Oh fuck.

  Did someone hurt her in the past?

  “Camilla, did something happen to you? Before? In the past?”

  “Riggs. I . . . can’t. I just . . . can’t.”

  Who fucking hurt you? I want to demand an answer. Need to. But the look in her eyes . . . makes me panic.

  So I lean forward and press my lips to hers. I don’t know what else to do. I feel helpless and guilty and enraged that anyone could use sex like a weapon. Resting my forehead against hers, I shush her. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t have to trust me with that information. You’ve already trusted me with way more than that.”

  I feel her chest shudder against mine, and it’s as though the tension leaves her body in relief.

  So many things make sense now.

  Baggy Bar Girl.

  Yes, you’re the arsehole, Riggs, who called her that.

  I’m not good with shit like this.

  How can I help her? Is it my place to fucking offer?

  She came to you for sex, Riggs.

  My lips meet hers again. Briefly. Gently. But my brain won’t stop thinking.

  What if I could help her orgasm? What if I can make her feel so good? About herself. About sex. Sexy. That’s what she is, and she should know that. Own that. Is that what she needs?

  What if I could teach her that sex can make her feel good?

  It’s not like it’s a hardship to fuck her. Not in the fucking least.

  I lace open-mouthed kisses down the curve of her neck and the slope of her shoulder. I work my way to her breast, taking the nipple in my mouth and sucking on it. Teasing it with my tongue.

  “Riggs. What are—”

  “Shh.” A kiss to beneath her breast. “I’m a determined man.” One pressed to her navel. “If at first I don’t succeed.” To where her strip of tight curls begins. “Try.” I spread her thighs apart with my hands. “Try.” I take her in. Inhale her scent. And am immediately hard again. “And try again.”

  I look up to meet her eyes when I lower my mouth and slide my tongue down the slit of her pussy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Camilla

  “Let me walk you to your flat.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. It’s just right”—I point the short distance down the hall—“there.”

  “You never know what might be lurking on the way.” He grins and it makes me feel all sorts of different things. Things I don’t even want to question. Things I just want to enjoy.

  “True. Very true.”

  He’s standing in his doorway with one hand on the doorjamb. He’s wearing a pair of gym shorts and pretty much nothing else other than a rumpled head of hair, no doubt from where my hands gripped it tightly.

  Yes, Camilla. This really did happen. Every single second of it.

  It’s like I started feeling and now I can’t stop.

  The air is colder against my skin. My pants hit just the right way when I shift, and it’s a blatant reminder of what just happened. My lips still tingle from his kisses—both sets of them.

  Our eyes meet. Hold. And that slow crawl of a smile turns up one corner of his lips.

  Jesus. My nipples tighten from the visual alone.

  “You do know that this was supposed to be good, lighthearted, grip-the-sheets, laugh-somewhere-in-the-middle-because-we-bonked-heads sex, right? You weren’t supposed to . . . take on the burden of—”

  “First, I did see some sheet gripping, so uh, if you’re trying to hurt my ego again so you can have more sex, I’m not falling for it. All you have to do is ask.” He winks. “And second, you, this, tonight was not a burden. In fact, I’m pretty sure I just found my newest outside-of-work hobby. A mission, if you will.”

  “Riggs . . . a mission? What?”

  “Yep. How many orgasms can I give Camilla?”

  I bury my head in my hands and laugh, all while riding the high from the first one and trying to imagine having more than one during the night.

  “In fact, those little hearts you’re supposed to color on the calendar because you’re excited to see me have now been officially changed to represent orgasms. The question is, how many hearts can you fit on one of those tiny squares?” He grins, clearly proud of himself for this idea. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  I laugh. The sound bubbles up inside me and there’s no way I can stop it. It just feels so damn good. So damn freeing. My cheeks hurt from smiling. “I mean, the last thing I want to do is prevent you from completing your mission.”

  He steps into me and without preamble, frames my face and kisses me. My body has been awakened to so many sensations in the past few hours, so many ways to feel that I didn’t know existed, and yet his lips meeting mine, his tongue touching mine, only serves to awaken even more.

  “I’m a competitive fucker, Gasket. I don’t like to lose.” He pats me on the ass as I take a step back. I smile.

  “Good thing I’m a team player.”

  His chuckle follows me as I saunter down the hallway to my flat.

  I can feel his eyes on me as I walk. Each step awakens the slight soreness between my legs. My God, I had no idea it could feel that good. Just thinking about it . . .

  The desire heavy in his gaze as he dipped his head down and slid his tongue between my thighs.

  The coarseness of his hair grasped in my fingers as my hips bucked and thighs clenched.

  Jesus, holy mother of all things. I’ve given myself orgasms. With a vibrator. With the stream of water in my shower. With my own fingers . . . but how is it even possible that the sensations were more intense, more overwhelming when they came by the hand—or rather the very skillful tongue—of Spencer Riggs?

  I thought I’d get the buildup but never reach the point of no return.

  I reached it all right.

  I reached it and I never want to look back.

  I close my door and slump against it, closing my eyes, my grin permanent on my lips.

  Fuck.

