Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 (9 page)

“Nah.” Gary waves him off. “Broken arm, broken leg, sure. Kill me? Never.” And with their light banter, the tension vaporizes. In sync with each other, their world turns comfortably. Like they’re brothers.

I’ve always wanted to have a best friend like that.

Gary portions the heated food onto two plates. “I’m going to go eat this with her and take a nap. You should too, Terr.” He carries the food down the hallway.

Terrence says to me in a low voice, “She wants to go home, but Gary can’t because the team and the races are here.”

I cringe. “So it’s either be in France together, or she goes home without him?”

He nods.

“Is she going to have the baby in France?” I lean closer to keep my voice down.

“I don’t know. If she goes home, there’s a chance Gary won’t be there for the birth of the baby. Unless, of course, he backs out of the Tour, which—” Terrence shakes his head like it’s the most hated idea in the world. “I can’t even think about.”

“Have you ever raced without him?”

He traces my palm. “On the track, yeah. But not since we turned pro in Europe. I can’t imagine racing something that important without him.” Air floods out of his mouth. “But I’ll do it if I have to. Winning in Paris is the most important thing this season. With or without Gary, on the twenty-first stage of the Tour, I will win on the Champs-Elysées.”

His pronunciation of the famous boulevard in Paris is perfect. It’s the only time I’ve heard him
not
butcher a French word. The determination in his voice is a force of will I haven’t seen from him before, except during his sprint for the line yesterday.

“Why is that one race so important?”

“It’s Paris. Every sprinter’s dream.” He stares at me. “If I can win the final stage of the Tour, no one will doubt I’m a world-class sprinter. No one.”

“But aren’t you already world-class? I mean, you won yesterday and you won two stages last year in the Tour.”

“Yeah, but so did a dozen other guys. It doesn’t make me any better than the other sprinters in the peloton. I’m the best. And they need to know it.” He’s emphatic, and his seriousness is out of character from the fun-loving Terrence Baker. He’s “Terror Braker” now.

He backs his chair out with a scrape and takes our empty glasses to the sink. His mood has done a one-eighty. I knew he was serious about cycling, but I had no idea how much pressure he placed on winning.

It reminds me of myself when I obsess over French Ph.D. qualifications—or the way I used to.

I follow him. The faucet is on and he’s scrubbing, scowling at the dishes.

I want to say something encouraging, but before I can, he says, “You should go.”

Chapter Seventeen

My disappointment is palpable.

Of course I should go home. I have papers to grade and lessons to plan. I should be hanging out with French people, not him and his American friends. Yet, after the bike ride, doing what I “should” feels less attractive than ever.

He’s washing dishes, not looking at me, then he shuts off the faucet and dries the glasses, his movements brisk and sharp. He wants me to go. I edge toward the door.

“I don’t want you to go.” He looks at me, his eyes dim. “But you don’t want to get involved in this cycling stuff.”

“I wasn’t thinking that.”

His face is bleak. “Trust me, Lia. There’s a lot about this sport you don’t know. Go be a teacher. That’s a much better thing.” He chews his lip and avoids my eyes.

“I’ll go. That’s fine.”

“I mean…” He looks at me with a kind of neediness. This man, who yesterday was on top of the world, a trophy in his hand, a model on each arm—he looks at me like he’ll be devastated if I go.

“What do you mean?”

“This is…” He scratches his hair. “Not supposed to be like this.”

“What is?”

“I should be asleep. Resting from the race. Not hanging out with you.”

“Oh.”

“Me and the bike and…girls. It doesn’t mix.” He watches the floor. “I wasn’t thinking straight this morning. I just wanted to go for a ride with you.”

My veins shrink. He regrets it—the ride and spending time with me. “Then I guess you can have your bike back.”

“No. That’s not it.” His eyes come up. “Let me try to get this out. I’m not a relationship guy. I think Caroline covered that.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, Mr. Twice-a-month. I got it.”

“My life is the bike. I can’t…I don’t have time for—”

“For me. I know. I’m leaving.”

“Lia, I—” The desperate claw in his tone pulls me back. “I’m not supposed to have time for you. But I want to make time for you.”

I lean against the counter next to him.

“But cycling…” he says. “You don’t want any part in it.”

“I enjoyed the race a lot yesterday. Your job is way more interesting than mine.”

The strain in his expression softens, and he dips his nose to my forehead with a sigh. “You’re better off with some French guy.”

My hand inches up his arm, my insides going molten already. He’s much more than his smiling, cocky façade. There are layers to him, and I want to sink into him until I find out everything there is to know about him.

I finger his shoulder. “I don’t care about French guys right now.”

He breathes against my hair. I move on tiptoe to kiss his neck, his chin.

His answer is a noise in his throat, and he grips my waist, kneading the curve that peeks over my jeans. Why he likes that, I do not know, but I’m glad.

“So soft,” he breathes again, like it’s a ritual phrase he has to say when touching me. The words race down my spine as fast as the heat from his lips drips over my skin. He licks my pulse and it speeds. God, don’t let him ever stop.

He covers me with his chest, backing me into the counter. My fingers on his cheek, I coax his lips to my lips and kiss him. His mouth is as hungry as mine, his tongue plying and invading my mouth. It cuts with an edge of desperation that makes me whimper for more.

My jaw falls open, making room for all he wants to give me. He presses his body into me, and I’m too short for our chests to meet, but something else is rubbing against my belly through his jeans. I shudder.

