Pure Pleasure

Pure Pleasure

Ava McKnight

Part of the Playing With the Boys series.

Writer Giselle is on assignment to cover an off-road race, a trendy sport she knows absolutely nothing about. When she meets hunky mechanic Ky, the chemistry between them sizzles from the moment they lay eyes on each other. Their lust is off the charts, but there’s also an innate emotional connection between them that stems from having each lost a parent.

As Giselle is drowning in sexual bliss, she discovers Ky isn’t just a mechanic for the race team—he
owns
the team. He’s also a championship driver, carrying on his father’s legacy. Suddenly Giselle’s ashamed of having shared the story of her financial struggles with Ky. But he’s not about to let her forget how hot they are for each other. And maybe he’ll convince her there’s more between them than pure pleasure.

Pure Pleasure

Ava McKnight

Chapter One

“Head’s up, babe. Comin’ through.”

The voice behind me was a sensuous one that caused an unexpected flutter in my stomach. When I glanced over my shoulder, however, that particular organ leapt into my throat.

“Holy shit!” I ducked just as two dust-and-grease-covered men flanked me, holding a large piece of metal between them. Popping my head up after they passed, I caught an apologetic grin from the hunky mechanic on the left.

“Sorry about that.” He’d been the one to warn me I was standing in harm’s way. “Quarter panel for the pre-runner.”

Huh
for the
wha’
?

“Oh, Giselle,” I muttered under my breath as the men rushed off. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

I was completely out of my element here, among this flurry of human dirt devils and revving engines. Why on earth had I agreed to write a magazine feature on off-road racing? Sure, it was a hot, trendy sport. TV’s “McDreamy”, Patrick Dempsey, running the Baja 1000 had helped to propel off-road racing into the limelight, along with the likes of NASCAR racer Robby Gordon and notorious bad boy Jesse James. When he’d been married to Sandra Bullock, she’d reportedly come to the races, tooling around on an ATV as though she wasn’t Hollywood royalty, while her husband raced. That had given me a ray of hope I could do this.

But standing in the busy pits as crews worked on their dune buggies, Bajas, Jeeps, motorcycles and trucks, I feared I might have made a mistake with this adventurous undertaking.

My apprehension stemmed primarily from the fact that the magazine I worked for,
Scottsdale Live
, was in financial dire straits. For nearly two decades, it had been
the
magazine for Scottsdale socialites. Over the past several years, I and three other female writers had covered all the exclusive and glamorous events in town, featured the hottest fashion, shoe, jewelry and home designs, and wrote about culinary and vineyard triumphs only the rich and fabulous could afford to sample.

Similar to everyone else, though, the economy had hit us hard. And while my fellow reporter Claire Williams had generously stepped in to help the situation with her family money, we were still struggling in this new economic paradigm where the affluent were more conscientious than ever about how they spent their money.

As an experiment, we were currently reaching out to a broader demographic. Claire had written an article on a popular athletic club and its owner, Jack Reed, and that had reeled in a slew of new readers. We’d captured the attention of female athletes and fitness buffs, which had turned out to be a category beneficial to the magazine’s bottom line. Claire’s feature had landed us new advertisers that we’d been in desperate need of.

Taylor Whitney and Cherish Westerly had their own stories in the works. At the moment, it was my turn to help out, though Lord only knew why I’d agreed to tackle off-road racing. I knew nothing about the sport and I’d had zero time to do in-depth research on it because the assignment had landed on my desk the day before this particular race was taking place. I’d miraculously scored a hotel room after a large team had bowed out at the last minute and canceled several reservations. Taking that as a sign, I’d jumped in with both feet.

I didn’t want to let my colleagues, my publisher or my readers down. So I tromped off in the direction of the mechanics and the “quarter what’s-a-ma-who’s-it”, ignoring the fact that my favorite chocolate-colored suede Manolo Blahnik ankle boots were now covered in dust. The hem of my vintage Gloria Vanderbilt jeans didn’t fare so well either, but what was I to do? A promise was a promise. And I was damn glad to still have a job, so I’d suffer fashion repercussions to get my story.

