Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1

by Robin Lovett

  “Hey, wait a sec. Don’t go like this,” Terrence says. I’ve frustrated the smile from his face.

  “Why bother staying?” I move to the door. He’s done with me after my tantrum about girl parts and sex and jerking off. “Thanks for the bike ride.”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Talk with me. Why are you mad? I don’t understand. We were having a great time and then—I don’t know what.”

  “You want to have sex, and I don’t.” I’m oversimplifying, but I want to escape this awkwardness.

  “That’s not true.” He nudges me to face him. “I’m fine with not having sex. I assumed you were a virgin until you started grinding up on me like you couldn’t wait to get some.”

  That hurts. I was doing what felt good. “Sorry.” I reach for the door.

  “Stop.” He dodges in front of me and leans against the door. “That’s not a bad thing. I liked it. Obviously.” He gestures at his “parts”. “Would I let you do more to me? Hell, yes. But will I shove off if you don’t? No. You’re a hot catch. You’re worth the wait and all that. If you walk out, I’ll still be at your window again tomorrow morning.”

  My temper fading, I feel vulnerable, a little weak, and I don’t like it. “Why? I’m fat. I’m a book snob. I have no friends. I’m a bitch to you half the time. What about me could possibly interest you?”

  “Seriously?” He stands away from the door, his eyes blazing. “Is that what you think?”

  I step back.

  He shakes his head, walks two steps, and kisses me.

  I try to hang onto my thoughts. I struggle to remember I’m mad and embarrassed and I’m supposed to be leaving.

  His hands, his mouth, they’re soft and soothing, eager and demanding. It’s overwhelming, it’s deflating, and it steals my stubborn stupidity.

  He maneuvers me backward to the couch, then he flops us onto it. My legs are around his waist the way I like, I’m sucking his tongue the way I like. Except this time he’s on top of me, weighty and arousing.

  I rock against his pelvis and groan through my teeth. The sensations radiating from my groin are so intense, I suck his tongue in rhythm with my grinding hips.

  His hands squeeze my breasts, clutch my thighs, sink beneath my shirt. His bare fingers on my lower back and belly are so hot they likely leave blisters. I urge his arm higher, wanting him touching all of my bare skin.

  When his hand hits my bra, he dips his fingers inside it. His palm on my nipple feels like a ramping rev to the full steam engine in my belly. I pulse, throbbing from my skin to my core, and I’m making noises I didn’t know I could make.

  “Shit damn. You are so hot for it,” he growls in my ear, his hips grinding into me. “I’m going to come just hearing you.”

  I still beneath him. “That’s bad.”

  His cheek caresses mine. “It’s awesome. Everywhere I touch you, it’s like I’m lighting you on fire.” His hand slips to my other breast. “It’s fucking amazing.”

  “It feels like it,” I gasp.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re lighting me on fire.”

  He moves more slowly, taunting. “Are you always like this?”

  “No.” My voice is high, breathless. “Not. Ever.”

  “Just for me?”

  “Just for you.” It’s true. I wish I could lie, say that it has nothing to do with him, but it has everything to do with him. I don’t know why.

  He rolls his hips into me, and growls, “Are you going to come?”

  I tense, though I try not to. I can’t say, No, never. Don’t bother, it’s a lost cause. If I do, he’ll stop. But if I say yes, it might never happen. We could be at this for hours and I might never fucking come.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say. Except I am worried, and it doesn’t feel as good anymore.

  “Don’t worry about it?” He stops too, propping up on his elbows to look at me.

  I fidget with his shirt. “It’s no big deal.”

  “No big…” His tone vibrates low and warm. “When you were saying before, you know, that girls can’t jerk off, did you mean, were you—” His fingers brush my face, and I think he’s waiting for me to look at him, but I can’t. “Have you ever had an orgasm?”

  Regular embarrassment makes me blush. Big embarrassment gives me anxiety. Mega embarrassment pisses me off. But this is the worst embarrassment ever. I know what he’s asking. He’s not asking if I’ve had an orgasm during sex, no. He’s asking if I’ve ever given myself an orgasm. Sooooo much worse.

  My voice squeaks. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Have you ever jerked off?” He searches my face. “It’s okay if you haven’t. I’m just wondering.”

  My pulse roars in my ears, and my whole body throbs underneath him. He’s lying on top of me, touching me from chest to groin, and I don’t want him to move. He’ll laugh at the truth. Denial. “I—I have. It’s just not my thing. I’m not a big fan of orgasms.”

  His expression migrates from surprised to confused, to frustrated, to laughter. He laughs so hard he has to sit up, moving away from me like I feared he would.

  “‘Not a big fan’? Seriously, Aurelia. Why not just tell the truth? No one who’s ever had an orgasm would say that. Ever.”

  “Get off me.” I shove him, re-adjust my shirt, and stand up.

  His hands and mouth fall open in exasperation. “Don’t leave. This is ridiculous.”

  “Of course it’s ridiculous. You laugh at me when I lie. How much more would you have laughed if I told you the truth?”

  “I wouldn’t have. I laughed because you lied.”

