Page 66 of Spin Control

I nod, and only then does he sit. “My head’s a mess.”

“Are the rumors getting to you?”

He shrugs, the movement accentuating precisely how muscular his neck and traps are. “The rumors. Freddie’s superior upgrade package. The complete mindfuck of finding out that I met the Bugatti guy. The uncertainty of whether my best friend and his favorite uncle are pawns or criminals. The fact that I can’t stop thinking about you.” His gaze meets mine and his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them: the deep gold of aged whiskey. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

I tilt my head. “Which part?”

Wes swallows. “The part about you.”

He’s right about that. I never should have lost control in D.C. I never should have started this. I never should have allowed him to come to Cape Cod, to meet my sister, to comfort me, to drive me to Boston, to introduce me to his wonderful parents.

The worst part is that none of it feels like a mistake at all. That’s why I have to crisis manage the hell out of this. Out of him.

I’m steeling myself for what I have to do when Wes whispers, “I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to touch you. Taste you.” There’s a raw quality to his words and an intense look in his eyes that lets me know how much he means it. How much he wants it.

And that cements it for me. We’re adults. Professionals. We can’t be sneaking around, having illicit trysts at our workplace. I have to shut this down once and for all. So instead of saying I’ll give him permission to do both of those things if he gets in that car and wins today the way my entire body is screaming at me to, I say, “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?” he asks. “There’s nothing stopping us. Unless…you don’t want me the way I want you?”

And damn, if that doesn’t make me want set the record straight by telling him that he’s right, I do want him. And that, terrifyingly, I think it transcends sexual chemistry. Because despite not wanting to confront my feelings, I haven’t stopped thinking about that night in Cape Cod when he said he wants to know my full shape. I haven’t stopped wondering what it might be like to allow such a thing. If maybe it could lead to something I’ve never thought was possible for me.

But no. That’s not what either of us needs right now. So I push away my feelings and focus on what I know is the most logical decision. The most rational move. The smartest choice. Even though I know it’s going to hurt. “You already know why. It’s entirely inappropriate. I never should have come to your room that night. I should have found some stranger in a bar.”

I don’t add that I would never do that. A woman with my predilections knows better than to put herself in a situation that could become very unsafe very fast.

His eyes flash with a mixture of outrage and hurt as he clenches his jaw. “But you didn’t. You came to me.”

“I know,” I say, crossing my arms and gazing at the ceiling. I can’t have this conversation if I keep looking at his emotional eyes or phenomenal body. But when he’s quiet for longer than I expect, I glance at him—and he’s transformed. Gone is the uncertain, overwhelmed guy who opened the door, replaced with the swaggering, confident driver who always gets what he wants. The side of Wes’s mouth tilts up. “You came to me because you want me.”

I shoot him an irritated look. And then I lie through my teeth. “I needed to scratch an itch. You were convenient.”

“Maybe that was true then,” Wes says in the same dangerously casual tone he used after the race in Monaco. He stands, then leans against the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets, pulling his sweatpants lower on his hips. “But I see how you look at me, Jacobs. I bet you think about me when you’re getting yourself off. Do you use your fingers? A toy? The shower head?”

I laugh, more out of surprise at his audacity than anything else. “That’s none of your business, Wes.”

“My name sounds so fucking good on your lips.”

Electricity zips up my spine, and for once, I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I shouldn’t allow him to speak to me this way. I wouldn’t allow it with another man. But it’s undeniable that I like him. On top of that, I’m intrigued by the challenge he presents. But he doesn’t need to know any of that. So I make my voice hard. “You need to stop.”

“No,” he growls, and I grit my teeth as my temper flares. “I need you to allow me the privilege of licking your pussy until you come on my face. I need you to give me permission so I can taste you the entire time I’m in the car, dominating the track.”

And just like that, every ounce of resolve and certainty I felt so keenly seconds ago evaporates.

Because though he framed it as a demand, he also handed me control. And it’s definitely the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.

So, fuck it.

“Beg.”

Wes’s eyes go wide, then never leave mine as he sinks to his knees. “Please. Please, Elizabeth.”

I let the moment stretch. I let him think there’s a possibility I’m going to say no. It’s when the hope in his eyes starts to dim that I say, “I’ll allow it.”

Wes sucks in a breath. “What rules do I need to follow?”

My knees nearly buckle. The fact that I have this man on his knees and asking for direction when he could have any person he wanted in his bed, happily following his commands, makes me feel insanely powerful. I think about insisting the only way we’re doing this is if I sit on his face. But it’d really be a shame to lose this view. “I’m still in charge. You do only what I tell you to.”

Wes nods before whispering, “Am I allowed to speak?”