Chapter 7 #2
Delaney wiped the quiet tears. “So, your big opening move was to mansplain racing to a near world champion?”
Reese closed her eyes in shame. “When you say it like that, it sounds even more mortifying.”
Cassidy grinned. “Yet, you hit on her again?”
“Maybe,” Reese muttered. “Today, after the lecture. I offered to show her my abs.”
Marissa nearly fell off the armchair. “This is real life?” She looked to the others. “I think it is. And it’s too good to be true.”
Reese covered her face, now laughing with Delaney at her own ludicrous move. “In my defense, it was supposed to be a funny quip. Lighthearted.”
Delaney wiped another tear. “Okay, there’s lighthearted, and then there’s thirsty with a gym membership.”
“Don’t feel bad.” Cassidy clinked her Pop-Tart against Reese’s. “At least when you crash and burn, you do it spectacularly. There’s really no other way.”
Reese stared at the wall. “She’s never going to take me seriously.”
Marissa smirked. “Maybe not yet. But if she ever asks to see those abs … call us immediately.”
Reese shrank. “Yeah, I’m sidelined.”
Delaney looked thoughtful. “I guess my question is, are you seriously interested?”
Reese hadn’t allowed herself to go there.
She was attracted to Sloane without question.
Honestly, who wasn’t? But anything more formal seemed like buying a winning lottery ticket.
The odds of success were slim to none. “In a perfect world, I’d love to get to know her better.
Are you kidding? But even I know she’s beyond reach. ”
“Sorry, pal,” Delaney said. “We’re mere mortals and Sloane Foster is a goddess on earth.”
“With a resumé I’d trade my grandmother to have one day,” Marissa said. She held up a hand. “But she’s a mean grandma who screams at me in Italian, so don’t feel too bad about it.”
Reese set her jaw. “I guess I’ll just keep my little crush in my pocket then. Know my place.”
Delaney grinned. “That’s right, pal. Keep it in your pants.”
That pulled a laugh from the group, who were honestly becoming the kind of people Reese hadn’t realized she needed. Instead of tiring her out after a long day, they gave her energy. The laughter lingered in the air, warm and easy, like it had been waiting all day to show up.
As the noise faded and the Pop-Tarts disappeared, Reese sat back and let herself breathe.
For so long, her world had been engines, telemetry, pressure, and proving herself.
But here—in this absurd ocean-themed room with its jellyfish glow—she felt something new.
Belonging. These women, these drivers, got it.
The chaos, the competition, the craving to be better.
And they still made space to laugh at themselves.
Her chest softened. This was her crew. Her people. Her soft place to fall.
And Sloane … well, Sloane was the opposite.
Terrifying in so many ways, but also a preoccupation she couldn’t turn off even when she actively tried.
It was like once they’d met, there was no undoing the Sloane effect.
She was clean lines, heat, and a voice that made Reese want to rise taller.
Which meant, for everyone’s sake, she needed to stay professional, focused, and dialed in.
Whatever ridiculous sparks Sloane Foster lit in her, they’d have to stay the hell out of the way. At least for now.
She finished the last bite of her Pop-Tart and smiled faintly. Tomorrow, she’d drive. Tonight, she’d let herself rest.
Sloane was a dirty martini kind of woman. Always had been. Cold, clean, a little salty—just like she liked her evenings. She didn’t indulge as often as she used to, but that night after qualifying, she found herself heading down to the hotel bar anyway. She wasn’t ready to turn in just yet.
She took a moment to look around, invest in her surroundings.
The place was trying desperately to have a personality.
Seashell sconces. Blue lighting. A chandelier shaped like a school of fish, for God’s sake.
Monterey, apparently, had taken its ocean affinity very seriously.
The academy hotels, midrange at best, always came with extra flair.
Sometimes she wondered if Miranda was pranking them all with these finds.
Luckily, the drinks were better than the decor.
She settled into her seat at the bar and exhaled, letting the day slide off of her, leaving something unnamed.
She felt different this week—restless, maybe.
Being back in the fray had done something to her.
Reawakened something? She wasn’t sure. But watching the young drivers tearing around the track, full of heat and hunger and half-formed discipline, had stirred an ache she thought she’d buried.
It reminded her of the woman she used to be, the one who thought talent and adrenaline were enough to outrun time.
And maybe that’s why she was here, perched on a barstool instead of tucked in her hotel room with a book and a cup of tea like she should be. Maybe she just wanted to feel the hum of life again.
She stirred her drink, absently watching the olive shift in its pale green sea, and was surprised when a second martini appeared beside it.
She looked to the bartender, who nodded toward a woman across the room—a brunette raising her own glass in silent toast. Interesting.
Yet, she didn’t immediately reject the notion of company. Also new.
