Page 100 of Break My Heart

Drawing back in a long, slow drag until only the tip remains inside her, I drive forward again in one long stroke. Her breath leaves her in a rush, her ankles crossing at the small of my back and pulling me deeper with every thrust as I push us both closer to the edge.

As I drive us to completion, I can’t stop telling her how much I love her.

When we’re finally sated, neither of us moves away from the other. I roll her to lie atop me. She rests her forehead against my chest, her smile soft and wrecking all at once. She teases in a quiet voice, “You know, for someone raised by emotionally constipated aristocrats, you’ve become surprisingly open about love.”

A laugh breaks out of me before I can stop it. “You ruined me.”

“No,” she corrects gently, fingertips brushing along my jaw. “I just loved you.”

When she falls asleep next to me, when the adrenaline pumping in my veins finally fades, the world narrows down to something profound.

Her.

Me.

Us.

And for the first time in a long time, I look forward to whatever happens next.

36

RED FLAG: RACE STOPPED

Morning comes too fast, and I internally groan because I don’t want our night of celebration to end.

Christin is curled beside me when I awaken. I simply watch her, the quiet rise and fall of her breathing grounding something in me that Silverstone couldn’t shake loose yesterday.

For most of my life, winning felt like the only way to elicit approval. Acknowledgment that I’d earned my place for one more day. One more conversation.

But loving Christin made me realize that glory is fleeting. What is worth the effort is love. She made me fight for it and become a better man because of it.

I think about yesterday, standing in front of her father. Hearing him tell me to make it count. I thought he meant the race because that’s what his crew used to say to him. Now I know better.

It was to make this count. This second chance I somehow earned.

And God help me, I never want her to regret giving it to me.

We leave together, hand in hand, to head to the debriefing.

As we move through the lobby of the Whittlebury Hall Hotel, the low hum of race weekend still lingers in the air. Crew from other teams walk by us. There are more than a few nods of acknowledgment mingled with people stopping us to congratulate the team on yesterday’s win.

It feels normal. Until I feel a chill in the air—a pressure I haven’t experienced in years. It’s sudden and unrelenting. My hand tightens around Christin’s instinctively.

She glances at me, brows drawing together. “Leo?”

I don’t answer. Because I can’t. I already see the threat.

He’s standing just before the exit, acting like the space should revolve around him. Just like he always has. Everything in me goes cold when I see him in my space. My world.

I murmur, “My father’s here.”

Her entire body stiffens like I’ve just told her someone is about to walk in and break me for no reason.

Instead, her focus shifts to the man waiting. Alfred Hawthorne, my father.

He wears the same expression he always does—as if the hotel, the people in it, and the world itself all fall short of his standards. Like he’s better than anyone in his space simply by showing his presence. Even from across the lobby, I can tell he’s still the same cold, rigid man from my childhood.

I should be surprised he looks exactly the same as he did when I left home at eighteen, but men like him don’t change. They’re merely suspended in time until they die or become irrelevant. Only at this moment, I glimpse something else on his face.