I want to know what’s so magical about how he’s shaped that it floods me with lust when he’s against me. I drag my palm to his crotch.

“Fuck, Lia.” He squirms from my hand before I can do more than graze him. I want to do it again.

He grasps my butt with both hands and lifts me onto the counter. I squeal and then it’s like last night against the wall. He’s rubbing between my legs where I’m liquid and swollen.

I hook my ankles at his back, and his narrow hips fit perfectly between my thighs. Then I’m clutching him, biting his tongue and rocking my hips against him. It feels blissfully good.

He’s the precise hardness, length, and width that fits me. I don’t want him to stop.

“Whoa.” He chuckles, holding my hips and stilling my movements. “Easy there, girl. You ride hard.”

I drop my legs, embarrassed.

He nips my lip with his teeth. “You keep grinding against me like that and you’re going to end up in my room. And not just for one night.” He’s teasing me, but I’m frustrated.

I’ve never had this raging need for more before. Something about him makes me want some, though I don’t want it all. I’m pissed at myself for not knowing what to do.

“Don’t look so disappointed,” he murmurs, sucking on my lips again. “If you really want to, we can.” His fingers drift up my side, and he palms my breast through my shirt. His hand is like a hot brand.

I breathe, “Yes,” wanting more of his hands massaging me. I arch into him.

“Damn,” he says. “Softest thing ever.” I smile against his mouth. He doesn’t use many adjectives, but he gets his point across.

I’m rubbing against him again, without thinking.

“You’re ready, aren’t you?” he says.

I still. “What?” His thumb slides over my nipple, and it perks under my shirt.

“I can’t pretend I haven’t been dreaming about it for weeks. Seeing you in that coffee shop every day. Bent over your books.”

“You saw me before that day you talked to me?”

“Mmm. You were too busy reading to notice.” He squeezes my breast. “But you’re not now.” He urges me off the counter, toward his room. “Come on.”

I keep my seat. “Terrence…”

“What?” He smiles cute and dreamy.

“I’d rather stay here.”

His eyes brighten with boyish playfulness. “Let me get a condom.” He turns down the hall.

Shit. I can’t communicate. “Terrence, no!”

“No? Oh, that’s okay.” His feet slip on the floor as he rushes back to me. “My bad. I thought you meant you wanted to.”

“No. I mean, I do.” I fidget. “Just not yet.”

He stands in front of me, resting his hands on either side of me, and kisses the top of my head. “I’m cool with that.”

“I’m not a one-nighter.”

“Don’t worry about that. Caroline exaggerates to piss me off.”

“But you have done one-night stands?”

“Last year. A couple times. Winning races kind of went to my head. I’m not into that anymore.” He holds my hand, stroking my wrist. “I’m into a lot more than once.”

My breath catches in my throat. Yes, more than once. Please.

“Lia.” He laces our fingers together. “Have you ever had sex before?”

Oh wow. I’m showing my lack of experience, which is awful, considering I have had sex, if unmemorably. “Why do you keep calling me ‘Lia’? I have a name, you know.” I pull my hand away and cross my arms, hiding my still hardened nipples. I wonder if he’s still hard in his pants.

“You’d rather I say it like a French guy? Aurélie,” he teases, my temper more amusing than annoying to him. “It’s just the short version. Aure-LIA. See?”

I scowl, even though it’s cute. I don’t want to talk about my previous sexual dissatisfaction. I’d rather just make out.

He runs a finger along my hairline and my ear. I sigh and soften. His touch gives me jitters.

“You going to answer my question?” he asks gently.

“Yes.” Mr. Twice-A-Month.

“Yes, you’ll answer? Or yes, you’ve had sex?” There’s a note of pity in his eyes that I can’t stand. I push him out of the way and jump off the counter.

“It’s okay if you haven’t,” he says. “I was a virgin once too, you know. I didn’t lose mine until nineteen.”

I stop my retreat, but I can’t look at him. “I’m not a virgin. I’m just not good at this.”

A rumble emanates from his chest. “I’d say you’re very good at it.”

I bite my lip and glance at him. “Really?”

His eyes close, and he nods emphatically. “Yes.”

“I still don’t know how it works.” I don’t know what I’m saying, I feel so inadequate.

“Sex is sex. If you’ve done it once, you know how it works.” His confusion is measured. “Right?”

“I guess. It’s just…” Guys know more about sex from the time they’re teens, from how their parts work. They don’t even have to try as teenagers, because if they don’t, they still orgasm in their sleep. I’ve never been jealous of that before, but now I’m seething mad about it.

“You have—parts.” I wave at his crotch, awkwardly. I don’t know how to say this or what I want to say.

“Yes. I have parts.” He pinches his lips and tries not to laugh at me.

“I mean, you have the mechanics that I don’t. Just from how you’re made, guys do stuff on their own that girls can’t.”

“Do stuff—you mean jerk off?” he translates with a serious face. “You mean guys jerk off but girls can’t.”

“Yes!” I throw up my hands in exasperation.

“Girls can jerk off too.”

My voice rises in volume. “But it’s more complicated.” I gesture at my crotch. “Hello, parts missing?”

Terrence breaks into a smile. “It’s not always complicated.”

A door in the hallway opens and Gary steps out, eyes half-closed. “Can you guys keep it down? Caroline fell asleep.”

Terrence lowers his voice. “Sorry, Gar.”

“Get some sleep, man,” he says, and closes the door.

I cover my face with my hands, mortified. Gary heard that entire conversation. “I’m going home.”

“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.