lips and jerked my shaft a couple of times until I shot against her soft tongue, unloading blasts of thick, white cum in her mouth. She squealed in mock surprise and swallowed everything, holding me until my last spasm died, then sucked the end of my dick clean and lay back on the bed.

  “Good morning to you,” I said. She giggled.

  “I think I’m going to shower,” she said. “I did do all the work. Again.”

  I detected a note of resentment in her voice. Whatever. If she didn’t like it, she could suck it. Ha-ha. Too late! As her naked form disappeared into the bathroom, I reached over the big white bed for the phone. I ordered bacon, ham, scrambled eggs with salmon, croissants, coffee, and orange juice to be brought up. Suzi eventually came out of the shower in a hotel robe, rubbing bits of her hair with a towel, just in time to answer the door. Perfect. I tossed her my wallet, which she deftly caught, and she tipped the room service guy.

  “Do things always seem to work out like this for you?” she asked, a sly smile creeping across her lips.

  “Generally, yes,” I told her. I looked at the clock: 8:30. “Shit, I have to be at the circuit in an hour. Can you eat and run?”

  “Sorry, James.” She turned to me and opened her robe. My cock twitched again at the site of her full, firm breasts, her slim waist and taut stomach, and that gorgeous, shaved mound between her heavenly shaped legs. “This does not happen by accident. I need an hour, at least, just to do my hair.”

  “Well, I have to get going in thirty minutes,” I said, scooping some eggs into my mouth with a fork. “Can I trust you won’t steal anything if I leave you here?”

  She stuck her tongue out at me. “I need to get to the track, too,” she complained.

  “And?”

  “You drove me here, remember?”

  “Oh, yes.” I saw what she was getting at. I tossed her the keys to my Gran Turismo Convertible. “I’ll get a lift with Keith. Have you ever driven a Maserati before?” She looked at me like I was stupid. “Well, just be careful with it, please?

  ***

  I called Keith; he was about to leave. I told him he might be my team manager, but I was the team owner, and he’d damn well wait fifteen minutes. He told me ‘bollocks’ in his English accent—which, I think, means ‘yes, boss’—and hung up. Sure enough, when I got to the parking garage twenty minutes later, he was sitting in his rental Chevy with the engine running.

  Today was free practice in the morning and final qualification in the afternoon. My team, of which I was the only rider, was not going to do that well. We’d be lucky to make fifteenth on the starting grid, and we knew it. The point was that I was lucky enough to have the money to run my own team in Moto GP, the premier motorcycling race series, and ride in it. I wasn’t as good as Lorenzo, Márquez, or Rossi; I never claimed to be, but at the back—and it was the same in almost every motor racing class—there were always a few privateer teams that had their own little title chases going on. Most of us didn’t have the factory backing or the unlimited budget of the main Honda and Yamaha teams that played around at the front. I did, because my family’s fortune ran well into the billions, but we didn’t have access to the top-shelf parts and equipment the championship teams used.

  But I loved it, and I would never do anything else. I was thirty-seven, though, and probably one of the oldest riders on the track, so I didn’t have many seasons left in me. I had the love and respect of some of the best riders in the world, and I got to ride around with them on Sunday afternoons, making sure I stayed out of the way as they flew past.

  Keith was my team manager—JSR, or James Spence Racing. I had a mechanic named Ray who Keith brought with him from England, and they had a couple of assistants, Nick and James, or ‘Other James,’ as he was known. We had a full-on bike transporter crammed with spare parts and two race bikes, as well as a little chill-out room and a small kitchen, and that was about it. A tiny setup when compared to something like the factory Honda team; they had twelve guys just to look after the engine in one of the two race bikes they run. The cost ran about two million bucks to race each weekend, depending on how far we had to travel. Worth it, in my book.

  “Was that Suzi you disappeared with last night?” asked Keith in his deadpan voice.

  “It was,” I replied.

  “You know she was assigned to Blake?” he pointed out.

  William Blake is a UK rider without two pennies to his name who just happened to be my direct competition. I knew Suzi was assigned to be his grid girl—one of the pretty ladies who would stand on the grid in a small costume to shield us poor riders from the elements with a large umbrella. I also knew Blake had taken a liking to her.