  Riggs looks up at me from between my thighs.

  My arousal coats his grin.

  My body still pulses—big waves that turn to little waves that morph to ripples. My skin tingles. My inner thighs still feel the scratch of his stubble. My pussy still feels his mouth as he sucks on my clit.

  I feel every damn thing. In places I never knew my body could feel.

  Even the sheets are almost too much for my new hypersensitivity.

  But Riggs, shifting onto his knees where he is between my thighs, cock hardening again, is welcome to touch. To pleasure. To take whatever he wants from me.

  And the satisfied grin as he crawls over my body and presses his lips to mine says he knows as much.

  He props himself on his elbow and lifts an eyebrow. “Now please, please, please, tell me that wasn’t faking it. Because if it was, you deserve a goddamn academy award.”

  He asks just as another tremor shudders through my body.

  I chuckle against his lips, his tongue dipping to tease mine. “I’ve never been happier to not win an award in my life.”

  I laugh into my empty flat. The sound echoes in the emptiness but feels so damn fulfilling.

  For years and years, I’ve let Brandon LeCroix’s actions bind me.

  His touch shackle me to feelings of doubt and insecurity.

  His words inhibit my own sexuality. Constrain my body’s reception of any other touch.

  But not anymore.

  I may not be able to fully replace or repair those parts he stole from me, but Spencer Riggs just did a mighty job of showing me I can enjoy another man’s touch. Sex. I can orgasm.

  I feared I’d never feel whole . . . sensual. But now?

  The cracks I thought were broken in me just might be filled.

  The scars will always be there—faded and beneath the surface.

  But after tonight, after what Riggs showed me is possible, I might just finally be free.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Riggs

  “And they’re taking care of you well?”

  I snort. “Yes, Mum. I have handlers and PR minders and physio trainers and dieticians. I mean, if there’s a position you can think of, Moretti has it.”

  I glance across the paddock and lift a hand to Oliver Rossi. He raises a middle finger in turn. The fucker.

  “Well, that’s comforting to know. And all that travel isn’t getting to you?”

  “Mum, nothing has changed travel wise, except the accommodations are way nicer, the food better, and the overall treatment is top-notch. I promise you, I’m not being mistreated.”

  “It seems all so different now than it was,” she murmurs.

  “Isn’t everything these days?”

  “True.” She pauses. “You’ve had better success than the talking heads on television predicted you would. Like I had any doubt.”

  “I just needed a chance. I’m taking it and running with it.”

  “And you’re doing a magnificent job.”

  “Did you doubt me, Mum?” I tease.

  “No, Spence. I didn’t. You know that. You must know that.” But there’s something in her tone that tells me she’s worried.

  The silence that follows communicates that her concern has to do with way more than me thinking she was doubting my abilities.

  The giant elephant in the room that we’ve been skirting around since I took this contract makes its presence.

  “I plan on being there,” she says softly.

  And there it is.

  The Band-Aid ripped off. The wound sliced open.

  She’s talking about when we race in Japan. At Suzuka. The track where my father died.

  It’s not for a few weeks now, and yet it feels like every fucking person is talking about it. It was brought up out of the blue in the presser yesterday. It’s been in articles written with no real correlation other than to mention the track in the same sentence as my name.

  I sigh. Would I like her there? Of course. Is it a good idea for either of us if she is? No.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Mum,” I say softly, knowing how much those words are going to hurt her. “It’s going to be hard enough being back there, racing that turn, fighting the memory. I need to have a clear head, and there will be enough ghosts filling it that I won’t have any room to worry about you or how you’re doing.” I sigh. “I know that sounds selfish, but—”

  “What if it’s something I need to do?”

  There’s quiet desperation in her voice. A sadness that weighs on the connection. “I’ll tell you that I understand why you feel that way, but that it also makes me feel like you need to be there because you fear something is going to happen. I can’t acknowledge that in any way, shape, or form, or else I’ll start to worry too.”

  “I understand,” she says quietly.

  Her quiet eats at me long after she hangs up, and I take a stroll through the massive complex that houses this week’s race.

  Suzuka.

  I’ve been racing now for years in all levels but have yet to return there in any capacity. Not as a spectator. Not as a driver. And sure as shit not as a son remembering his father.

  I have mixed feelings on the place in general. And of course, it’s the one track that has remained the same. It’ll be the one and only time I’ll literally be walking in his footsteps. And while that’s powerful to me, those footsteps will also lead me to the place that took his life.

  And I’m not sure what I will or should do to confront and then move past it.

  I’ve tried to control the one thing I can in this situation—me and my preparation. I’ve spent endless hours in the sim, trying to understand the turns and curves of the course. Trying to make it so second nature that I don’t think about it. So I don’t hesitate when I come to it.

  I have a few weeks yet before the race to perfect that indifference I’m striving for. It would be even easier to do so if the media would just leave me the fuck alone about “upcoming” races—with the upcoming meaning the Japanese Grand Prix—and let me focus on the one at hand. The race two days from now that needs my undivided attention.

  Yet . . . it’s draining. I need a distraction. Something other than dwelling on the reporters’ questions thrown at me yesterday. Anya’s now laying down the law regarding future interviews with me.