Sloane hadn’t been planning on a second drink, but, honestly, why not? She nodded her thanks. The woman smiled, slow and confident, and began walking over. Sloane felt her stomach tighten in that old, familiar way. It had been a while since she’d been with anyone. Maybe too long.
The woman was attractive—mid-thirties, maybe—with dark hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders and eyes the color of espresso.
Her white linen shirt was casually half-tucked into black slacks, collar open just enough to make you look twice.
Sloane did. Everything about her said composed, intentional.
The kind of woman who didn’t have to try hard to draw attention; she already knew she had it.
“You looked like you could use company,” she said, voice warm and low. “I’m Talia.”
Sloane gestured to the empty stool beside her. “Talia, you’re observant.”
“And you’re a mystery,” Talia countered with a smile that was all invitation. “Mind if I try to solve you?”
Sloane almost laughed at the line. It had also been a long time since she’d allowed someone to flirt with her. But something about the curve of Talia’s mouth made her consider it.
She took a sip of her martini, its crisp bite grounding her. “You can try. I haven’t had much luck.”
Talia’s gaze lingered. “So, what brings you to our little aquarium of a bar? Business or pleasure?”
“Work.”
“The serious kind or the fun kind?” she asked, her tone suggesting she already knew which answer she preferred.
For a heartbeat, Sloane let the question hang between them. She could say fun. She could lean in, test the waters, let her body remember it still belonged to her.
But then, unbidden, came the flicker of a grin. Brown hair, green eyes, a spark of defiance, a challenge thrown like a gauntlet across a lecture hall. Reese Maddox. A driver. Too young. Too reckless. Too close.
She blinked it away and lifted her glass to Talia’s. “The serious kind,” she said lightly, though her voice betrayed a touch of regret.
Talia tilted her head. “Pity. You strike me as someone who could use a little fun.”
Sloane smiled faintly. “You might be right.” But when Talia’s hand brushed hers, she didn’t move to take it. The wanting was there in an undeniable way, but it wasn’t for this. Not for Talia. Not tonight.
“Thanks for the drink,” she said softly. “Really.”
Talia read the tone, gave her a kind nod, and drifted back into the crowd.
Sloane watched the fish chandelier glint overhead, light rippling across the glass, and exhaled. Okay, so she wasn’t dead. Not yet. But apparently, she was alive in all the wrong directions.
Three hours later, as Sloane watched Reese unbutton her shirt one button at a time, revealing her blue satin bra, she knew she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
She sat back on the bed, watching intently, the ache between her legs demanding attention.
She throbbed. She was in need. And the show was almost too much, except it was perfection.
This was everything she didn’t know she’d needed.
When Reese had knocked quietly on the door, Sloane almost hadn’t let her in.
It was late, and she’d had the martinis, and let’s be honest, she had no business getting entangled with the likes of Reese Maddox.
Now, she was more than glad she’d opened that damned door.
Reese pulled down the cups of her bra, allowing her breasts to spring free, and Sloane’s mouth watered.
Before she had a chance to so much as touch, lick, or lavish them with attention, Reese was easing Sloane’s legs apart.
She was wet, so wet, and Reese would see that.
The idea only turned her on more. Her underwear was slid down her legs as Reese grinned, gorgeous and so fucking sure of herself.
Her fingers moved between Sloane’s legs, featherlight and then with more assurance.
It was so fucking satisfying that Sloane wanted more like she’d never wanted anything in her life.
Her breath hitched as the pressure climbed and climbed, the friction undoing her.
“Hey,” Reese said in her ear.
“Yes?” she managed.
“Are you ready to be fucked?” Reese whispered as she stroked her with more authority, owning the moment, owning Sloane, the rhythm hypnotic, the yearning intense.
Sloane met her eyes and nodded.
“Okay, then.” Reese slid her fingers deep inside with unencumbered purpose.
It was when she began to move inside Sloane that the world came undone.
No sensation compared to this one, the need, the wonder, the fucking amazing feeling of Reese inside her, filling her fully, fucking her, taking her higher and higher with each thrust to places she hadn’t dared imagine she’d ever get to again.
But then it was dark.
The world disappeared, and Sloane found herself sitting upright in her hotel room, alone and on fire.
She checked the clock. It read just after 3 a.m. “My God,” she murmured, shocked and affected by the dream in a manner she wasn’t sure how to handle.
It had seemed so real, down to the throbbing that still lingered between her legs—throbbing for release. For the touch of one person. For Reese.
Sloane fell back against the pillow, eyes wide open now.
She’d kept her distance all this time for good reason, but her subconscious clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.
And as much as she tried to dismiss it, one truth pulsed beneath it all: Reese wasn’t just under her skin.
She was in her head, and that was far more dangerous.