Free Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 by Robin Lovett Page A

pockets.
    “You’re not coming up,” I blurt on reflex.
    “Whoa.” He puts his palms up. “I’m innocent, I swear. What are you thinking, Miss Aurélie?”
    I blush and stare at the ground. “Nothing.” I scurry across the dark cobbles, down the block. My thoughts jumped straight from him getting out of the car to him wanting sex. It’s not my fault. He made it very clear with his proposition last time that sex is what he wants. “Go home to your models or whoever.”
    “Hey, hey.” He hurries to my side.
    I jog down the staircase sidewalk to my door.
    He jogs with me. “I don’t ‘do’ models.”
    “Right. Never.” There’s no way that’s true.
    “Well, I did, but not anymore. We all do stupid shit when we’re twenty-two.”
    “I’m twenty-two.”
    “Then maybe you should do some ‘stupid shit’ with me.” The streetlight shines on his spreading smile.
    I stop near my door, but not in front of it. I’m not sure I want him to know where I live. He stands so close to me, I think he might try to kiss me again. But instead, his hand brushes my wrist and twines fingers with mine.
    I like holding his hand. “No models?” My brain is having a hard time comprehending this guy. Does he, for real, like me?
    “Nah,” he says. “Plastic. Boring. I’m a bigger fan of the real deal.” Like at the tram stop, he strokes my love handle.
    It surprises me; I jump away. I don’t know if I want him to touch me again. I’m afraid that I’ll—that if he—
    He follows me, and before I can fathom it, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me.
    It’s different from the chaise longue. He doesn’t wait to slip me his tongue, he’s there, inside my mouth.
    I am lost and gone. I grab his shoulders and pull him against me.
    He wants me. I want that.
    My lips are sucking and needy, and I’m whimpering, but I don’t care.
    I wrap my arms around his neck and try to yank him down to my height. He’s taller than me, and I don’t like it. I want his head level with mine so that I can have more of his tongue in my mouth and feel more of him against me.
    “Where’s—your—door?” He kisses me between words.
    I point in the direction, and he walks me back into the recess, against the wall.
    He happily devours me. Or I devour him. Whichever.
    I climb him, and he catches my thigh, hitches it around his hip, lifts me on tiptoe, presses me into the wall.
    His mouth and his tongue are better than cheese and croissants. I could eat those all day; him, though—just eating him isn’t enough. I want all of him inside me.
    A pressure toughens between my legs. He’s rubbing me, right there, and he’s hard.
    I lean my hips into him, to see if I’m right. He groans, and his fingers dig into my butt, and he grinds between my legs. Oh yeah, I’m right.
    This is bad. Bad. I should not be doing this.
    I have no desire to stop.
    I rock my hips against him little by little, and it feels so good that I forget about kissing, only panting. His lips nibble my jaw, and he slides his hips up and down against me.
    I’m breathing so hard I can’t form thoughts.
    “Terr—Terrence,” I gasp, and still my hips. “I— Umm—”
    “Yeah.” He stops moving too. “I’m—should stop.” He gulps. “Oh, you feel so good, Lia.” His nose is in my ear, my hair.
    Me standing against him, his body, he’s stone, all over. Not just hard. Hard implies a certain give to the surface, like it can be related to soft. No. He’s granite, only muscle and skin. My hands drop to his narrow hips, my fingers hooking in his belt loops. I’m overwhelmed by the urge to press into him again.
    It triggers alarm bells. I loosen my leg around his, and he lets me glide down off my tiptoes to the ground. The loss of being level with his face, of having his lips so close to mine, is weighty.
    I nuzzle into his rigid chest, and he lowers his cheek to mine. His tongue touches my lips, and I resist the urge to let him in my mouth again. With a subtle