Hard and Fast(17)

"You, too."

When Carl walked away, Ty leaned against his car and picked at his T-shirt. "Lord, that man scares me."

"Why? He seems very friendly."

"Don't let him fool you. He's sharp as a tack and a killer businessman. I  don't think I'm afraid of anything for the most part. Not losing, not  failure, not death, not snakes or spiders. But that man makes me sweat."                       
       
           



       

"What could he do to you?" Imogen asked, amazed to see that for the  first time she'd been in Ty's presence, he did look genuinely  uncomfortable.

"Fire me."

"For what?"

"I don't know. Anything. Then that's it. Who am I if I'm not driving?"  Wow. Imogen would have never guessed Ty had insecurities in any way,  shape, or form. She was about to reassure him that he wouldn't be fired  unless he did something catastrophic and that, even if he was, he could  find another team to drive for, but Ty cut her a grin.

"Never mind," he said before she could speak. "Just wasn't expecting to see him, that's all. Now, let's get you into this car."

Imogen bit down on a shriek when he scooped her up in his arms and  turned her so her legs slid into the car. One minute his hand was on her  butt, her weight supported by his lean but powerful muscles, the next  she was sitting in the driver's seat of a race car.

Ty watched Imogen sitting stiffly, her hands up in the air like she was  afraid to touch anything for fear of what it might to do to her, and he  felt immeasurably better. God, what had he been thinking, blurting out  that crap about being afraid of being fired and being nothing more than a  washed-up loser driver? He didn't say things like that to anyone. He  didn't let anyone know at any time that the only thing he was really  afraid of was being cut off from the one thing he loved and the one  thing he was good at. If he couldn't drive, there was no backup plan for  a guy who couldn't make sense of the words on a piece of paper or on a  computer screen.

How did he explain that to someone as brilliant as Imogen? He couldn't.  Of course, neither should he be spending time with her, and he wasn't  planning to stop that anytime soon. She just made him laugh, made him  feel good.

Turned him on.

Really, really turned him on. It was the way she blinked up at him with  those big blue eyes behind her glasses, all curious and aroused, that  made him lose focus on everything except getting her into his bed.

Wiggling her cute little ass in front of him hadn't hurt the cause either.

"Just relax, Emma Jean. The car doesn't bite. Unlike me." He winked at her as he leaned in the window.







"I don't want to destroy anything," she replied, not even responding to his innuendo.

"Babe, this car can hit the wall and still be salvageable. You can't do anything to hurt it."

"You're positive?"

"Trust me. You're fine. So here's the history-stock car racing got its  start from guys taking a car they could buy from any dealer, tricking  out the engine, then racing it on the beach initially, then on the  track.

So it was a ‘stock' car in that it was the same as the family car when  they acquired it. Now only the body of the car is the same as a  passenger car, and even that has some modifications, but we still use  the name stock . But if you look around, you can see there isn't much  that reminds you of your personal vehicle."

"Well, my car isn't exactly the latest model to roll off the assembly  line, but I see what you mean. There are no other seats and I don't  recognize any of these gauges."

"No seats other than the driver's, no key ignition, no windows, no  speedometer, no locks, no horn, and quite a few other things. Though I  wouldn't mind a horn. Sometimes I feel like hitting one to tell another  car to get the hell out of my way."

"Somehow I don't think that would have them moving gracefully out of your way."

"Probably not. So a car is built for speed and safety. It's aerodynamic, with a powerful engine with 750

horsepower. There are gauges for oil and water temperature, oil and fuel  pressure, and a few other things. A brake, an accelerator, and a  clutch. A cooling system to keep my ass from burning to the seat or me  passing out, and a roll cage in case my car flips."

"This looks like a regular gearshift." Imogen put her hand on it.

"Don't touch that!" Ty said, then laughed when Imogen snatched her hand  away. "Just kidding." She shot him a look of annoyance. "That was not  funny."