I sidled up to the somewhat disheveled yet amazingly hot man who’d kept me from getting my head lopped off earlier. He and his cohort had propped the panel against the dented side of a truck and were discussing technical engine and body repairs that went way over my head.

For several long and tantalizing seconds, I admired the view. The hunk had sandy-brown hair on the longish side. The windblown strands added to his devil-may-care demeanor. He wore a white sleeveless tee with spots of grease on it. The material hugged his well-defined chest and abdominal muscles. His faded Levi’s hugged everything else. I had no idea the color of his eyes, because they were concealed by sunglasses, but he had a strong jawline and chiseled cheeks to go with his strong and chiseled body.

I experienced an
ooohhh-la-la
moment as my brain stalled out and my hormones took over.

He was all bulging biceps and rigid six-pack abs and…
Holy Moses
. Oh so sexy.

My clit tingled with sexual awareness. Not something I’d experienced of late, and certainly never to this degree, so it was incredibly distracting. And downright arousing.

I cleared my throat to get his attention—and maybe to clear away the tingling sensations skating over my skin.

When he glanced at me, I asked, “So what’s this pre-runner thing all about?”

His grin was nothing short of heart stopping. One corner of his very tempting mouth lifted in a lazy, half-assed way that prickled more of my body parts. He slid the sunglasses down his nose and eyed me with baby blues brighter than the cloudless sky we stood under.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty thing,” he said in a slow, easy tone. His deep voice held a hint of a Southern drawl that did a crazy-wicked number on my insides.

He removed his shades, and he tucked one of the arms of the frame into his front pocket. Without realizing it, I took a step backward as he took one forward, toward me. Noting the flash of intrigue in his sky-blue eyes, I regained my step, which left very little space between us.

Despite the engaging smile, he was a mammoth of a man and that was a little intimidating. Exciting too, I had to admit.

Thrusting my hand out, I said, “I’m Giselle Kemper. I’m doing a feature for
Scottsdale Live
magazine, but I’m afraid I don’t know much about off-road racing.”

“Ah.” He pulled a rag from the back pocket of his jeans and wiped off some grime before very gingerly taking my hand in his. “Nice to meet you, Giselle.”

His palm was lightly callused and large, engulfing mine. Reasons he likely was so careful with my own hand in his.

His skin was warm and his touch was electric in a way that tickled and teased my flesh. A now sizzling sensation along my clit made me deliciously uncomfortable and a bit breathless.

Inclining his head toward the truck, he added, “The pre-runner is what we use to run the course before the race. Familiarize the team with the race track, gauge the road conditions and map out where the most dangerous bumps and turns are.”

His explanation reminded me of what the hell I was doing there in the first place.

Pulling my hand from his, though I was reluctant to do so because it would break the thrilling current running through me, I asked, “Have you been working on trucks long?”

“Since I was old enough to pick up a wrench, it seems. How’d you get wrangled into writing an article on something you know nothing about?”

“It’s sort of an experiment for the magazine.”

“Well, then,” he said with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, “I’d be happy to answer any questions you have. Give you a crash course, so to speak.”

“Cute pun,” I quipped. “I’ll take you up on that offer. I’d like to learn as much as I can for this feature.”

He grinned at me again and it really shouldn’t have made my thighs go up in flames, but it did. I couldn’t pinpoint just one thing about him that created such sudden and intense carnal cravings that my nipples actually tightened and a throbbing pressure built in my pussy.

It was everything about him, really, that did me in. He had a magnetic presence with his hunky build, sinful grin and bedroom voice. I suspected I could lie in bed for hours listening to him read the
Wall Street Journal
and be turned-on.

“Hey, man,” his friend politely interrupted us. “We’re due at contingency.”

With a wink, my new mentor said, “That’s where the sponsors are set up. We’ve got to get the Trophy Truck over there.”

“Trophy Truck?”

“Yeah, that’s what the team races. I’ll explain it later. Why don’t you meet me in the bar at the casino around eight? I’ve got a meeting prior to that.”

“All right,” I agreed, excitement rippling down my spine. “Anywhere in particular I should look for you?”

