Chapter Nineteen – Lola
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LOLA
I swear, if looks could kill, Cole would be six feet under right now. Here we are, having the same damn argument for what feels like the millionth time, and he’s got the nerve to look at me like I’m the crazy one. Un-freakin-believable.
“This is insane, Cole! Absolutely insane!” I’m practically screeching at this point, my voice bouncing around the garage like a ping-pong ball on steroids. My hands are doing that thing where they plant themselves on my hips—you know, the universal ‘I’m pissed, and you better listen up’ stance.
And Cole? He’s just standing there, cool as a freaking cucumber, probably thinking he looks like some brooding hero from a romance novel. Newsflash, buddy: you’re not nearly as irresistible as you think you are.
“Lola,” he drawls, and I swear my name’s never sounded so infuriating, “we’ve been over this.”
Oh, that does it. “Yeah, well, ‘over’ implies that we’ve reached some kind of resolution,” I snap back, laying the sarcasm on thicker than my aunt Penny’s makeup. “And unless I missed a chapter in the How to Win a Race handbook, ramming a driver into the wall isn’t exactly a winning strategy.”
He’s looking at me with those whiskey-colored eyes of his, and damn it all to hell, why does he have to be so… so… Cole? It’s like my insides can’t decide if they want to punch him or kiss him senseless. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud, mind you.
“It’s called a bump-and-run, sweetheart,” he says, taking a step closer. Oh, no, mister. You keep that chiseled jawline and those bedroom eyes right where they are. “And it’s perfectly legal.”
“Legal doesn’t equal smart,” I hiss, backing up until I’m pressed against his precious race car. Great. Now I’m trapped between two oversized egos. “What if you’d taken out his tire? Or worse?”
He’s getting closer, and suddenly the garage feels about as big as a shoebox. “That sounds an awful lot like concern, sweetheart. Are you worried about me Lola?” Cole rumbles, and I swear I can feel the vibrations in my chest. Or maybe that’s just my heart trying to escape.
“Oh, please, stop flattering yourself. If something happens to you, I’ll be out of a job. What else would I be worried about?” The words are out before I can stop them, barely above a whisper. My eyes betray me, flicking down to his lips for a split second. Big mistake. Huge. Now all I can think about is our fake kisses for the cameras, and the not-so-fake kisses that followed, and how unfairly good they felt.
“I have a few thoughts,” he murmurs, his breath warm on my cheek.
Oh, hell no. We are not doing this. Not here, not now, not ever. Without thinking, I raise my hand and… SPLASH! My soda explodes all over him, drenching him from head to toe.
For a second, he just stands there, dripping and stunned. Then, that infuriating smirk of his makes an appearance. “I guess that’s one way to cool things down,” he says, his voice rough.
Great. Now I’ve got a soaked, smoldering hot racer on my hands, and I’m fresh out of soda. Just peachy. This is definitely not how I imagined my day going. But then again, with Cole around, when does anything ever go according to plan?
His lips crash into mine, and holy horsepower, it’s like every nerve ending in my body decides to throw a party at once. This isn’t some tepid kiss for the cameras; this is full-on, no-holds-barred, set-your-pants-on-fire kissing. His tongue’s doing things that should probably be illegal in at least twelve states, and I’m not even sure I remember my own name anymore.
I want to be mad. I want to push him away and give him a piece of my mind, but we’ve been on this collision course for over half a decade. My traitorous hands have other ideas, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic. And let’s not even talk about the embarrassing noises coming out of my mouth. If anyone is recording this, I’ll have to move to Antarctica and live among the penguins.
“You have no idea what you do to me, Lola,” he growls in my ear, and sweet baby Jesus, when did his voice get so… growly? It’s doing things to me, things that make me want to forget every reason why this is a terrible idea. I swore off race car drivers for a reason. I just can’t remember why right now.
I try to say something snarky. I really do. But all that comes out is a pathetic little whimper that probably translates to “Please don’t stop” in hormone language. Real smooth, Lola. Way to show him who’s boss.
Just as I’m seriously considering throwing caution—and my pants—to the wind, I hear a cough. My eyes fly open, and oh, look, it’s the entire pit crew. Fantastic. Nothing like an audience to really spice things up. Antarctica sounds pretty good right now. Who doesn’t love penguins?
Maria, bless her meddling heart, smirks like she just won the lottery. “Well,” she drawls, “I guess this is our cue to take an early lunch break. Come on, boys. Let’s give these two lovebirds some privacy.”
As the garage door rumbles shut, leaving us alone, I’m torn between mortification and a desperate need to get back to what we were doing. Cole’s looking at me like I’m the checkered flag at the end of a very long race, and all my carefully constructed walls are crumbling faster than a sandcastle in a hurricane.
