Page 76 of Out of Control

We drive for the next twenty minutes or so. Each lap she becomes more relaxed, more in command, and the little laugh she emits and shimmy she does at the end of each five-lap race we do makes me chuckle.

It’s the hardest thing in the world to explain, but that time is the single most sexy and most comforting time I’ve ever experienced. For her to step into my world, to try it and be hands-on, and to let me guide and help her without telling me she knows what she’s doing is . . . incredible.

She trusts me.

I don’t know why that strikes a chord in me, but it does. And long after she signs off the simulator leaving me to review the statistics of my drives before she interrupted, that thought sticks with me.

“Sof?” I ask as I walk out to the family room where I expect to hear the television but am met with silence instead.

And then I see her.

She’s curled up in a ball on my couch. Some of my art books are open to various pages on the cushion beside her, but she’s sound asleep.

There’s an inherent need to collect the books, to hide the dates and places beside the pictures I’ve penciled in as my own private diary documenting the pieces I’ve seen in person.

But I don’t. And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel the shame over my love for art. I don’t fear she won’t like me because of it.

I’m sure this would be a whole other fucking story if she were awake and asking questions about my inscriptions, but she’s not. And maybe this gives me time to get used to the idea before admitting to it.

Silly. Stupid. But profound.

Fucking art. It changed the course of my life—for good and for bad.

Simply Sofia. What is she doing to me?

“The girl you love will love the artist within you.”

Love?

It’s a bit early for that, hey, Nonna?

I stare at her as something in my chest gives way. It’s an ache and a swell and a tumble over itself all at the same time. I press the heel of my hand to my sternum and rub, but I don’t think this feeling is going to go away any time soon.

In fact, I’m pretty sure I knew that the first night I saw her at the music festival but wasn’t quite ready to admit it to myself.

I don’t think I am right now either.

Without thinking, I move toward her. Within seconds I have the art books stacked on the table and am gathering her up in my arms.

“Ollie?” she murmurs in her sleep.

God, I love when she fucking calls me that. I’ve never let anyone else but my nonna call me it, but now? Now it’s like when Sofia says it, it makes me feel fucking awesome.

“I’m here,” I say.

“What are we doing here, Ollie?” Her lips pull up at the corners and then slowly fall as if she’s fallen back asleep.

“I don’t know, but whatever it is, I like it,” I whisper in the vastness of my place.

“Mm. I do too.” She runs her hands over my chest and up to the side of my neck. “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not. Don’t worry. I’m not leaving you.”

She wraps her arms around my neck and nuzzles into it, much like that first night here but it feels so very different this time. So very real and beyond just the sex.

“Mm. Good.” She presses a kiss there, her lips lingering. “I’m falling, Ollie. Don’t forget to catch me.”

And those words. Fuck, man. Those words . . .