“In all seriousness, I don’t give a flying fuck about our age difference. Or the fact that you’re kind-of-sort-of my boss. On the track,” I clarify. He rewards me with a cheeky smile, maybe the first one I’ve seen that actually reaches his gorgeous, mocha latte eyes, highlighting his pupils with gold flecks and making the corners crinkle. It gives me the shot of courage I need to keep going. “If my opinion counts for anything—and I sure hope it does—I vote we keep doing this. Discreetly, of course.”
The silence as I wait for his response is deafening. I’m about to admit defeat and resign myself to cold showers for the rest of the season—if not longer—when he throws one muscular thigh over my hip and an equally brawny arm around my shoulders. Our faces are inches apart, our noses practically touching. Further south, my dick is already coming back to life, and I can feel his hardening against me, too. He buries his nose in my neck, inhaling deeply, then plants a kiss to the hollow at the base of my throat before resting his cheek against my damp chest.
“I guess it’s unanimous then.”
CHAPTER14
Ben
Austin sure isn’t Monaco.
It’s about twenty degrees hotter. And twenty times more dusty. The nightlife consists primarily of dive bars, honky tonks and food trucks, a stark contrast to Monaco’s swanky nightclubs and five-star restaurants. And unlike Monaco, with its long history in Formula One, Austin is a much newer venue. This circuit has only raced here for about a decade.
But none of that bothers me. Hell, I grew up in Kentucky. It’s not that much different here than in Louisville. No, what’s pissing me off—and has my balls bluer than a goddamn Smurf—is I haven’t had a minute alone with Grady since we got here two days ago.
In Monaco, we had his apartment to run off to. Anywhere else in Europe, we’d at least have his motorhome. But since we’re overseas, we’re in a hotel close to the circuit with the rest of the team. And three other teams. Meaning privacy is at a premium. Add to that our crazy pre-race schedule with assembly, testing, and sponsor commitments, and we haven’t had the opportunity for a chaste peck on the cheek, much less a repeat of last Sunday’s sexcapades.
I’m hoping that will change today. This morning we’re taping a joint interview with Leah Clark, who’s a lot more reasonable than that douchecanoe Nico. Elodie set it up so we could—in her words—"showcase our newfound bromance.” I guess Grady’s not the only one calling it that now. Then it’s free practice in the afternoon and after that—barring a disastrous trial run—we’ve got nothing scheduled until our final practice session tomorrow morning before qualifiers. Leaving Grady and me with an entire evening to make good on our promise to keep banging each other’s brains out on the down low.
I’m still not convinced being fuck buddies with my driver isn’t the world’s worst idea. In fact, I’m pretty sure it is. But every time he saunters into the garage, with his wild curls and his crooked smile and his perfect body, I think back to that night. Our naughty little game of strip tease. The way his lips felt against mine. The taste of his skin. The look on his face when he came, his eyes glazed over and his mouth in a soft, sexy O. And reason flies out the fucking window, replaced by an urgent need to put that expression there again.
Like I’ve conjured him from my memories, the man himself appears, poking his head into my office door. Predictably, my palms start to sweat, my mouth goes dry, and my heart does a little happy dance, in synchronization with my dick.
“Ready for our big coming-out party?” he asks, entering the room and planting one ass cheek on my desk, where I’m sitting. “It’s almost time to head over to the media zone.”
He goes to cuff me playfully on the shoulder, but his hand freezes in midair then drops to his side. We both agreed to keep our hands to ourselves at work. It’s hard enough to concentrate without throwing physical contact, no matter how innocent, into the mix.
I roll my eyes at him. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a coming-out party. Unless you’re planning something I’m not aware of.”
“You know what I mean.” He shrugs. “Our first interview together, telling the world all about how wonderful our relationship is.”
“Not all.”
Whatever smartass response Grady is about to give dies in his throat as Elodie strides through the open door, Kip, as always, close behind her. He may be Grady’s handler, but I swear he spends as much time shadowing her as he does managing Grady’s schedule. I’m just thankful they didn’t show up a few seconds earlier when we were talking about coming out. Maybe we should add no sexual innuendo in the workplace to our no touching rule.
“Shouldn’t you boys be on your way to your interview?” she asks, brow arched critically. “You don’t want to keep the press waiting.”
“We were just about to head over,” I say, pushing my chair back and standing.
Grady hops down from my desk and beams his I’m-so-charming-it’s-impossible-to-be-mad-at-me smile at Elodie. “Any last instructions before we go into battle?”
“First off, don’t think of it as a battle,” she quips.
“Just be your charismatic, irresistible selves,” Kip adds, his tone leaving me to wonder whether he’s being serious or sarcastic.
“And keep things positive,” Elodie says with more than a hint of warning. “As far as Leah Clark is concerned, you two are best buddies, on and off the track.”
“Can do, boss,” Grady says, giving her a mock salute.
“Kip will accompany you,” Elodie continues, ignoring Grady’s little gesture. “And he’ll be recording everything to make sure you’re not misquoted or your words twisted in editing.”
The three of us make our way through the paddock to the media zone, where Leah and her crew are waiting in the press conference room. Kip hovers to the side like a nervous parent while Grady and I have our hair fussed over and our noses powdered and our microphones clipped onto our collars. Then we’re seated next to each other on the couch—both of us taking care to sit close enough to look like the BFFs Elodie wants us to be but not so close that we’re in danger of actually touching—while Leah takes a chair across from us.
“I promise this will be painless,” she says, crossing her legs and smoothing her skirt over her knees. “It’s just a little puff piece to run between qualifiers. I’m not out to get anyone.”
I can’t stop myself from barking out a wry chuckle. “Not like some reporters who shall remain nameless.”
“Did you get the list of questions I sent over?” she asks, deftly sidestepping the issue of her hack of a colleague, who fortunately is nowhere in sight this morning. I half expected him to be lurking in the background, waiting for a chance to jump in and grill us.