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I swallow as I glance at them, a nasty thought knifing into my mind.
“Um, do the seats adjust?” I murmur, my cheeks already flushing red.
He studies me closely, eyes narrowed, as though trying to divine the source of my blushing.
“Are you okay?” he asks a moment later.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just wondering.”
“They adjust,” he growls. “They’ll have to if they’re gonna fit those perfect goddamn hips. And that fine ass.”
Oh. My. God.
My heart hammers and my sex goes tight, literally warms and tightens up in a split second after the comment. My clit grinds against my panties and I feel my lips tingle just as much.
He smirks and raises his eyebrows, a challenge.
If anybody else said something like that, it’d be way too forward.
But with Saul Sykes staring at me with his black iron peppered hair, his square jaw, his pin-me-in-place eyes, I shiver, inwardly, outwardly, everywhere.
I shiver under his dominator’s gaze.
“So … they do adjust then?” I murmur weakly, barely even able to get those words out, his comment so unexpected.
“Yes, Sparkplug,” he smirks. “They adjust. But you can always sit in my lap if you want.”
“You’re very bold all of a sudden,” I say, lips dry.
“Are you complaining?” he snarls, the cars still between us, the only thing stopping us from moving this beyond words.
Fiona, Fiona, Fiona.
I repeat her name.
A mantra at the back of my mind.
I’m not sure it’s working.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t think I am, Saul.”
“Good,” he growls. “Now pick a car. I want to see what you’ve got.”
Why do I feel like you’re talking about more than the race, hmm?
That’s is what I want to say. That’s the sort of feisty response I always think of saying, but then I debate saying it, the pros and cons, and the moment passes.
I walk over to the red car and nod down at it, conscious of how sweaty my palms are, and how wet other places are, too, to such an extent that I’m wondering if it’ll mark my clothes and he’ll notice.
Would he be disgusted?
Or something else?
Fine ass, he said. Sit in his lap.
A fantasy coming true never happens in real life.
But what if it could?
Saul wanders over and leans down, casually adjusting the seat. Then he reaches over and offers me his hands. I take them, willing myself to stop the tremoring in my hands as we make contact again.
Fireworks explode at our touch.
I glance down and oh, Jesus, I see him outlined in the light fabric shorts, a massive fleshy pole of manhood so evident that I feel like screaming.
He lowers me into the seat and then kneels down, leaning closer than he needs to for the seatbelt, his solid arm brushing against my breast. He flattens my nipple with his bicep, just for a moment. It sparks and feels like it vibrates, and then he stands up, smirk shaky, to go to his own car.
I can read the fight in his expression, too.
He knows it’s just as wrong as I do.
“No gears,” he calls from behind me. “Just go and stop, nice and easy.”
“So we just go now?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I’ll stay behind you for a little bit. Give you a chance to get comfortable.”
Please mean that in more ways than one.
I inch the car forward out of the pit-lane and then onto the track, which is bordered on all sides by tires. The smell of them wafts over me, perhaps noticeable after the muskiness of Saul.
I have a goofy grin on my face as we race around the track, although maybe race is too strong of a word for the way I cautiously take the corners.
Saul casually drives up next to me, smirking over, the Go-Kart looking like a toy under his massive frame.
“I can get you another one if yours is broken,” he taunts.
I shoot him a look, or try to, between sassing him and keeping my eyes on the track it’s difficult. I take a corner and so does he, guiding the car without even glancing away from me.
“Not everybody has a death wish,” I laugh.
“Look at me,” he says. “I’m driving just as slowly as you.”
“Oh, so you’re saying you did have a death wish, but now I’ve given you a reason to live?”
“Exactly,” he growls.
And then he speeds up so that he’s in front of me.
“Brake, Sadie,” he calls back.
Brake?
He slows down in front of me and I quickly hit the brakes. Luckily we’re going so slowly that I don’t spin out and the tires don’t catch. I simply come to an anticlimactic stop several feet away from him.
He climbs from his Go-Kart and walks across the track, something altered in his expression.
A hunter emerging from the dark, ready to do his work again.
He focuses on me as though I’m the only person alive.
He stands over the Go-Kart and his manhood twitches visibly, head-height, clearly hard and clearly directed toward me.
