‘Fuck.’
I breathe out harshly, my forehead resting against his. The wave recedes like an enormous falling tide as I finally come to my senses.
And then I’m pushing off Harper and he lets go of my dick to raise both hands in a kind of awful parody of a man being arrested by the police. The look in his eyes is hurt, but it’s also, I realise painfully, resignation. Somehow I know this isn’t the first time he’s been rejected like this, and I want to comfort him, to reassure him, to sayit’s not you, it’s me, but I don’t.
‘We can’t do this. Fuck! This was so stupid.’
I’m pulling on my sweats so fast the fabric burns my heated skin. I stumble as I try to get my feet into my slides, the momentum of my exit overbalancing me in my desire to get out of the room.
It’s only when I’m in the corridor that I remember this ismyroom and Harper doesn’t have the key card for his, and this situation is only going to be more awkward to sort now.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
So, bare-chested and embarrassed, I humiliate myself at the reception desk by pretending to be Harper and saying I’ve lost my key, then take the lift back up to our floor where I slip into his room and lie down on the bed, desperate to pretend that none of this is happening.
Because apparently, the only thing I’m good at tonight is avoidance.
ChapterEleven
Kian
Aday and a half later, I’m still falling apart. I can’t think, I can’t sleep, I can’t focus.
Yet Harper bloody James is rocking some kind of weird glow. I’d call it post-orgasm, but neither of us came.
I’m undeniably envious at how he’s bounced back so quickly from our aborted fuckfest. I’m also … hurt? Offended? I can’t quite articulate how I feel about the fact that he seems completely unaffected by what happened between us. Especially since it feels like my whole world has been plunged into the kind of chaos that does not bode well for my upcoming performance. Every time he looks at me my skin prickles and I have to look away – my nerves are completely shot. I can’t sleep because whenever I close my eyes, I see his hand on my cock, I feel the pressure of his tight grip, the sensitive pull as he tugs, the tightening of my balls … I’m struggling to remember to do even the most basic things as I prep to get in the cockpit.
Stupidly, I haven’t brought my earbuds with me to the track, because when I woke up this morning, gritty-eyed from restless tossing and turning, I should have been visualising the course here in Miami and thinking about what I needed today. But all I could think about was Harper.
Is he thinking about me?
Probably not, I tell myself harshly. He does this all the time. He’s used to it, used to that rush of adrenaline, the feeling of weightless falling and delicious anticipation.
I sound like a bloody teenager with a crush, for fuck’s sake!
I tell myself that it only seems meaningful because the last time I had sex was, like, eight months ago. It had been quick, like scratching an itch, and exactly what we’d both been looking for – something to take the edge off.
I haven’t had a serious relationship in almost four years. Christine and I were together for eighteen months. She broke things off shortly before I was heading off for pre-season training because I wasn’t home enough and she couldn’t face another season before the little I had to give was hers again. I wasn’t ‘present’ she claimed, even when I was around. And I don’t blame her – the way I have trained myself to be able to focus has always been my superpower. It’s one of the reasons I have such a strict and disciplined routine. It’s why I don’t drink or go out partying. When I get behind the wheel, I need to know that I’m one hundred percent committed to winning. No distractions.
What made it worse, at that time, was that during the break between seasons, Mum got her Parkinson’s diagnosis and my sister was really unwell with chronic morning sickness. I felt overwhelmed and anxious, and there was nothing left in the tank for Christine after caring for my mum and my sister.
We parted amicably, and I went on to start pre-season training without looking back. Any spare mental or emotional capacity was taken up with family stuff, and I was able to compartmentalise on the track with no problem.
Unlike now.
The feel of Harper’s lips on mine is seared into my brain. I can feel the imprint of them still on every inch of my skin — even places they hadn’t touched.
There was no amicable parting of ways with Harper. He swaggers about with his usual arrogant nonchalance and I am a pathetic ball of anxiety and awkwardness. In public – in front of Anders and the team, the media, and basically anyone else – we continue to maintain what passes for a friendly truce.
In private … well, there is no private. I make sure that we’re never alone together. I do everything I can to forget about it. Yes, I know, very mature.
‘You okay?’ Cole asks. ‘Your heart’s racing.’
Of course, he’s got all the data from the various monitors for both the car’s health and mine on a screen in front of him.
Great. Just Great.
While I’ve been off in my own world, on a trip down memory lane, Cole’s been watching me have a minor heart attack. The world of knowing what Harper James feels like underneath me is really messing with my concentration. It’s not a fun place to be. Zero out of ten, would not recommend.
