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“Well, that is probably the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”
His lion strutted at the compliment.
Franco wanted to tell her about all of the poetry that lay in his heart, how it had sprouted upon their meeting, but then there would be no going back. He could already sense the heat between her legs, the honeyed trail of perfume emanating from the nestled warmth between her breasts.
He still had to think about the race, somehow, and in order to do that, he had to follow through on his contractual obligations.
But Franco was already craning his neck down to her, his body doing the talking for him.
They kissed delicately. The way Violet’s body stiffened and then softened against him told him that she, too, was holding back, aware that he couldn’t blow off the night for some life-altering sex with her. That only made him want her even more acutely.
“Mister Zellar? Franco Zellar?”
Franco growled into Violet’s mouth, lifting his head reluctantly from the velvet delights of Violet’s lips.
“What?”
“Your car is ready,” the man said.
Franco had to get himself together. The man was a hotel employee, a bellboy, if you will. He had snapped at him, angry at him for something he hadn’t the foggiest idea about.
“Sorry, yes, thank you,” Franco said, taking his hand from Violet and slipping a fifty from his wallet. “I appreciate it. You have a good night.”
The man’s face lit up, and he thanked Franco profusely.
He couldn’t be seen like that. He already had some heat on him from the race and the subsequent chase through the venue. The last damn thing he needed was the press snapping a photo of him screaming at a bellboy.
“Are you okay?”
Violet had slipped her hand into his as they walked toward the lobby doors, and she gazed at him with grave concern. The doors parted, and the night had a frosty crispness to it.
He blew his lips out in a grunt.
“I would much rather spend tonight alone with you,” he said before opening the car door. “I would much rather get lost in those curves than the chatty gossip that awaits me.”
Franco helped Violet into the SUV, noting her expression and the flushed look on her face. She had been thrown off by his compliment, her breathing ramping up as she bit her lower lip.
A frenzy erupted inside him when he saw his effect on her. There wasn’t anything sexier in the world than a woman who you made feel … sexy.
“Jesus,” she whispered as they settled in the car. “You make me crazy, Franco.”
Franco wanted to say and do so much more, but that was enough. He was glad she would be there with him all night, reminding him of the banquet of her body and soul that would be his once they returned to the hotel.
His hand rested on her thigh as the car drove into the night. She sighed, changing the subject with the same reluctance he was feeling.
“So, who are we meeting with tonight?”
Franco explained the soiree was taking place in another hotel. It wouldn’t be as formal as the first convention they’d met at. It was buffet-style with a few announcements and an award in between meant to encourage socializing between racers and others.
Agents who were hungry for drivers often scoured the event, as well as racers whose contracts were nearly expired. It wasn’t going to be rowdy, but there were sure to be some slurred speech and conversations spurred on with liquid courage.
It was an opulent occasion with racers of Franco’s stature and fame all dressed casually. Some of them had women on their arms, while the single ones lingered with their sponsors and agents. That had always been Franco, but for the first time, he had a woman with her slender hand tucked warmly into his own.
And it was Violet. His fated mate.
They walked into the venue arm-in-arm, and it was already bustling. He felt eyes on him as heads turned, the din of low chatter pouring toward him as the chandeliers above illuminated all of his mistakes.
A bead of sweat bloomed on his forehead when Violet elbowed him.
