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It had been through the wringer and was quite a medley of several different pieces of the cars he had used over the years; they were painted in victory, in hard work, in a passion most people rarely got to tap into.
He had tapped into it consistently over the years, harnessing the energy of the elation he felt while whipping around a hard turn with the discipline it took to get into a meditative mindset at will. It had been a long and arduous road, both literally and figuratively, and hell would freeze over before he let anyone or anything get in the way of that.
Like attempted sabotage.
Franco ruminated as he climbed out of the shower, drying off his large, sculpted body, glad that his erection had deflated for the moment. His mind was hardened, though, with concern over the car and the likelihood that someone else could get at it again before the next race.
He tried to tell himself that all would be well. Felix and Samantha had volunteered to sleep with the car in the garage. The two of them have invested just as much life and hard work into the climb for triumph as he had. But he could see in their faces that they were beyond puzzled, as well as disturbed by what had happened. That wasn’t helpful.
Franco had risen to stardom in the racing world rather rapidly. He had dealt with adoring fans, hell, even women who stalked his hotel room and left their bras outside his door. It had all been amusing, but it never affected his focal point: the actual race.
Not until he had met Violet.
Even the thought of her made his lion purr.
Franco got ready, wearing some nice plain black slacks and a crimson-red dress shirt … he was encouraged by his sponsors to wear at least one of the shades that flashed along the race track on the days of the races. He tried to return to that solemn, calm exterior, shaving a peppering of stubble that had arrived throughout the day, splashing a pinky-sized amount of cologne along his neck and wrists. He gave himself one final look over, forcing his shoulders backward with an air of self-assurance.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
The event was a meet and greet, which meant that there was literally no way Franco was going to be able to avoid facing his defeat. He had a few minor issues in the past when he first started along the career path, but nothing had ever been that severe. Other racers, their families, their sponsors, and a handful of VIP fan guests would be present, all to sprinkle salt into the wound of his loss.
Franco texted Violet in the elevator, letting her know he would wait in their usual spot in the lobby. He considered waiting outside her hotel room to surprise her, but the second he caught a whiff of those cherry blossoms, he would bury himself deep into her nape and spend the rest of the night inside her thighs.
The mere thought made him dizzy.
Violet texted back promptly, saying she would be down in a few minutes. The evening air was brisk, so he brought his long beige overcoat, reminding Violet at the same time in a quick text.
“Might be chilly out. Bring your coat.”
He sauntered into the lobby, the golden light greeting him. He started to feel a stir of sickness in his stomach when he spotted a few fans wearing his merchandise. He retreated hastily to a section of the lobby where he would be hidden in shrubbery.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Way ahead of you,” she wrote back.
Franco smiled. Every morsel of anxiety he felt vanished when Violet was around. He felt giddy waiting for her like a peasant waits for their queen, ready and willing to please without request.
When he heard the elevator chime open, his heart fluttered. His body froze as he watched from a side profile as Violet strolled out, the mere sneaky sight of black heels wrapped around delicious ankles enough to take him into another dimension.
Franco stood there, waiting for a minute, not realizing that he was holding his breath. She had done her hair up in an elegant updo, raven-black glossy hair tied together in a flowing bouquet that sat like a crown on the back of her head. She was indeed wearing a jacket like he had suggested, a long midnight blue one that somehow matched the steady clicking of her sleek heels.
She had stopped, looking around for him with a quiet glow. To Franco, her eyes were searchlights in the dead black sea. The world stopped around him until the only movement was her body swaying like a feather in the wind. The only sound was the soft tap of his beating heart.
It was then that he saw her dress, an ivy-shaded wrap-around that highlighted her waist and hypnotic hips, a perfect V-shaped ripple down to her magical bosom. Her makeup was darker than usual, her lips adorned in a regal plum hue that parted the moment their eyes locked.
Everything happened at once, and Franco wondered what he had done in another life to be blessed with such a gift that was the woman before him. An arduous, insatiable, dedicated, radiant goddess standing in the lobby of some hotel in God knew where. People should have fallen at her feet. Franco desperately wanted to, feeling his own knees tremble as she glided toward him.
She stopped, her breath increasing in speed, her little pink tongue slipping between her teeth as they regarded each other. God, how he wished he could whisk her back upstairs and make her his over and over again.
He felt unworthy of her but magnificent and powerful all at the same time. He took a single step closer, reaching out his hand to cup her cheek the way he had outside his hotel room.
“Hi,” he murmured.
“Hi,” she purred.
“I am sure you know this but,” Franco stuttered, then swallowed, “you look absolutely divine. I feel like I should be kissing your feet right now.”
Violet let out an unexpected giggle, her adorable cheeks turning the shade of candy apples.
