He nips the side of my neck then tilts his head up to flick his tongue against my earlobe, and I shudder against him. Who knew my earlobe was connected to my dick? Not me. Not until now.
“This is a terrible idea,” I say, my voice so raspy I barely recognize it.
“Mm hmm,” he agrees, sounding as lust-drunk as I do. One hand skims back up my body to caress my cheek, his thumb brushing across my kiss-swollen lips.
“Someone could walk in on us.”
“Mm hmm.”
“We should probably stop.”
“Or lock the door.” His other hand moves from my hip to the button of my jeans.
“Or lock the door,” I echo, but my feet don’t—or won’t— move. I don’t want to break the physical connection between us. I’m afraid if I do, this—whatever it is we’re doing—will come to a screeching halt. And as much I my head tells me that stopping before things go any further is the right thing to do, my dick, inches from his wandering fingers, is screaming, “More please and thank you.”
“Do you want to lock it or should I?” he asks, burying his face in the crook of my neck, peppering kisses along the underside of my jaw.
Neither, I want to shout. But before I can answer, someone pounds on the door in question, and Elodie’s voice floats through.
“Ben, are you in there?”
“Shit,” I hiss as Grady springs away from me.
“Thank fuck she knocked this time,” he mutters, adjusting his crotch. Same thing I’m doing. What a coincidence. Lucky for him his race suit is roomier than my jeans.
“Is someone in there with you?” Elodie asks.
“Grady and I were just—”
“Dry humping?” he mouths.
I roll my eyes at him, trying my best to smooth down my hair that his strong fingers had turned into an ungodly mess.
“—discussing our race strategy,” I finish. Hopefully she buys that. It’s a hell of a lot more believable than what we were actually doing. I mean, it’s not like drivers and race engineers go around dry humping each other, as Grady so eloquently put it.
“Good.” The door flies open and she strides into the room, followed by a whippet-thin, twenty-something man in a perfectly pressed white button-down shirt, painted-on royal blue chinos, and light brown loafers so pointy he could use them as daggers on her heels. “There’s someone I want him to meet.”
She gestures to Pointy Shoes. “This is Kip. I think he’ll be perfect as Grady’s new assistant.”
“Hi.” Pointy Shoes—Kip, I mentally correct myself—sticks out his hand to Grady. “It’s great to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Grady casually wipes his hand on his race suit, then shakes the hand Kip is offering him.
“Kip’s with Extra Mile,” Elodie continues. “They’re wellbeing and performance experts, and they have minders working with a number of drivers on the circuit. I suggest we hire him on a trial basis and see how you two get along. He can help you balance your schedule and interface with the media.”
Grady nods. “Sounds good. Thanks.”
“I look forward to working with you,” Kip says eagerly. Maybe a bit overeager, if you ask me.
Not that anyone’s asking me.
I shake my head and retreat behind my desk, slumping into my chair. This whole scene is fucking surreal. Two minutes ago, Grady and I were rutting against each other like horny teenagers. Now I’m stuck on the sidelines of a goddamn job interview.
I’m equal parts frustrated and relieved, the last remaining vestiges of my erection rapidly fading away. Which I suppose I should be grateful for, seeing as I’m in a room with my boss’ daughter. Who happens to be intimately acquainted with my private parts.
Fortunately, Elodie is too preoccupied with the Grady/Kip bromance she’s trying to foster to pick up on my inner turmoil. “You two can work out the details after Grady talks to the press. They’re looking for you in the media zone. Kip can accompany you. Use your phone to record him and make sure you get everything he says. We don’t want there to be any misquotes or misunderstandings.”
Kip stands at attention, like a good little soldier. I’m surprised he doesn’t salute her. “Of course.”