His grin widened and it was stunning. My knees nearly knocked together.

“Something tells me you’ll be easy to spot.”

I didn’t have to glance down at my clothes to know I stood out when everyone else sported sensible shoes and shirts or jackets with racing logos on them.

“Eight o’clock, then,” I said, trying not to beam as brightly as I feared I did.

He and his companion climbed into the pre-runner and the engine roared to life. They drove off with a wave, just as I smacked my hand against my thigh and called out, “I don’t even know your name!”

He couldn’t hear me, of course.

Some reporter I was. I’d been so distracted by the hard muscles and sexy smile I’d completely lost perspective.

I had several hours to kill before my crash-course date and the pits were the best place to spend them, I learned. I watched race teams prep their vehicles and listened to the things they had to say about the track and how they planned to run the race. I watched them coordinate what I overheard as being chase vehicles that followed the racers with gas, tires, mechanical equipment and tools. I discovered some teams were so advanced, they had helicopters that kept their respective drivers in sight, reporting their progress back to the pits.

Later in the afternoon, I had to mentally amend the masculine emphasis I’d noted previously. Seemed there were a few female drivers in the mix who’d been more than willing to let me do impromptu interviews.

The energy surrounding the casino hosting the race had me buzzing with enthusiasm over my newfound interest in this rugged sport. The parking lot had been filled with RVs, trucks and race car trailers when I’d arrived in the morning, and I’d had to valet park because there’d been no available spaces. The land around this remote riverside casino in northwestern Arizona, by the California border, was occupied by more RVs and racing trailers, along with the contingency area I explored and the pits. The course itself was over four-hundred miles. It lapped the pits four times. I’d been told this by a food vendor selling grilled spicy Italian sausages with sweet roasted peppers and onions that had smelled too heavenly to pass up.

By the time I made it to my room to shower and change, I felt confident I could have an intelligent conversation with the hunky mechanic without coming across as a complete moron when it came to racing. I hoped to impress him—at least a little, if that was possible.

After dressing in a pair of slim black pants and a matching sleeveless top with a sweetheart neckline, I rummaged through my suitcase and discovered I’d brought all the wrong clothes. I’d heard the word
casino
and had thought of a hip, stylish resort in Vegas. Not a down-home river hotel where jeans and sneakers were the order of the day. The only sweater I’d packed was of the Aspen lodge-bunny variety. The tight-fitting white garment zipped up the front and was embellished with white and silver faux fur halfway down the front and back, with wide bands of fur at the cuffs.

It did all the right things for my curvy figure, so I ignored the fact that I’d resemble a flashy Kardashian at a simple hoedown. With my black tank top on, I only zipped the sweater to just below my breasts, tucked into my favorite black lace and satin bra. I didn’t require the aid of push-up pads, not that I was anticipating Mr. Mechanic discovering this for himself, but then again…

I hadn’t been this attracted to a man in longer than I could remember. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d ever responded so quickly and strongly to one before. He totally wasn’t my type, but that didn’t curb my innate sexual reaction to him. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t the type of man I typically went for that made him a forbidden fruit I wanted to take a bite out of.

Assessing myself in the mirror, I realized I needed to downplay my hair and makeup to offset the sweater and to also dispel the potential impression that I didn’t want to be mussed up by the hunk. I pulled the long, plump curls of my chestnut-colored hair over one shoulder and secured the ponytail with a matching holder. I ditched the hoop earrings I’d put on earlier and replaced them with simple silver studs. Wiping the red lipstick from my mouth, I dabbed a neutral-colored gloss on them. I toned down the blush, but the smoky effect around my green eyes was one I preferred, so I didn’t make a change there.

This was my Jennifer Love Hewitt look and I hoped I’d pull it off well enough to entice Mr. Mechanic. She had a smoldering yet inviting appearance that made her seem approachable.

With any luck, that’d be precisely the signal I’d send out tonight.

Thinking of my date, I fought back a giddy laugh, but I couldn’t stop smiling. I liked how he revved
my
engine.

After slipping into four-inch black leather ankle boots, I tucked a few essentials into a small purse. I left my room and took the elevator to the casino level.