It’s got me harder than an iron bar. Bossy Grady is back, and I’m here for it.
His hands slide to my ass and I arch into him, loving the way he feels against me. And the way he tastes is killing me, too—like champagne and strawberries, decadence and desire. Is this smart? Fuck no. Do I care, with his tongue in my mouth and our bodies plastered together from groin to chest? Also fuck no.
He slides his lips to my jaw, then my shoulder, then my collarbone, pushing my shirt collar aside so he can leave a trail of kisses in his wake. “Have you thought about this since Zandvoort? Because I have. Every fucking day.”
“No,” I lie. “I’ve been too busy trying to make sure you have a functioning car on race day. And a winning strategy.”
“Liar.”
He laughs, reaching for the bottom of my shirt and pulling it free from my pants so he can slide a hand underneath. The muscles on my abdomen ripple under his touch and I suck in a ragged breath. He takes it as encouragement, lifting my shirt and tracing circles with his thumb around my nipple, which hardens into a tight, aching point.
“Want me to keep going?” he asks with a wicked grin. “I’ve always wanted to have dirty, steamy, alley sex.”
“I didn’t know you had a thing for PDA.”
“Neither did I.”
A car zooms by, followed by laughter from some club-goers spilling out into the street. We both freeze until they pass, fortunately not spotting us under the cover of the dark alley, and are a safe distance down the block.
“Not here,” I hiss, reluctantly pushing him away and tucking my shirt back in. “Too risky.”
His naughty grin is back. “Risky is my middle name.”
“It’s not mine. Not when one of us happens to have an apartment only a car ride away.”
“Fine,” he huffs, but the potent mix of heat and humor in his eyes is a dead giveaway that he’s not the least bit disappointed with the change of plan. “Have it your way.”
“I intend to.” I duck my head so I can whisper low and sexy in his ear, enjoying the couple of inches I have on him. “In fact, if I have anything to say about it, we’ll both have it our way before the night is over.”
“I like the way you think.”
He grabs my forearm and drags me out of the alley just like he dragged me in. It’s becoming a pattern tonight—Grady taking the lead. Getting me out of the club. Pushing me against the wall. Kissing me senseless. It’s a refreshing change from our working relationship, where I’m usually the one calling the shots.
I took a taxi to the club, but since Grady’s at home, he’s got his metallic silver Mercedes-AMG GT roadster parked nearby. We’re quiet on the short drive to Fontvieille, him because he’s concentrating on the road and me because I’m concentrating on him.
I’ve watched him drive countless times, of course, but not like this. Up close and personal. It’s like he’s part of the car, focused but relaxed, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on the shifter knob. Or maybe the car is part of him. Either way, it’s dead sexy watching him aggressively manhandle what is—let’s be honest—a phallic object as he moves through the gears, his hand occasionally brushing my thigh.
He pulls into the parking garage of one of the most exclusive buildings in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Monaco—again, no surprise. Several of the drivers have homes here, and that thought draws me up short. What if someone sees us? No one seems to care that Cristian and Jasper are an item, but this is different. I’m not sure how people in F1 circles will react to a race engineer fucking his driver. Not to mention the fact that Grady isn’t exactly out and proud.
“Don’t worry, our secret is safe here,” he says, apparently adding mind reading to his list of skills. He puts the car in neutral and turns off the engine. “None of the other drivers are in this building. It’s one of the reasons I chose it. I wanted to protect my personal space when I’m away from the track.”
“Well, in that case—”
I take his face in my hands and tug him toward me, seizing his lips in a hard, unapologetic kiss. My dick, which had managed to stand down on the car ride, is hard again almost instantly just from the taste of him. He groans into my mouth and we both twist our bodies, desperate to get closer. The gear shift between us makes things awkward but not awkward enough for either of us to stop until he accidentally hits the horn with his elbow and we break apart, laughing.
“Come on.” He opens his door and steps out of the car. “Let’s take this upstairs.”
We somehow manage to keep our hands off each other on the elevator ride to his fourteenth-floor apartment—my sarcastic comment about it not being the penthouse might have something to do with that—but as soon as the door closes behind us all bets are off. In seconds, he’s got me back against the door and he’s on me, opening my lips and pushing his tongue inside. His five-o’clock shadow is rough against my cheek and his hands wander from my shoulders to my hips to my ass, grasping, clutching, squeezing, caressing. It’s like being caught in the middle of a tornado. Frantic and exciting and more than a little bit dangerous.
Without warning, he takes a step back, leaving both of us gasping for air. When he catches his breath, he grabs my hand and leads me to a hunter green leather couch in front of a wall of windows looking out over the Mediterranean. He releases me and flops down onto the sofa, stretching out his powerful legs and crossing his arms behind his head.
“Take your shirt off,” he rasps. “Slowly.”
My hands go almost instinctively to the hem of my polo then freeze. “Hold on.”
He frowns up at me. “You don’t want to stop, do you? Because if you do, I might have to kill you.”
“No.” I sit down next to him, our thighs touching, and kiss the corner of his mouth. They say actions speak louder than words, and I want to make sure my actions tell him that stopping is not on my radar. “I just think we should set some ground rules before we go any further.”