  And I find that perfect distraction when I look up as I walk into our hospitality suite.

  Camilla.

  She’s sitting in the far back corner of one of the conference rooms in our portable suites.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I stop and stare.

  I can’t help myself.

  Sex without strings is an awesome fucking concept. It’s not my first setup like this so I know how it’s supposed to go: the built-in pussy, a person to laugh with over a quick bite before jumping in the sack, the want that isn’t easily sated—but without the fucking complications.

  There are no hurt feelings if we have other plans. There is no need to divide time between my mates and my girl without someone getting pissed.

  There is sex.

  There are a few moments of lying there, panting as our hearts decelerate and our bodies come down from the high of sex, and talking about the most random things.

  There is clean up.

  Then a kiss goodbye at the door.

  And the night left to do our own thing.

  But fuck, man, this time around—the Camilla version of sex without strings—is so goddamn different. I’m pretty sure the woman with the furrowed brow looking at her laptop right now is the reason for that.

  So far, sex with her has been incredible. No further explanation needed.

  We may have only been doing this no-strings shit for eighteen days during the mandatory summer break—yes, I’m counting—but they have been some pretty fucking incredible days at that.

  The record so far—the hearts she could fill in on the calendar—is four in a night. Four. A vibrator. My tongue. My cock—twice.

  I might have set the bar too high with that one because the woman is insatiable—and I fucking love it. Even better? Watching her confidence skyrocket over the past few weeks. Hands that were timid to slide down and rub her clit to enhance her pleasure, now go straight there. She parts herself so I can see that sweet fucking pink of her pussy, and then goes to work helping get herself off—with her eyes on me the whole time. Watching me watch what she does to herself. To me. To us.

  And with that confidence comes a desire to get better at other things. She wants to learn how to suck cock better? I mean . . . it’s a hardship, but sure, she can practice on me. Not a problem.

  A phone call for a cup of coffee in the morning ended up with her bent over my dining table.

  A request for some company on a weekend afternoon jog resulted in us slamming against the closed door just as we got home and having rip-the-clothes-off-each-other sex.

  The few evenings we’ve spent together weren’t too fucking shabby either. Where we took our time exploring each other’s wants and needs before one of us would head back to our own flats.

  And when we part ways, I find myself wondering if she enjoyed it. If I gave her what she needed.

  And that has never fucking happened before. It’s not like I haven’t cared about past lovers’ enjoyment or fulfillment, but it’s never been such a priority. Yes, I’m an undeniable selfish arsehole.

  It’s as though I feel a self-determined pressure to ensure Camilla knows that all men are not arseholes.

  The irony, given I normally am one.

  But not the kind I think she’s experienced.

  I’ve had to turn my brain off. I’ve had to tell myself that each touch of her skin, each grip of her hips and nip at her lips, doesn’t take her back to whatever he—presumably—did. If I’m honest, it’s been fucking brutal.

  But I’ve been successful at it thus far.

  “Knock. Knock.”

  Camilla looks up from the table where she sits. She has papers and printed graphics sprawled out all around her. Her laptop is open, a pencil is tucked behind her ear, but there’s the slightest change about her. It takes me a second to see it. Her typical button-up white shirt is present, but it’s unbuttoned a few buttons and there’s the hint of a red tank top beneath.

  Is it surprising that I stare a bit longer, my mouth watering, my mind jumping back to two nights ago and the hunger she greeted me with when I knocked on her door? A yank of my lapels. A meeting of mouths. And so much more with a lot less clothes soon thereafter.

  “You’re smiling,” she murmurs, those expressive brown eyes meeting mine across the short distance.

  “I’m remembering. Reliving.” I shrug, happy with myself for leaving her with two damn hearts to color in when I left her flat to go back to mine.

  “Well, finish reliving by Saturday because you need a clear head going into qualifying,” she says and smiles.

  “Thanks, Mum,” I tease but then step into the conference room where she’s seated. “What is this?”

  She leans back in her chair and pride emanates off of her. “We just signed a sponsorship deal with Conmigo,” she says, referring to a major tequila brand. “I guess a lot of teams have been chasing after them, but they liked our AITA posts and our use of social media to promote the brand so . . . they signed with us.”

  My grin is unstoppable, knowing I contributed in some way to this. The more I can give this team, the harder it’s going to be to part ways with me. I may be sleeping with Camilla Moretti, but I’m not under any illusion that’s going to help me keep my ride.

  Nor do I want it to.

  “Congratulations. Like . . . that’s huge.” She sits a little straighter, eyes alive under the praise. “I’m guessing your dad is patting himself on the back right now for bribing you to come work here.”

  “I don’t think my dad pats himself on the back for anything,” she says. “He’s not a man who’s satisfied easily.”

  She says that, but she doesn’t see what I see when I watch them interact. The pride brimming in Carlo’s eyes as he watches her work with or lead her staff. The love that exudes off him when she speaks up about something.

  It’s like a punch in the gut sometimes. A reminder of what I don’t have. Another flag waving to add to the one my mum just raised.