“Don’t stop,” I hear myself whisper, and yep, that’s it. My last shred of dignity just packed its bags and left the building. But you know what? As Cole pulls me back in for another mind-melting kiss, I decide dignity is seriously overrated anyway.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus on a unicycle, what are we doing? One second, we’re at each other’s throats, and the next… well, we’re still at each other’s throats, but in a whole different ballgame. And let me tell you, it’s a game I’m suddenly very interested in winning.
Cole pulls me back into his arms with a groan that sounds like he’s been holding it in since the dawn of time. His mouth crashes into mine again; his hands are everywhere, and I mean everywhere. It’s like he’s got eight arms, each one with a PhD in making Lola lose her mind. He’s cupping my face like I’m made of china, but his eyes? They’re saying he wants to break me into a million pieces and put me back together again. Pretty sure my eyes are yelling, Yes, please to all of it.
I’m clinging to him like he’s the last parachute on a crashing plane, my fingers digging into those shoulders that I definitely haven’t been ogling every time he bends over the engine. His lips are doing this thing that’s making me forget my own name, and I’m pretty sure I’m about two seconds away from spontaneously combusting.
He tears his mouth away—rude—but before I can complain, he’s trailing kisses down my jaw, and oh, sweet mercy, he found that spot behind my ear. I make a noise that’s definitely not human, arching into him like a cat in heat. Dignity? What’s that? Never heard of her.
“Lola,” he groans, and the way he says my name should be illegal. “What are you doing to me?”
“What you’re doing to me ?” I manage to gasp out, sounding like I’ve just run a marathon in stilettos.
He has the audacity to chuckle, the vibrations going straight to parts of me that have been in hibernation since… well, since the last time we did this dance.
His hands are on a southern expedition, mapping out curves I forgot I had. I’m like a live wire, and I’m pretty sure one more touch will make me short-circuit. I moan, pressing closer, because apparently, I’ve lost all control of my body, and it’s decided Cole is its new favorite person. My mind tries to remind me that he always has been, but she needs to shut it. We’re not listening to her right now.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and sweet baby Jesus, those eyes. They’re like pools of whiskey, and I’m ready to dive in and drown. “Lola,” he says, his voice rougher than a gravel road. “I want you.”
My brain is screaming at me to say no, to remember all the reasons why this is a terrible idea. But my mouth seems to have lost its connection to both my brain and common sense, because what comes out is...
“Then take me, you fool.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sound of my last shred of self-control waving goodbye as it sails off into the sunset. But you know what? As Cole’s eyes darken and he pulls me in for another mind-melting kiss, I decide self-control is seriously overrated anyway.
Who needs dignity when you can have Cole instead? Not this girl, that’s for sure. I just hope I remember how to walk straight when this is over, or the pit crew is going to have a field day. But right now? I couldn’t care less. Bring it on, Cole. Bring. It. On.
Apparently, that’s the green flag Cole needed to kick this makeout session into high gear.
His lips are back on mine faster than you could say checkered flag , and holy hell, the man kisses like he drives—with skill, precision, and a reckless abandon that makes my head spin. His hands are on a mission, and apparently, that mission is to make me lose my ever-loving mind.
He’s unbuttoning my shirt, and each brush of his fingers against my skin is like a little electric shock. I’m half expecting to see sparks flying, and not just the metaphorical kind. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, and holy shit, his voice just dropped another ten octaves, and it’s doing things to me, unspeakable things that would make even a romance novelist blush.
I try to come up with some witty comeback, I really do. But my brain’s turned to mush, and all I can do is make this embarrassing little whimpering moan that probably translates to “Please, sir, may I have more?” in hormone-speak. Smooth, Lola. Real smooth.
He’s peeling my shirt off now, and I shiver. Partly because dang, it’s chilly in here, but mostly because I’m about two seconds away from flying across the finish line before he really gets started. Cole, bless his heart, thinks I’m hesitating. “Lola,” he says, all serious-like, “tell me to stop, and I’ll try to walk away right now.”
Try? Oh, honey, you’d need a crowbar and a team of wild horses to pry me off you right now. “Don’t you dare walk away from me,” I manage to gasp out. “Don’t even think about it.”
And then we’re back to the kissing as his hands wander, and sweet mercy, it’s like every nerve ending in my body is doing the cha-cha. He lifts me onto the hood of the car like I weigh nothing, and I briefly wonder if all that engine lifting has given him super-strength or if I’ve just lost weight from all the stress-sweating I’ve been doing lately.
He’s looking at me like I’m the last cold beer on a hot summer day, and I’m melting faster than an ice cream cone in July. “You’re incredible,” he says, and the way he says it makes me believe him. For a moment, at least, until my inner critic pipes up with a sarcastic, “Yeah, right.” But then he’s kissing me again, and that pesky inner voice shuts right up.
“I’ve dreamed of touching you like this,” he whispers, and holy cannoli, when did this turn into a romance novel? Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’m about as coherent as a lovesick teenager at this point, managing to gasp out his name like it’s the only word I remember. And honestly, it might be, at this point.
