Truth or Beard(74)

If he hurt himself, I swore to God, I was going to kill him. And if he didn’t hurt himself, I was going to demand he take me home at once. With each passing second my anxiety increased as did my feelings of helplessness.

I didn’t want to watch him race. I was not amused.

By the time the starting shot echoed through the air, I’d worked myself up into a real tizzy, a temper tantrum befitting my bratty past. I wanted to close my eyes, bury my face in my hands, and wait ’til it was over, but I couldn’t.

Duane immediately pulled ahead and my stomach dropped. Devon and Keisha whooped excitedly, both standing. He was the first to reach the turn and every muscle in my body tensed, my nails digging in to the flesh of my palms, and I braced myself for the worst.

But the worst didn’t come.

In fact, he didn’t take the turn, he attacked it. He was, by far, the fastest I’d seen around the corner, and slingshotted around to the other side completely unscathed. His engine revved, sending thrills and worry to each of my nerve endings.

But after two more turns I realized Duane really knew what the hell he was doing. He was amazing.

Now my eyes were glued to Duane’s Road Runner. Devon and Keisha’s excited shouts faded, as it slid around the last return cone. He was in the lead by several car lengths. Rationally, I knew it was just an old car, but something about the way he drove it turned all that metal into a sexy machine. He drove with swagger, panache, control. How he could be so unbridled on the race track and yet dominate with precision at the same time rang my bell—like, blaring five-alarm fire bell ringing.

But I was still mad at him.

In fact, I was furious.

… Or at least I thought I was.

I felt the roar of his engine as he charged through the finish line, chased by a cloud of dust. The crowd cheered and I was up on my feet moving toward his car. I was still wound up in a tight knot of worry and tension. It was cold outside, yet I was hot all over.

My jaw clenched and worked, and I rehearsed the words I wanted to say:

How dare you make me watch you almost kill yourself! You gave me no warning, you just left me and I’m so angry that I want to…want to…

I couldn’t finish the thought because what I really wanted to do was rip his clothes off, which made no sense. It seemed my main problem centered on the fact that I didn’t know if I was pissed off, turned on, or both.

Peripherally, I heard Devon call my name. I ignored him.

Then I heard snippets of conversations from the horde as my furious walk turned into an urgent jog. These conversations ranged from smart-assed remarks about how he never lost, to frustrated comments regarding how he shouldn’t be allowed to race anymore because he always won, to serious discussions asking why he wasn’t racing professionally.

By the time I reached him, he was out of the car and surrounded by a crowd. I didn’t hesitate to push my way to the front. But once I arrived, and he was there in front of me, safe and sound, I stopped short. Some emotion clogged my throat, one I couldn’t identify.

As soon as he saw me his face split into a giant grin and his eyes—burning brighter than I’d ever seen them—devoured mine. Duane grabbed my hand and pulled me forward, wrapped his arm around my waist and pressed my body to his.

Then he kissed me. Hard.

Caught by surprise, I braced my hands on his chest to steady myself, and I felt his heart thundering against my palm.

And I had only a single thought: I needed him. Right now. I needed to know he was okay, in one piece. My need felt positively feral. I needed to feel the strength and vitality of his body beneath my hands, and I needed his hands on me.

Our kiss elicited several more smart-ass comments paired with whistles, but I didn’t care. I didn’t know these people, and even if I did, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference.

Duane leaned backward and away, though his arms still held me. Undeterred, I kissed his neck, reached under the hem of his navy blue shirt to touch his skin.

He grabbed my hands and he was breathing hard. “Jess, wait a minute.”

“Nope.” I whispered the single word in his ear right before I used my tongue to suck it into my mouth. He stiffened and I heard him release a quiet groan.

“Red, looks like you got to go, son. We can send your cash later.” This sentiment came from someplace over my shoulder. The man who’d said it was laughing, his raspy voice only served to punctuate the meaning of his words.

Duane turned us around, used his strength and size to leverage me onto the bench seat, no longer protesting my liberal pawing. We were horizontal, and he returned my fevered kisses, taking control of my hungry explorations and harnessing them, giving the hot slide of our mouths finesse and purpose.