  “Really? I had no idea the girls had been assigned yet.” I smiled. I didn’t especially like Blake, but I never missed the chance to get a psychological advantage over a rival. Especially when it was such a pleasure to arrange.

  “Of course you didn’t,” replied Keith.

  ***

  We parked up at the Circuit of the Americas track just south of town and wandered into the pits to find my team. The sun and a clear blue sky were overhead; as yet, it was too early for the sticky, shirt-drenching temperatures we could expect this afternoon. Team JSR was all set up in its garage, with my number-one bike looking vaguely malevolent on its axle stands. Black with red race wheels, the bike was a picture of tiny, sharp purposefulness. Its 1000cc engine could produce over 220 brake horsepower, which was crazy to imagine. That, in a package that weighed just 350 pounds, plus me, meant we could scream along at more than 200 miles per hour on state-of-the-art suspension, tires, and brakes. It was not quite the pinnacle of motorcycle technology—that was over in the Repsol Honda garage at the center of pit lane—but it was the next best thing, and the bike was worth about twelve million dollars.

  The day’s chores involved a bunch of technical and mechanical tasks that I let the boys handle, and an hour later, I was out on the track. I always felt so free out there. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to think about except ‘brake, lean in to turn, accelerate, brake again.’ Despite the roar of the engine and the deafening wind noise, it was so peaceful. Unless someone got past me, then it was time to take action.

  Everything would suddenly become about competition, chasing your target, seeing who could be braver on the brakes, who was prepared for disaster just to corner a little bit faster, who was ready to risk life and limb for a just fraction more speed. Racing was intense, exhilarating, terrifying, and liberating all at once. I’d been doing it for more than twenty years, and I had never tired of it.

  At the end of qualification, my leathers were heavy with sweat, my hands were numb, and my whole body ached from the extreme forces I’d subjected it to. But the adrenaline coursing through me meant I felt no pain, couldn’t keep the smile off my face, and couldn’t stop talking. I hadn’t done badly at all. I was in eighteenth place for the start tomorrow, and I didn’t crash the bike, break anything, or hold up any of the fast boys as they had come past. A good result for us, except for the fact that Blake was in sixteenth position.

  “You know what this means?” I said to Keith as the results were posted.

  “It means you’ll have to look at his flabby arse the whole time you wait on the grid before the start,” he quipped.

  “Exactly.”

  “Then you’d better get a shift on and pass him.”

  Summer

  I quite liked the Four Seasons, although it was a bit pompous for my taste, but the staff did bend over backwards for you and the food and scotch were pretty good. The valet parking attendant handed me my ticket in exchange for my keys before I stepped into the opulent foyer of the grand hotel. A definite gold and beige theme dominated the décor, with the odd brown and white longhorn print thrown in because, hey, Texas.

  A pretty blonde girl behind the reception desk pointed me in the direction of the banquet hall, and I was suddenly in the middle of a full-scale party. The two bars, one at either end of
the room, were nearly three deep in places, and the dance floor entertained enough swaying couples to make the swing band playing on the stage behind it a worthwhile investment. Empty and half-drunk glasses littered maybe fifty white cloth-covered round tables throughout the hall.

  I also spied some extremely young and pretty men here, all in expensive suits with bracelets, cufflinks, Rolexes—you name it. All the trappings of earning a seven-figure salary while still under twenty-five. Of course, with those trappings came the girls. A huge collection of amazingly attractive girls surrounded the young men, and with them, some seriously high hemlines and plunging necklines. The ones in designer couture and real diamond jewelry were the wives and girlfriends of the racers, and the ones in less lavish fashions were the grid girls and hangers-on.

  Further around the room, the executive types, the team managers, and sponsor reps mingled—mainly older ladies and gentlemen, along with a lot of less well-dressed men and women of all ages that I assumed were mechanics, technicians, and the like.

  I spotted my client by the bar and walked up with my hand outstretched.

  “Donald Jackson? Summer Hayes,” I said, flashing my most alluring smile.

  “Well…what can I say?” He shook my hand, and I picked up a definite Boston accent. Lines showed around his eyes below his salt and pepper hair, and I’d have said late forties, slightly overweight but probably a player in his younger days. “I’m very pleased to meet you. Drink?”