His hands are everywhere, leaving trails of fire in their wake, and I’m arching into him like a cat in heat. I make another noise that’s definitely inhuman and briefly wonder if I’ve forgotten how to form actual words. But you know what? Who needs words when you’ve got Cole’s hands doing… that?
He groans, the sound an anthem of need against my skin. “So damn good,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my neck. His fingers slide under the hem of my bra, pushing it up, his touch sending a flood of desire directly to my core.
I want to tell him to slow down and speed up, that this is moving too fast yet far too slow, that we’re both playing with fire. But the words won’t come out. I’m lost in the whirlwind of sensations he’s creating, the intoxicating blend of fear and desire that threatens to drown me.
He shifts again, his leg slipping between mine, his arousal a hard presence against my aching core. I gasp, the breath catching in my throat as a wave of pure, unadulterated longing washes over me. It’s been so long, too long, since I’ve felt this kind of connection, this raw, primal hunger that goes beyond the physical. This is about years of unspoken yearning, of stolen glances and near misses, of a chemistry that defies logic and reason.
His calloused, capable hands are everywhere, urging me closer, mapping the contours of my body as if committing them to memory. His touch is electric, sparking a fire in my veins.
“Oh, shit,” I breathe, my voice a shattered whisper against his lips.
“I’ve got you, Lola,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. “I’ve got you.”
And then his mouth is on mine again, his kiss both a promise and a possession. His fingers dance over the clasp of my bra, freeing me with a tenderness that belies the burning hunger in his eyes. I arch into his touch, my skin tingling where his fingertips brush against my sensitized flesh. He traces the curve of my breast with his thumb, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through me that makes me gasp.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire as his gaze sweeps over my exposed skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Lola.”
He lowers his head, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of my neck. I whimper, my fingers threading through his hair, urging him closer. I crave his touch, his taste, the feel of his body against mine, the exquisite torture of wanting him closer, more, everything.
He senses my surrender, my unspoken need, and his hand moves lower, his fingers brushing against the skin of my inner thigh, sending another jolt of pure desire straight to my core.
He looks up at me then, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrors my own. “Tell me what you want, Lola,” he whispers, his voice rough with desire. “Tell me what you need.”
And in that moment, surrounded by the gleaming metal and the scent of motor oil, with the ghost of our past swirling around us, I know the truth.
I just need him.
I must broadcast it all over my face because his grin widens, a flash of white teeth against tanned skin, and it’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear as his hand continues its slow, torturous exploration beneath the hem of my jeans.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against my skin.
His fingers find the lace of my panties, and he hesitates, his thumb stroking a path over my achingly sensitive skin. The air crackles with anticipation, every nerve ending in my body thrumming with a life of its own.
“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice husky with restraint. “Because once I cross this line, there’s no going back.”
And I know he’s not just talking about tonight. He’s talking about us, about the years of history, the tangled web of hurt and desire that binds us together. He’s offering me a way out, one last chance to walk away before things go too far.
But walking away isn’t an option. Not anymore. Not when I can taste him on my lips, feel the heat of his gaze burning into me, crave his touch with an intensity that steals my breath away.
“I’m sure,” I almost beg, my voice trembling with a need that echoes deep inside me. “Please… just touch me.”
His answering groan has me dripping with need. And then his fingers are there, slipping past the lace, dipping into the heat between my legs.
His touch is electric, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through me that makes me arch off the hood of the car, my hips seeking more of his touch, more of that exquisite friction that’s driving me wild. I cry out, a mix of surprise and satisfaction, the sound muffled against his lips as he reclaims my mouth, his kiss desperate and possessive.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice thick with desire. “Let go. Let me take care of you.”
His words are both a command and a caress, and I obey without hesitation. I’m powerless to resist, lost in the whirlwind of sensations he’s unleashing within me. His touch is magic, his fingers tracing patterns against my sensitive skin, finding a rhythm that makes my body sing.
I writhe beneath him, every touch, every stroke sending shockwaves of pleasure through me. The world outside our little bubble ceases to exist. There’s only Cole, his scent, his touch, the way he makes me forget who I am, where I am, and why I should be fighting this.
“Cole,” I gasp, my voice a broken whisper against his lips. My back arches, my hips pressing against his hand, seeking release.
He’s watching me, his gaze intent, his thumb stroking that sensitive bundle of nerves, driving me closer and closer to the edge.
“Look at me, Lola,” he commands, his voice husky. “Look at me when you come.”
His words are all it takes.
My eyes fly open, meeting his gaze in the dim light of the garage. And then I’m gone, shattering into a million pieces, my cries swallowed by his kiss as a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washes over me, leaving me weak, breathless, and utterly consumed by the man who holds my heart in his hands.
I hold his stare as he brings his fingers to his mouth and licks his fingers clean. Holy shit, that’s hot. It renders me speechless. It’s a good thing, too, because it’s on tip of my tongue to tell him exactly how I feel about him.
I’m pretty sure we could use pigeon carriers to share our feelings for each other and they’d still arrive before we can get the words out.