Can feel the brush of her breasts against my chest with each inhale she takes.

  Can see her pulse skittering along the line of her throat.

  For the briefest of moments, I forget where we are, who she is, and my reasons for the dare card that night.

  All I remember is the taste of her kiss.

  The softness of her lips.

  That low, strangled moan that she emitted from the back of her throat that tugged on my balls as if it were her fingertips.

  Her eyes are startled wide and look much how I feel. Shocked. Discombobulated. Turned on.

  I reach up and brush a lock of hair that has fallen over her cheek and tuck it behind her ear—something, anything, to keep my hands busy and my mind off her parted lips and wide eyes. It’s been one hell of a day and a bit too somber a night. But this? This feels like something I want but know I shouldn’t have. Like something I desperately need, as if I’m drowning and Camilla is the only thing that can revive me.

  “Should we test your theory about my skills?” I murmur.

  “Riggs,” she whispers in a shaky voice that has me wanting to step into her and kiss that vulnerability away.

  My conscience wars.

  With what’s right.

  With what I don’t want but suddenly do.

  With the fucking fallout—something I normally wouldn’t care about—that I don’t want to fuck up given my first complete experience of F1 under my belt.

  My fingers skim her bare arm as I bring it down and she jumps back as if I’ve electrocuted her.

  “Sorry. I fell. I didn’t mean—”

  I shove the bottle toward her to stop her from rambling and to prevent myself from stepping forward and doing what I can’t get out of my head.

  She’s nervous. It’s the way her hands need something to do. Fix her hair. Touch the desk. Adjust her shirt on her shoulders. Lift the bottle to her lips and then back down.

  “Why do you have that? Champagne? The bottle?”

  Huh. The woman who never gets rattled is rattled.

  Why do I like that I did that to her?

  “Another driver gave it to me today as a congrats.”

  “Oh.” She looks at me and then my hands and then back out to the track.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  The sound comes just seconds before a baritone chuckle rumbles through the press box.

  Camilla and I jump as if we’re two live wires that have touched. Their sparks fading black as we turn to see the security guard standing in the open doorway.

  He has broad shoulders and dark curly hair. He eyes the both of us with distrust. “I thought you were just running in here because you forgot something?” he asks Camilla. His gaze sweeps the room, taking in the champagne in my hand and the portion spilled on the floor. “And I didn’t let you in here.”

  My smile is a flash of appeasement. “I was worried about her. She hadn’t come back yet so I came in to find her. You weren’t at the gates. You—”

  “Oh my God,” he says. I see the minute he recognizes me. “Spencer. Riggs. Mr. Riggs. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry—but I have my job to do.”

  It does wonders for an ego to be recognized by the general public. “No worries. We were just caught up in how cool the track is when it’s empty.” I glance to Camilla and then back to the guard. “We’ll get out of your hair. Just give us a second to collect our things.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Camilla

  “Camilla.” That voice.

  I’m restless.

  Antsy.

  Exhausted from the week.

  But the heat of Riggs’s breath on my lips.

  The banter in the press box hours ago that own my mind.

  The rumble of his voice in my ears. It’s created an ache that burns as I stare at him standing before me, in my hotel room, looking at me as if asking whether I’m sure I want to do this.

  I want to say no. Should. He’s a guy I don’t want to like. That I don’t want to want.

  But we shared a car back to the team hotel.

  We walked down the hallway toward our rooms.

  And he followed me inside. I didn’t protest.

  Should we test your theory about my skills?

  “Camilla,” he murmurs but doesn’t reach out to touch.

  I hesitate, but it only lasts a second before I test the theory I’ve been thinking about in the taxi all the way back here. If he touched me, if he did more than kiss me, would I freeze up or would it only add to the burn he’s created?

  He leaves the first step to me.

  He makes me want it. Makes me act on that want. Makes me crave his kiss and his touch and the feeling of our skin sliding against one another’s.

  All things that I tolerated before. Tolerated to make the person I was dating feel good. Feel like we were okay. Like I was okay.

  But right now feels so much different.

  I step into him. Our mouths meeting in a brush of lips. Once. Twice. Then another one that he deepens.

  Our tongues tease each other’s. The taste of champagne and mint. Of desire and lust.

  Our hands roam over one another’s skin. Mine up his back to hook around his shoulders. His up my front to cup a breast and the other to span my lower back and hold me against him.

  Tiny fireworks going off every place we touch. Nerve endings that I thought were dead and gone forever are detonating. One by one. One after another. Each mini explosion working toward what I hope will be a grand finale.

  “Camilla,” he groans when my fingertips pull up the hem of his shirt, him pulling it the rest of the way off, as I find his firm, warm skin beneath.

  And even that is new to me. Touching him and finding pleasure in it. Tracing my fingertips up the grooves and dents fuels the ache it seems only he can create within me.

  I pull my own shirt over my head, desperate to feel his fingertips on my skin. To know what it’s like to be touched when it feels like forever since I have and have enjoyed it.

  Our lips meet again—hungrier this time. More desperate. And we chuckle against each other’s lips as we both reach back to unhook my bra at the same time.