  “Fine then. You want the truth?” My voice rises in volume until I’m shouting, but I don’t care. I’m humiliated, and if I don’t shout, I’ll cry. “I’ve tried jerking off and it never works, okay? Happy? I’ve never had an orgasm!”

  The hallway door opens, and Gary appears. “I’m sorry to interrupt this very fascinating conversation.” His voice stutters with restrained humor. “But can you please be quiet?”

  “Oh my God!” As if it wasn’t bad enough having to tell Terrence.

  The front door leaps open. “What’s the fight about?” Ralph steps inside, followed by the two Spaniards, all three dressed in riding gear. “Did she say what I think she said about orgasms?”

  “Ah!” I scream. Holding my breath to keep from crying, ignoring the shouts from Terrence, Ralph, and someone else, I stomp out the door and race away.

  I don’t look back. I’ll die of mortification. As if it wasn’t bad enough being orgasm-less. Now the whole world knows.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In my apartment, I spend most of the evening staring at the stack of homework assignments. I slog through them, seeing his face every time I mark a page. His smiles, his amber eyes. Me shouting, I’ve never had an orgasm!

  “Ugh!” I kick my feet on my bed, two-year-old style.

  My despair and powerlessness over my orgasm-less state pools like lava in my stomach. I refuse to be a helpless girl who needs a man to “show her sexual pleasure”. I should be able to figure out this problem on my own.

  I lie back on my bed, discard my pants, and try everything to imitate a penis with my fingers to make my vagina do something, feel something, react in any way.

  I’m sore by the time I’m done, never coming close to feeling as good as when Terrence rubs me through his jeans.

  This pretension that there are more important things in life and therefore orgasms must not be that great—I’m done with it. I want a damn orgasm!

  I want Terrence between my legs. So fucking bad.

  I wish I hadn’t ruined things with him.

  * * * * *

  In the morning, descending the stairs from my studio is a supernatural feat. My muscles are inflamed from the bike ride yesterday, but I’m
feeling things in places I didn’t know I had muscles. My body feels—awake. Kind of like when I woke this morning and found my hand dipped between my legs.

  It’s as though I was dreaming about wanting him in my sleep. It better not be possible to have an orgasm during sleep and not remember.

  I should have told him the truth the first time he asked. Maybe he wouldn’t have judged me for it. I’ll never know. I can still hear him laughing.

  Focusing on teaching is as hard as ever. I want this assistantship to be over. The urge to go home is so strong I check my mailbox twice. Still no response to my Fulbright request.

  More than once I ask a student to repeat an answer. I can’t always blame it on their mispronunciation; they can tell I’m distracted.

  Are you always like this?

  No.

  Just for me?

  I scratch my forehead. I want him so badly it hurts. But I ruined it.

  I call on a student whose hand is raised. “Yes?”

  “Is English your premier language?” A tittering goes through the class, and I blush. I deserve it for the little attention I’m paying them.

  It doesn’t excuse the insult. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m thinking of Terrence or because I’m tired of their remarks, but for whatever reason, I’ve had enough.

  I take a book and smack it on the desktop with a loud crack. Their tittering stops.

  I begin by correcting her English. “You mean ‘first’. ‘Is English my first language?’” My chin lifts. “Do you realize how racist that is?”

  “Non—je—er—”

  Teachable moment. I loathe confrontation. My usual habit, to say something defensive and walk out, does not work in a classroom.

  I explain the term “racism”, translating it. I take a piece of chalk and write across the board: ASSUME.

  “There’s a joke about this word in English. When you assume something, you make an ASS out of U and ME.” I translate “ass” in its formal and slang terms.

  They’re quiet, and for the first time since I began teaching four months ago, I feel in charge of my classroom. They’re waiting for my next words.

  “When you assume things about people based on skin color and facial features, you’re judging based on looks. It hurts. And it will make others think less of you.”

  The student says, “Je n’aurais jamais—”

  I give her a disciplinary stare. She’s both talking back to me and speaking in French; neither is appropriate in my classroom. “If I were a white American, you would never ask me if English was my first language.”

  My raised voice echoes in the sparse classroom. I lean a hip against my desk, forcing myself into a relaxed stance. “I understand you wanting to know if I speak any languages besides English, especially since I told you my parents are Filipino. But there are more appropriate ways for you to ask me that question.”

  I encourage the student to try again. With some help, she manages, “Do you speak another language besides French or English?”

  I respond politely, “I understand the Filipino language of Tagalog because my parents speak it, but I don’t speak it myself. I am, however, fairly fluent in Italian and my Spanish isn’t too bad either.”

  Taking inspiration from my giant word “ASSUME”, I circle it and create a Venn diagram. “What other things are you tempted to assume when you meet a person of a different race from yourself?”

  By the end, the discussion turns into full class participation, in English of course. Lesson plans zip through my head. I have an entire unit on the culture of racism in America: the history, the melting pot, modern immigration debates, and how it’s different in France.

  At the end of the school day, I’m empowered, and the need to tell someone is stronger than my urge to check my mailbox again.

  The only person I want to tell is Terrence. Regret coils in my chest.