"Yes, it was."

Her lips formed a little moue of disgust. "This isn't a very comfortable seat."

"Well, it's custom fit for my body so I don't move around too much, and  it's made of aluminum for safety. Head and neck restraints are  mandatory, and no, it isn't very comfortable. But this isn't a lazy  drive in the country. I'm going over a hundred and eighty miles per  hour." Ty couldn't quite keep the pride out of his voice. He loved his  job, loved the thrill of racing, the satisfaction of making a car that  his crew had worked so hard on perform well for them.                       
       
           



       

"In golf course green."

He grinned. "Yes, smart-ass."

"How do you control the car?" She was leaning over and peering at the gauges, the floor, the pedals.

"Skill, honey. That's all."

"I can't imagine going that fast."

"I bet you would like it." Ty couldn't resist the urge to reach out and  stroke her silky dark hair as it trailed over her shoulder. "Bet you  like it hard and fast." Her head snapped up. "That was an innuendo."

"Sort of." He shrugged. "Okay, hell, yeah, it was. I admit it." He was a guy, he couldn't help himself.

Almost everything reminded him of sex and how much he wanted to get her  naked. "But I do think you'd like riding along on the track with me. We  should do that sometime, they have special events for that.

You can have the thrill of the speed without having to be the driver."

"I would like that." Imogen stared up at him, and the tip of her tongue  came out and slid across her bottom lip. "I would like that a lot."

Since she had stripped off her conservative yet very hip blazer, Imogen  was wearing only a long-sleeved button-up shirt that was currently  gaping at her cleavage. She didn't have large breasts at all, but what  Ty could see-and okay, what he had liberally felt up the night  before-was that they were firm and pert.

He could see her nipples through the fabric, and it was so obvious to  him that she wanted him. Why the hell had he sent her home the night  before? It had made sense at the time in that he had wanted to do the  right thing, but who was he to tell her they should wait if she didn't  want to?

Seriously, what guy was stupid enough to do that?

Apparently him.

But that was last night. Today he was going to take what her eyes and her lips were offering.







Ty leaned into the window and kissed her quickly, rougher than he  intended, but he was on the edge. She didn't seem to mind, given that  she stared up at him and gave a soft moan of pleasure. Damn, he loved  the way she gave in to him, the way she let him lead.

He could see the question in her eyes, knew she wasn't going to ask it.  Not that he could blame her. She felt like he had turned her offer down  the night before, and she wasn't going to put herself out there a second  time and risk rejection. But that had never been his intention, not at  all. He wanted her in the way he hadn't wanted a woman in so long, maybe  ever. This was urgent, a burning, biting need to take Imogen and make  her his.

Brushing his finger across her bottom lip, he said, "Come home with me. Spend the night with me.

Please."

Ty leaned against the side of his car, muscles tense, mouth hot, waiting  for her answer. He wouldn't blame her if she said no, but he would  probably cry.

But Imogen just looked up at him and said, "Get me out of this car and take me to bed." That was not going to be a problem.

CHAPTER EIGHT





IMOGEN figured she was the one who should be embarrassed given the way  she had just blurted out that Ty should take her to bed, but as they  drove back to his place, he was the one who was rambling, indicating  that he was nervous and felt the need to fill the silent void with inane  conversation. She had never been one to babble when she was nervous,  leaning more toward retreating into that silence, but a lot of people  had their anxious energy burst forth in rapid speech, and clearly Ty was  one of them.

"Do you like football?" he asked her, then shook his head. "Of course  you don't like football. What the hell am I talking about? Nothing about  you says pigskin. And I mean that in the best way. Though it would be  very cool if you were smart, beautiful, and liked sports. But somehow I  can't ever see you throwing on a jersey and cursing at the referee. What  about camping?" It intrigued her to think that he might be invested  enough in the outcome of what they were about to do to actually be  nervous, and she tried to follow his rapid conversation.