  I drop my hands. I let him do the honors. And the way he slides his hands from my ass up my bare back—the strength in them comforting and arousing at the same time—before unclasping my bra and casting it aside.

  He leans back, his eyes roaming over my bare chest, and hisses in an appreciative breath. “Jesus, Camilla.”

  My nipples pebble, the ache as poignant there as between my thighs. I didn’t know breasts could throb like this.

  “Riggs.” His name is a plea and a command all at once.

  But he stands there and waits for me to act. To initiate. To show him what I need.

  I reach out, put my fingers into the waistband of his pants and tug him toward me. He lands against my chest, but this time—our bare skin touching, the warmth of our bodies against each other’s—is like lighting the fuse to a stick of dynamite.

  I’ve waited six years to feel something, anything. And now that I do, I don’t want to wait another fucking second.

  I want to drown in sensations. Be overcome with feeling. I want to burn from the ache.

  “Touch me,” I murmur. “Kiss me.” I kiss him and tug on his bottom lip. “Fuck me, Riggs.”

  A chuckle falls from his lips as he leans back and looks at me. “You sure you know what you’re asking for?”

  I quirk a brow. “I’ll hold on tight, but that means you better take me for a damn good ride.”

  His laugh bellows around the room. His eyes meet mine. A chance for me to back out. To save face despite my spoken bravado.

  But I do neither.

  Instead, with my eyes locked on his, I begin to unbutton my jeans. To pull down the zipper. To let them drop off my hips and pool at my ankles on the floor.

  “Fucking hell, woman,” he grits out, seeing me without a mountain of baggy clothes on for the first time. “You’re . . . breathtaking.”

  And if there is one thing I’ll take away from tonight so far, it’s the way I feel hearing those words. Hearing them from him.

  I have a visceral reaction to them. My throat swallows. My lips part. My breasts grow heavy. Between my thighs grows wet.

  He undoes his top button.

  “Stunning.”

  Pulls down the zipper.

  “Sexy.”

  Pushes them and his boxer briefs down over his hips so his cock springs free with the action.

  “Irresistible,” he says. Or at least I think he says it because I’m too busy looking at Spencer Riggs in all his gorgeous, naked glory.

  The man is a masterpiece and his cock falls right in line with that theory. He’s a little above average in size with firm thighs and a sexy-as-hell V on his abdomen that have my mouth going dry.

  “I think this is going to be a problem, Cami.”

  I whip my eyes up to his. They’ve darkened and his lids are heavy with desire. “Why? What?” God, no. Please let this happen.

  “I’ve wanted you since that first kiss. Since the conference room. And even more now that I’m looking at you naked.”

  “Why is this a problem?”

  “Because I’m going to need to fuck you good and hard—at first. Work out all that pent-up need I’ve been carrying around for you. Then we’ll go for round two.”

  “Round two?” My smile is incredulous. Seriously?

  “Mmm.” His eyes scrape over my body, and I can practically feel his gaze as it does. He stops to stare at my pussy and no doubt my arousal is visible on my thighs, just like the drop of pre-cum is on his cock. “Definitely round two. We’ll take our time. We’ll see to all your needs. I’ll already have come once so I’ll be able to last longer.” His eyes dart to my lips and then back up to mine. “Then again, you’re pretty damn fuckable, so we might even have to go for a round three.”

  I stand there, naked but not self-conscious, with my jaw lax and eyes blinking, as if that’s going to help me comprehend what he’s saying.

  “It’s time to get started. It’s going to be a long fucking night.” He steps forward and cups the side of my face. “Pun intended.” His lips meet mine in a taunting kiss. “You ready?”

  I offer a cockeyed smirk and then step backward until I find the bed. I sit down, scoot back, and then spread my thighs. “Does it look like I’m ready?” I love the quick intake of breath. The subtle flaring of his nostrils. The jerk of his cock at the visual.

  Then his chuckle reverberates off the hotel room walls as he fists his cock and slides his hand up and down over it.

  “You’re fucking soaking for me.”

  A step closer. Another pump of his cock. A lick of his bottom lip.

  “Pink and glistening.”

  Another step. A ragged breath. A twisting of his hand over the crest of his cock.

  “I bet you’re tight, right? So tight you’re going to have to stretch for me.”

  He climbs onto the bed as I lick my own lips. The cool sheets on my skin do nothing to abate the heat his gaze and words have created.

  “Let me check.”

  He pushes three fingers into me, and I cry out, bucking my hips into his hand. Riding his fingers. Needing his fingers and the onslaught of sensations he’s creating.

  His strangled groan is sex personified. But it’s his eyes—how they glaze over as he watches his fingers slide in and out of me. It’s his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he tries to work me over and up to taking his cock. It’s the slick sounds of the movements that turn me on even further.

  “Camilla,” he groans, one hand working his own cock, the other working me. “So fucking gorgeous. Those tits. Those lips. This pussy. Baby, I’m going to need to use all of them tonight. Every fucking one. You think you can do that for me?”

  The visual of him between my thighs. The audible—the words he’s saying and the way he’s saying them in that pained groan. The physical—the sensations he’s creating, the nerve endings he’s prepping for his cock are so damn electric it’s like my body is a current.