  It’s possible he’ll turn me away, but I want to see him, more than I care about my easily bruised ego.

  There’s something I want to do first, though.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I close my eyes and breathe, forcing my lurching heart to normal speed. I’ve finished my errand, and I’d rather not have a heart attack before I even see him.

  I walk to Terrence’s building with my shoulders back and my chin lifted. It’s mid-afternoon. He finishes his training ride about now.

  Standing outside his door with my finger poised over the buzzer, I choke.

  I turn in a circle in the alley. One of his teammates might answer the door. I’m going to be the orgasm-less girl showing up on the twice-a-month guy’s doorstep begging him to get me off.

  I’m here to tell him about my day, and I brought something for him. Though if I’m honest, those two things are only the excuse for what I’m really here for: I want his hands all over me again and again.

  He won’t want me here. He said yesterday, he doesn’t have time for me with his cycling.

  “Aurelia?” Terrence’s voice, behind me.

  He stops his bike and swings his leg over to the ground. There’s anxiety in his eyes. “Are you okay?” He takes off his helmet.

  His hair is matted with sweat and his face is flushed from riding, his lips parted and lush, his jersey unzipped down his chest, his lower legs bare in his shorts.

  God, his legs. His thighs bulge around his knees when he holds them straight, his calves sculpted around his shins. The skin is so smooth it shines, like it’s covered in oil. His legs are completely hairless.

  “Do you shave your legs?” My gaze snaps to his face.

  His mouth bends in a seductive curve. “Yes.”

  “Why?” I don’t know any guys who shave their legs.

  “Because it looks good and women like it. Why else?”

  He’s flirting with me. My mouth gapes like a fish. “Is that like a Euro thing? Do French guys do that?”

  “Don’t you like it?” he asks, his voice lighter. His lip quivers, until he bites it.

  He’s about to laugh at me. I stare back at his glistening calves. Yeah. It’s pretty hot. They’re amazing legs.

  He wheels his bike up next to me and kisses my cheek. “Oh, Lia, your face is priceless.” He’s made me a little breathless already. “All cyclists shave their legs,” he says. “It’s a thing. For aerodynamics, and it keeps things clean. The grime from the road cuts the skin a lot. Bandages and hair don’t mix.”

  “Oh.” I’m strangely disappointed. As appalling as it would be for him to shave them for vanity, it made me feel less guilty for staring at them.

  “But it does make them look good, doesn’t it?” He waggles his eyebrows.

  “Maybe.” I smile.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” He searches my eyes. “I thought about coming to see you this morning, but figured you should probably teach today.”

  “Yeah.” I bounce on my toes, excited to tell him about my day. “I taught my students about racism today.”

  “You did?”

  “Yup. I taught them their assuming was making an ‘ass’ of ‘you’ and ‘me’.”

  “Cool.” He holds up his hand and I high-five him. “I wish I could have seen that.”

  “Yeah. I was pretty great.”

  He leans on his handlebars. “Hot teacher in action.”

  I blush in a good way, then remember the other reason I came. “I got a cell phone.” I hold up the little archaic flip device.

  “Nuh-uh.” He reaches out to touch it, flipping it open. “I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

  “So…” I realize how presumptuous this is, but I force myself to say it. “You can call me, if you want.”

  “Really?” His pleased expression makes me glad I presumed.

  “I got it just for you.”

  “Now who’s teasing me?” />
  I love how he makes me smile. I missed him today.

  “You want to come up?” he asks, expectant and hopeful. “I’m going to make myself a smoothie. You can have one.”

  His easy enthusiasm over the smallest things is impossible to resist. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

  “Come on.” He turns to open the door.

  “Wait, are your roommates home?”

  “I think so, why?”

  “Oh. I—well—then I think I’d rather stay down here.” I shift on my feet. I’m not going up there if I have to see them again. The mortification is more than I can bear.

  “Why?” His question is light, but he really doesn’t understand.

  “After last time, I’d really rather not.” I have trouble looking at him while I say it. “You know, after what I said—yesterday.”

  His eyes twinkle. He finds it funny. “You came over anyway.”

  “You’re supposed to be resting. I’m in your way.”

  “I’m making time for you, remember?”

  “I just wanted to give you my new number.”

  “That’s it? Were you going to write it on a piece of paper, leave it in the mail slot, and run?”

  “Uh…” I hadn’t thought about this part. How do I say, I need you to get me off, because I can’t do it myself?

  My embarrassment escalates until I whimper in my throat. I want to scurry around him and run back into the street. He leans his bike against the wall, leaving his helmet on the seat, and walks to me.

  “Hey.” He peels off his glove and cups my cheek. “It’s okay. Stop being embarrassed, please.” His thumb caresses me. “I promise to stop teasing you. You look like a mouse ready to run and hide.”

  “Okay,” I whisper. I love his hand on my face. I still can’t look in his eyes, but I breathe and lose the urge to run.

  He kisses my forehead, his breath hot against my skin. He smells like sweat and man and bike. I inhale a large dose. He lays kisses across my nose, then on my mouth. His lips are supple and hot. He sucks my lower lip between his, and I lean into him, already growing warm in low places.