Page 98 of My Fallen Saint

He stops me with a firm hand on mine, then nods to the light above the door. “Seatbelt,” he says. “We’re about to land.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I’m not,” he says as he helps me to my feet, then kisses me lightly. “Anticipation, remember? And believe me when I say that I’m anticipating very good things when we get where we’re going.”

Our destination turns out to be the Wild Dunes Raceway, a private racetrack that Devlin frequents that is open to both novice and experienced drivers. It covers over fifteen hundred acres in the desert and boasts over three miles of roads. Most people bring RVs and camp for a few days, but for those who don’t want to bother or who fly in using the private landing strip, the track offers its own stable of small travel trailers, each complete with a tiny kitchen, bath, and one big bed.

As if the orgasm Devlin gave me on the plane wasn’t enough, I am now officially in heaven. Even my regret that we don’t have Shelby here is allayed when Devlin tells me about the Lamborghini Aventador he keeps garaged at the property. That sweet machine boasts top speeds of two-hundred, and while it seems a shame, I promise Devlin that despite my wild child tendencies, I won’t crack the track’s one-seventy limit.

“Are we racing or just driving?”

“Driving,” he says. We’ve dropped our stuff off at our little trailer, and he tosses me the keys as we walk to the garage. “Specifically, you’re driving.”

“Oh?” I lift my brows. “Like to watch, do you?”

“You? Absolutely.”

He’s already reserved the track, and it’s ours and ours alone for the next two hours, although it’s always open to spectators.

I slide in behind the wheel, start the engine, then simply sit for a moment, feeling the power thrumming through and around us. “Don’t tell Shelby,” I tell him, “but I think I just had an orgasm.”

He laughs out loud, then leans over and kisses me. “Drive,” he says. “The clock’s ticking.”

Can’t argue with that, and I negotiate the way from the garage to the track. We’re in the middle of the desert, with mountains rising around us in the distance. It’s dry and dust funnels pop up on the distant horizon. The landscape is brutal, and yet here, in the middle of it, is the perfect playground. And somehow, Devlin knew that this is where I’d love to be. Not walking the Santa Monica Pier. Not shopping at South Coast Plaza. Not exploring Old Town in San Diego.

No, he brought me to the absolute perfect place because, against all odds, he still knows me so well.

I turn to him and say, “Baby, you are going to get so laid tonight.” And then, while he’s still laughing, I tear down the track, keeping it under a hundred until I’m sure I have the feel of the machine at my command.

I spend a full glorious hour behind the wheel, then pull off and insist he drive. I want the pleasure of watching him command the car, taking curves, lightly braking, revving the engine until it’s going full-throttle.

And that, I think, is how I want him to drive me tonight.

Which is exactly what I tell him when we’re walking on shaky legs back to our secluded trailer.

“Got you wet, did it?” he asks as we reach the steps that lead to the small door.

“You know it did,” I say as he pulls me close, then slides his hand between my legs. My heart is pounding, my body flushed, and right now I don’t know if it’s because of the drive or the man. Honestly, I’m not sure it matters.

He moves his hand up as he bends closer, finally cupping my breast as he whispers in my ear. “Come inside and let me take you on a different kind of ride.”

“God, yes,” I murmur, even as I pull his mouth down to mine for one long, deep kiss before I break away and skip up the stairs and into the small space.

The RV is tiny in comparison to our suite at The Phoenix, but it’s still perfect.

The shower isn’t big enough for two people, but the bed makes up for that deficiency. It’s king size and runs along the back of the trailer, so that the far side, the head, and the foot all abut walls. It’s where I go now, tugging off my shirt and my jeans to make a trail for Devlin to follow.

Not that he needs one. He’s right behind me, and when I’m in my bra and underwear, I collapse on the side of the bed, watching with eager anticipation as he tugs his jeans over his hips, leaving him clad only in black boxer briefs and looking like a calendar pin-up with his defined abs, lean torso, and very obvious erection.

He starts to push off his briefs, but I shake my head. “Oh, no,” I say, extending my hand to urge him closer. “That’s my job.”

The brow bisected by the scar rises with amusement. “Is it?”

“Here. Now.”

He takes my hand, surrendering when I tug him onto the bed, then straddle him. I hold him down by the shoulders, and he clasps his hands on my hips, then strokes my thighs. “Strong,” he says. “I like that.”

“Yeah?”