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

grab of my hands and tilt of my hips, I could heat us up again. He really wants me, and he’s taking all his cues from me. When I want, he gives. When I stop, he stops. He’s not pushing for sex.
    He whispers, “Can I see you tomorrow?”
    Surely, how great is this guy? American or French, cyclist or academic, I don’t care, I like him.
    “Yeah.” I giggle, a lot, and smile so broadly that I don’t want to stop it.
    “Best smile ever.” Letting me lean against the wall, he steps back, pulls his phone from his pocket.
    He asks, “What’s your number?”
    “I don’t have a cell.”
    His eyebrows pop. “You’re really into this hard-to-get stuff.”
    I shrug. “I’m trying to save money. My assistantship barely covers food.” I have a credit card; maybe I should buy a cell anyway. I want him to call me.
    He stuffs his phone in his pocket and grasps my hip. “At the café, tomorrow? Usual time?”
    “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
    “Okay.” He kisses my forehead and waits for something. I have no idea what; I’m heady with him.
    His fingers trace my collarbone. “Can you get inside?”
    “Oh. Uh-huh.” I dig out my key with shaky fingers, and it bobs around the lock before I get it open.
    From behind me, he kisses my cheek. “See you tomorrow, Lia.”
    * * * * *
    The ache between my legs pounds as loud as my thoughts.
    I slip inside my apartment, my knees weak. I nudge off my shoes and fall on my bed.
    A whirlwind day. This morning I didn’t know if I’d see him again. Then he’s in a bike race, I follow him to a party, and we make out, in a major way, twice. He’s an amazing kisser. He wants to see me tomorrow. Not only is he an “I don’t do models” kind of guy, but he also really likes me. Me.
    He’s fascinating, not academically inclined, yet he has goals and a rich career with a complex strategy that I don’t understand. He has this innate dominance, this need to win, and yet is so generous in victory. It’s an enthralling contradiction. I need to learn more about him, about his mysteries, who he is and what he likes.
    And what things he likes.
    And what things I’d like him to do to me.
    I sit up in my bed. I should change into pajamas. But I must admit a truth. For the first time in a long time—I’m wet.
    I’m damp between my legs, from Terrence. Him rubbing me there, his kisses and his tongue…my God, his tongue. I want to suck on it all day, to own it with my mouth. I want him to suck me with it, everywhere.
    Something tells me having sex with him would not be a “lie back and think of England” kind of experience.
    Before I realize what I’m doing, my hand is between my legs, rubbing myself where it aches, and I’m imagining him on top of me, naked.
    I don’t touch myself often. I’ve done it, but it’s never amounted to anything so I don’t force myself to bother.
    But my heart pulses in my groin and it needs—release. I rub myself again, over the top of my jeans, using my hand the way Terrence moved against me.
    Nothing happens.
    It’s never upset me before, the big fact I’ve ignored for years that now screams at me. I bury my face in my pillow.
    I’m twenty-two years old, and I’ve never had an orgasm.

Chapter Thirteen
    I wake up the next morning, look at my clock, and fly out of bed so fast I trip over my books on the floor. I forgot to set my alarm. I’m late. I’m a teacher! I can’t be late.
    Call in sick.
    The thought is so unbidden, I squash it and scramble for clothes.
    A shout travels through my window. “Lia! Liiiiiaaaa!”
    I’m hearing things. I grab a clean shirt and bra from my suitcase.
    “Aurelia!”
    Someone’s outside my window. That must be what woke me. I push open the glass, and standing in the courtyard, two stories down, is Terrence, smiling up at me like the sun just came out.
    I don’t know whether to laugh, scream, or tell him to go away. “What are you doing here?” I’m too shocked to smile.
    “Want to hang out today?” He