Hell, at this point I’d be willing to run up and down the hall naked if it would get him out of his funk. It’s not like anything else I’ve tried in the past two weeks has worked. So if he wants breakfast in bed, then breakfast in bed it is.
I lean in, and he lifts the fork to my mouth. I close my eyes and let him feed me. He’s right. It’s damn delicious. And I’m not talking about the French toast. Well, not only the French toast.
I’ve never had anyone feed me before. It’s romantic. Intimate. Somehow even more intimate than anything else we’ve done. And trust me, we’ve done a lot.
“Want to try some of my eggs Benedict?” I ask, wanting to repay the favor. Okay, who am I kidding? It’s got nothing to do with favors or repayment. It’s about this new, deeper connection between us and how fucking much I want it to last.
He wrinkles his nose. “No, thanks. I prefer my eggs less runny.”
Poof. There go my food feeding fantasies.
“But I’ll take some of those hash browns.”
Score! I load up my fork and hold it out to him. His lips close around the tines and he moans, making my dick start to plump up. Remember what I said about this being romantic and intimate? Add erotic to that list, too.
We finish our breakfasts that way, taking turns feeding each other. The high point comes when he offers me one of his sausagesLady and the Trampstyle and we nibble our way down its length—cue phallic puns—until our mouths meet in a salty, savory, sausage-flavored kiss.
By the time we’re done, my dick is as hard as a fucking lug wrench, tenting my boxers. I don’t have to glance at the clock on the nightstand to know we don’t have time for another round in the sack. Meaning it’s time for me to go back to my room for the coldest of cold showers before getting my ass to the track.
With a resigned sigh, I lift the tray off my lap and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
“Leaving so soon?” Grady teases. He knows as well as I do that I may not have overstayed my welcome but I’ve stayed longer than is wise. “It’s impolite to eat and run.”
“It’s also impolite to accidentally out someone by getting caught sneaking out of their hotel room wearing the same clothes you had on last night.” I find my jeans in a neat pile with my shirt and socks on a chair—Grady must have gotten up in the middle of the night and folded them—and pull them on. “The longer I stay, the greater my chances of being seen. Besides, don’t you usually like to spend some time in the gym on race days?”
“I was thinking of skipping it.” He stretches his arms over his head and yawns exaggeratedly. “I’m just not feeling it today.”
I stop dressing with my shirt in my hands and my pants still unbuttoned and sit back down next to him on the bed. He never skips the gym. If anything, he goes a little overboard. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Physically, yeah, but—”
“But what?” I press.
He picks up his nearly empty coffee cup and runs a finger along the rim. Anything to avoid looking at me. Whatever he has to say must be big. “I got a text from my father this morning.”
Fuck.I wasn’t wrong. That is big. And bad.
I let my shirt fall onto the bed, getting dressed all but forgotten. “When?”
“You were dealing with room service.”
“What the hell did he want?”
The words come out harsher than I intend, but I can’t help it. Just thinking about Archie Lewis makes me want to punch something. Preferably Archie Lewis. But since he’s not here, I settle for a pillow.
“More of the usual,” Grady says, his tone disturbingly resigned. “‘Your last two races were shit. You need to push yourself harder, drive more aggressively. By this point in my rookie season I had two podiums. You’re an embarrassment to the Lewis name.’”
If I wanted to punch Archie Lewis before, now I want to fucking eviscerate him. If anyone is an embarrassment to the Lewis name, it’s him. I may not know much about parenting, but I know it’s not whatever the fuck Archie Lewis is doing to his son.
My dad’s been gone for years, and although my memories of him have dimmed with time I still get goosebumps when I think about how proud he was when I got a full ride to Perdue, the first in our family to go to college. And when I got hired straight out of college by LaRue. Dad had never been a motorsport fan before, but once I got involved he watched every race until the day he died. And not so he could read me a laundry list of personal failings, like certain other so-called fathers.
“Hey.” I take the cup from Grady’s hand and put it back down on his tray. Then I take his chin between my fingers and turn his head so he has no choice but to look me in the eye and hopefully hear what I have to say to him. His hang-dog expression makes my heart ache. “In the wise words of Taylor Swift, shake it off. Forget your father. Forget the last two weeks. It’s a new day. A new race.”
He ducks his head, breaking free from my grip, and moves his tray off his lap. “Easier said than done.”
“You could always block his number.”
“I know, but—”