My cheeks go hot. “I fucked up,” I say unsteadily. “I was a shit boyfriend, and then I broke up with you for some stupid reasonthat didn’t even make sense, and everything was completely awful for months, and my parents just, like, pretended you didn’t exist, and physio was awful, and I didn’t think I’d ever be able to race again.” I can’t look at him when I’m talking. I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared in my life. “And then I flew to London to see you, but you were with some guy in the parking lot, which is—I don’t know, like, it’s fine if you’ve moved on, you totally should move on. You deserve someone who hasn’t been a total asshole to you—”
“Hey.” Travis touches my wrist, and I stop talking. I’m breathing hard, and my heart feels cold and shaky. I’m cold everywhere, actually, except where Travis is touching me. “Look at me.”
I lick my numb lips and force myself to look up at him. He’s standing a lot closer than he was before, and frowning at me like I’m a math problem he’s trying to solve.
“Are you here because you want to get back together?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say in a tiny voice. “I mean, if you want to. Yes.”
His mouth curves up. “Okay.”
And then he kisses me.
And oh,fuck, but I’ve missed this.
His lips are warm against mine, and one of his strong, calloused hands is sliding over my neck, and the other is on my waist, pulling me into him. A strangled, happy noise slips out of my throat, and I kiss him back, rough and desperate.
After a minute—or maybe an hour, I don’t know—I pull back. I’m almost crying, practically. “Hang on—hang on.”
He leans back to see my face, but his hands are still on me. His thumb is pressed against the pulse point on my neck, and his breathing has quickened. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” My breathing has gotten faster, too. It’s really hard to think with him holding me so close. I can smell the soapon his skin, and feel the strength in his hands, and it’s almost too much after so long without him. Too much and not nearly enough. “Don’t you want to, like, talk more? I had this whole apology planned out—”
“Tell me later,” he says, and then puts his lips to my neck.
Fucking hell, I forgot how good he was at this. Or like, Iknewhe was good, but I forgot exactly how it felt. Like he’s lighting me up from inside, electrifying every single cell in my body. He’s holding me so tight, I don’t think I could move if I wanted to, and his mouth and tongue and teeth are moving over my ear, my neck, my throat. He pushes me backward until my back hits the wall, and then his hands are sliding under my shirt and dragging it off, giving him that much more bare skin to work with. I should probably be doing something, reciprocating in some way, but he’s not really giving me the option. He’s got my wrists pinned to the wall, which is just—insanely fucking hot—and all I seem capable of doing is panting.
He releases one wrist to grip me hard through my jeans, and that’s when some useless moron who I’m going to track down and murder knocks on the door.
We both go still. Well, sort of still. My chest is still rising and falling rapidly, and his fingers are still squeezing me tightly. “They’ll go away if I don’t answer,” he murmurs. And oh, god, his voice is sexy like that, all low and throaty.
We fall quiet, listening for any noise outside the door. The person knocks again. Travis quietly undoes my jeans with one hand, and I try not to moan as he shifts his hand to grip me through my boxers.
“They’re not going away,” I say (alright, whine), when the person knocks for a third time. Travis is moving his hand ever so slightly, and I seriously am going to kill whoever is out there.
He releases me suddenly and puts one finger to his mouth, telling me to be quiet.
“Who is it?” he calls.
I give him an imploring look, which he ignores.
A voice with a thick Swedish accent answers. “Stefan. Do you have a minute?”
Travis grimaces. Stefan is Harper’s team principal. Fuck.
“Give me five minutes,” he calls back.
The look I give him is probably a bit pathetic. But the things I want to do with him will take a lot longer than five minutes. “Thirty,” I whisper, poking his shoulder.
His lips curl in amusement. “I can’t tell my boss to wait thirty minutes.”
I scowl (okay, maybe “pout” would be a better word) but I guess he has a point. We hear Stefan’s footsteps head away, and I let my forehead drop onto his shoulder. God, he smells good.
“That’s not enough time,” I complain.
His lips brush over the shell of my ear. “Not enough time for me to fuck you, no.”
He kisses my neck again and then pushes me back onto the padded bench behind me. I let out a strangled laugh. His words sound familiar. I think I said the same thing to him that first morning after we hooked up.