  “Fuck me, Riggs.”

  A cocky grin turns up one side of his lips. “Atta girl. Tell me what you want.” He lines the head of his cock up at my entrance and then uses it to spread my arousal around.

  When his eyes meet mine, I know there’s no turning back. And I know I’ve never ached to be touched, to be filled, to feel pleasure before like I do right now.

  It’s all I can think about. All I can focus on. All I fucking want.

  “Now,” I urge as I reach my hand down and part myself so he can get a better view of what he’s about to fuck into bliss.

  His fingertips dig into one of my thighs as he holds his dick and pushes into me with the other one.

  I try to stay still. I try to play it cool. But my body has other ideas as it convulses in pleasure at the invasion. As it stretches to accommodate him filling me to capacity.

  His eyes roll back in his head as he seats himself fully within me. I think I have much the same reaction but mine is accompanied with a feral groan that begs and pleads for more.

  For so much fucking more.

  Our eyes meet. I give the subtlest of nods.

  And then Riggs begins the slow and steady ascent into madness. Into the almost violent pleasure of punishing my pussy with his cock.

  In.

  Grind.

  Out.

  Repeat.

  He leans over, his lips finding my breasts and sending my body into a parallel spiral of sensations I didn’t know existed or that I knew I needed but oh, do I need it. Oh, how I want it.

  My fingernails score his back as his teeth scrape my nipples.

  My pussy clenches around him while he pushes in, and I love the stutter in movement—the growl in reaction.

  Nerve endings come to life.

  Aches turn to smolders.

  Smolders turn into full-blown wildfires.

  I welcome the burn.

  Every lick of flame with each push in.

  Every ember popping as he pulls back out.

  It’s the bruising grip of his fingers on my thighs. It’s the slap of our skin. It’s the building of sensations—layer upon layer—so that when this all implodes, I can only imagine how fucking powerful it’s going to be.

  An orgasm at the hand of a man. Or rather, by the cock of a man. What’s that going to be like? What’s that going to feel like?

  “Riggs,” I pant out.

  “C’mon, Cami. Come for me. Show me what my cock does to you. Fucking come all over it.”

  My orgasm is building as if he’s lit a match and is holding it close enough that I can feel the burn, but not too close that I actually get burned.

  It’s waiting.

  It’s building.

  And it strikes with a vengeance. Dynamite detonated. Haze of oblivion pulling me under at the same time a swell of sensation surges me up.

  “Riggs.” I cry out his name. I beg him to stop and not to stop all at the same time.

  A loud noise startles me. I’m jolted to the present—a hotel room in Barcelona, shadows playing against the wall from the open blinds, and my hands between my thighs. Fingers on my clit, thighs soaked, breath labored, and pussy pulsing from the orgasm so strong it tore me from my dreams.

  From my dreams.

  That’s all it was.

  A dream.

  Not a reality.

  I push my blankets off me and stare at the ceiling as my heart pounds and body rides the high of the orgasm.

  As I think long and hard about Spencer Riggs.

  As I admit to myself, I’ve long since forgiven him.

  Dare I say, I’ve started to like him.

  Talk about creating problems for myself.

  Especially when my job requires me to be face-to-face with the man I’m fantasizing about.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Riggs

  “They’re waiting.”

  I look over to Anya. “It seems like they’re always waiting,” I say of the one thing that I don’t think I understood about the Formula 1 side of the circuit. The sponsors.

  The wooing of the sponsors.

  The social events with the sponsors.

  The constant presence of them during the entire five days of race week.

  “Well, they are helping pay the bills, right? So make sure you wear that pretty smile of yours and bring your charm.”

  “I know. I’m not complaining. It’s just hard to get a moment alone. It seems the only day I get is on Saturdays, before race day.”

  She nods. “Things will calm down after this race. We’re selling your ability to them. Your charisma. Your ‘it’ factor. They need to be reassured since you’re new and they had no hand in picking you. It’s a lot of money they’re putting up. They want to vet you and make sure their money is in good hands.”

  Don’t I know it.

  I technically haven’t been home in almost two weeks—unless you count the one night I came back from Spain to then turn around and head back out to a private track. A track where I spent hours upon hours learning my car. Days upon days understanding any and every metric and how I can better help my crew help me. Night after night where these sponsors came out for various activities. Some made me feel like a monkey in a gilded cage. I took others around the track in the two-seat race cars provided by our engine manufacturer.

  “I know, but it’s okay to miss my bed, right?” I tease.

  “It is. Are your friends still partying it up in your flat like they own the place?” she asks.

  I groan and nod. “Yep. They sent a new round of photos last night. They look like they’re having the time of their lives.” I act mad but don’t really care. Wills, Junior, and Micah are like brothers to me. We’ve been friends since secondary school. I trust them implicitly.

  I would, however, not be angry for the chance to just kick back with them.

  It’s been a long two weeks.

  Home in three days. And I’m looking forward to it.

  “Fix your collar and slap on a Spencer Riggs smile for me.”

  “Who are we trying to impress tonight?” I ask as we approach the entrance of our hospitality building.