Damn, he’s so close. And so big. And so tempting. And if I’m not mistaken, the tic in his jaw and the molten heat in his eyes, turning them from their usual chestnut to almost black, mean I’m not the only one feeling this pull between us. Maybe he is into guys. All I’d have to do to find out is—
No. No. A thousand times no. Time to back up that train of thought.
I start to turn toward the door, desperate to get out of there before I do something monumentally stupid like give in to the urge to kiss him, but the hand on my shoulder squeezes and those chestnut-to-black eyes lock with mine, stopping me.
“I mean it, Grady. Don’t let those media vultures—or anyone else—make you think you don’t deserve to be here. You’ve got as much right behind the wheel as anyone else on the grid.”
The way he says my name, letting it linger on his tongue like he’s savoring a fine wine, breaks down the last of my carefully constructed barriers. I can’t fight this any longer, and more importantly, I don’t want to.
“Fuck it,” I half-whisper, half-growl. Then, before I can second-guess myself, my hands are in his hair, pulling his head down to mine, and my eyes are wide open because I don’t want to miss one second of this as I press my lips to his.
CHAPTER7
Ben
This must be a dream. Or some sort of alternate reality. Because there is no way, no how, that Grady Lewis is kissing me in this one.
But he is. It’s his hands threading through my hair, his lips sliding against mine, his lean, muscular thigh wedging between mine.
It’s wrong for a million reasons. But not one of them seem to matter at this particular moment.
I take control, grabbing his shirt in my fist and backing him up against the wall. His breath hitches and his eyes flutter shut for a nanosecond before they fly open and he turns the tables on me, spinning me around and trapping me between the wall and the steel of his body.
He may be smaller than I am, but damn, he’s strong. Which shouldn’t surprise me, given the hours I know he must spend in the gym. Driving a race car at over 200 miles per hour isn’t for the faint of heart or the physically weak. Drivers have to have highly trained neck muscles to withstand the severe G-forces during cornering and breaking, their upper bodies need to be strong enough to turn the wheel against extreme resistance, and they have to have enough core strength to stay stable in the seat and maintain control of the car at high speeds.
And now he’s using all of that hard-earned—and rock-hard—muscle to manhandle me.
Not that I’m complaining. Pretty hard to do that with his mouth covering mine.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he murmurs against my lips. How about that? I guess it’s possible to talk while sucking face after all. “You may be in charge on the track, but I’m running this show.”
Well, okay then. Again, not complaining.
He’s apparently said all he needs to because he’s back to kissing me, this time using his tongue to part my lips so he can slip it inside and explore further. Every inch of his body is pressed against mine—chests, stomachs, legs, feet all melding together, making us one. In this room, this moment, there’s just us. No Formula One. No LaRue Motorsports. No races to win or reporters to contend with or data to analyze.
Someone moans—I’m pretty sure it’s me—and Grady untangles his hands from my hair so he can trail them down my sides and grip my hips, pulling me impossibly closer to him, our throbbing cocks grinding against each other through way too many layers of clothing. My own arms, which until now were hanging like lead weights, frozen in shock, take a cue from him and wrap around his back, drifting downward to cup his perfect ass.
His mouth detaches from mine so he can draw a breath, and I rest my forehead against his.
“So you’re—?”
“Gay,” he answers without me having to finish the question. “And you?”
“Bi.” I lift my head so I can look him in those ice-blue eyes, which I’m surprised to find have darkened to a deep, rich, sapphire. “Does anyone on the circuit know?”
I suspect the answer is no or I would have at least heard rumors on the racing blogs and gossip sites. Trying to keep something secret in F1 is like trying to make it through a corner without breaking. Fucking impossible.
He shakes his head, confirming my suspicions. “What about you?”
“I’ve never made a secret of my sexual orientation, but I haven’t exactly advertised it, either.” It’s different for race engineers. No one really cares about our personal lives.
But drivers? That’s a different story. And a gay driver? That would definitely get a hell of a lot of attention. Until recently, there weren’t any out drivers on the circuit. And when Cristian and Jasper made their relationship public, the press went wild. Every move they make, on and off the track, is dissected and discussed to death.
It can’t be easy for them. A point that I’m sure isn’t lost on Grady.
“Your secret is safe with me,” I assure him, my eyes still fixed on his.
“I know. Otherwise I wouldn’t have told you. Or kissed you.”
