Chapter Thirty-Two – Cole
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
COLE
The flickering light of the TV casts dancing shadows across the living room, highlighting the weariness etched on Lola’s face as she leans against the sofa cushions. Her brow is furrowed, and her gaze is fixed on the news report playing out on the screen, but I knew she isn’t really seeing it. Not the talking heads, not the flashing headlines. She is somewhere else, lost in the labyrinth of her own thoughts, just like I am.
My ribs ache with every breath I take, a dull, throbbing reminder of Chad’s dirty move, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the frustration of being sidelined, watching the racing world move on without me. The last race of the season was a brutal reality check, a reminder that, even with Lola by my side and the best car and crew money could buy, sometimes the only thing you can control is how you handle the crash.
And the crash was spectacular.
The news anchor’s voice, a smooth baritone that grates on my nerves, breaks through my thoughts. “And in a surprising move, Tane Racing announced today that they have terminated their contract with driver Chad Tane, effective immediately, citing ‘unsportsmanlike conduct’ and a ‘violation of team policy.’ This comes after Tane’s controversial maneuver in the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, which resulted in a crash that took championship contender Cole Lawson out of the race…”
I glance at Lola, her expression unreadable, a flicker of something that might be amusement dancing in her emerald eyes.
“You know anything about this?” I ask, knowing the answer even before the words leave my lips.
Lola shrugs, a nonchalant gesture that does little to conceal the mischievous glint in her eyes. “Evelyn makes her own decisions, Cole. She’s always been tough on her drivers, especially when they step out of line.”
“Right,” I drawl, raising an eyebrow. “And what about those rumors going around about Chad finding all four tires on every car in his precious collection… slashed?”
She tilts her head, her lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile that sends a shiver down my spine. “Would you have preferred that I run him over, Cole? I promised I wouldn’t wreck Eleanor again.”
I chuckle, a deep rumble that sends another twinge of pain through my ribs. “Touché, Lola. Touché.” I reach out, my fingers brushing against her arm, the warmth of her skin a welcome comfort. “But I appreciate the thought.”
She meets my gaze, her eyes softening. “He hurt you, Cole,” she says, her voice low and fierce. “And anyone who hurts you…” She lets the word hang in the air, the unspoken threat clear.
I pull her closer, needing to feel her warmth, her strength, the way her presence chases away the shadows that still linger from the crash. “I’m okay, Lola,” I whisper, my lips brushing against her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo. “I’m tough to kill.”
She leans into me, resting her head against my shoulder, a sigh escaping her lips. “I know,” she murmurs. “But I’m not taking any chances.”
We sit in silence for a while, the news report droning on in the background and the world outside fading away. In this moment, it’s just us, the shared warmth of our bodies, the promise of a future where the only crashes we experience would be the kind that leaves us breathless, tangled in sheets, and clinging to each other like life rafts in a storm.
And I know, with a certainty that goes beyond logic and reason, that with Lola by my side, I can handle anything. Even Chad Tane and his petty, vengeful ways. Although it doesn’t seem like I’ll be racing him anytime soon.
The tension that has been a constant companion since the crash finally begins to ebb, replaced by a sense of peace, a quiet contentment that settles over me like a warm blanket. Lola’s presence, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes against my shoulder, is the best kind of medicine, a balm to the wounds that run deeper than broken bones.
The news report shifts to a segment about the upcoming season, speculation swirling about potential driver changes, new car designs, and the ever-shifting landscape of the racing world. Normally, I’d be glued to the screen, analyzing every detail, strategizing and already planning my comeback. But tonight, I can’t bring myself to care.
“Lola,” I whisper, my voice rough with emotion.
“Hmm?” she murmurs, her head still resting against my shoulder.
“Thank you.” The words are a clumsy attempt to express the gratitude that swells inside me.
For being there, for fighting for me, for loving me even when I was too stubborn and too proud, to admit I need you.
She lifts her head, her emerald eyes meeting mine, a question in their depths.
“For believing in me,” I say, my gaze holding hers, letting her see the sincerity in my eyes. “For never giving up on me. For… well, for everything.”
A slow smile spreads across her lips, a smile that could light up an entire racetrack. “Always, Cole,” she whispers, her voice soft, a promise whispered in the quiet of the night.
She leans in, her lips brushing against mine, a featherlight touch that sends a jolt of electricity through me, a spark that ignites the embers of desire that still burn beneath the surface. I deepen the kiss, my hand cupping her cheek, her skin soft beneath my calloused fingertips.
The kiss is slow, tender, a world away from the urgency of our sexcapades in the garage. It’s a promise of a different kind of race, a race we’d run together, side by side, for as long as the road stretched ahead of us.
And as I hold her close, my pain and the world outside fading away, I know that I’ve finally found my finish line. It’s not a checkered flag, a trophy, the deafening roar of the crowd. It’s Lola, her in my arms and in my heart, her love a constant presence in my life.
And that is a victory worth fighting for.
The kiss deepens, our tongues tangling, a slow burn that quickly ignites into a wildfire. The taste of her, the feel of her body pressed against mine, sends a wave of desire crashing through me stronger than any adrenaline rush I’ve ever experienced on the track.
I pull her closer, my hand sliding beneath her shirt, my fingers tracing the curve of her spine, sending shivers down her back. She moans softly, the sound echoing the yearning in my own soul.
“Cole,” she whispers against my lips, her voice breathless, laced with a need that reflects my own.
I break the kiss, needing to see her, to lose myself in the depths of her emerald eyes. “Lola,” I breathe, her name a prayer escaping my lips.
She reaches up, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me down towards her. “Less talking,” she murmurs, her gaze holding mine, burning with a fire that threatens to consume us both. “Just kiss me.”
And I do.
Our bodies move together, a dance of passion and longing, our clothes becoming obstacles in the urgency of our need. I shift, pulling her onto my lap so her legs straddle mine, the heat of her body a welcome pressure against my aching ribs. The pain, the frustration, the uncertainty of the future—it all fades away, replaced with the all-consuming desire to lose myself in her, to find solace in the warmth of her embrace.
Her hands roam my back, exploring the fresh scars, the contours of muscle I’ve honed by years of pushing myself to the limit. Her touch, gentle yet possessive, sends shivers of pleasure down my spine, a reminder that I am alive, that I am wanted, that I am hers.
Our kisses grow more urgent, more demanding, our tongues tangling in a dance of need and desperation. I groan. The sound is a primal rumble deep in my chest as her fingers find the hem of my shirt, pulling it up, her touch sending sparks across my heated skin.
I break the kiss again, needing air, needing to see her, to memorize every detail of her flushed face, her tousled hair, the way her incredible emerald eyes, blaze with a desire that matches my own.
“Lola,” I whisper, my voice hoarse with need. “God, you’re so beautiful. And so mine.”
She smiles a shy, hesitant smile that is more intoxicating than any victory lap. “You’re not so bad yourself, hotshot. And you’re mine .”
Her words, laced with a teasing affection that makes my heart ache, are all the encouragement I need. I lower my head, my lips finding the sensitive skin of her neck, trailing kisses along her jawline, her collarbone, the swell of her breast above the lace of her bra. She arches into my touch, her breath catching in her throat, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
The world outside the living room, the uncertainty of the future, the echoes of the crash—it all fades away, replaced by the heat of her body, the taste of her on my lips, the intoxicating feeling of finally coming home.
And as I lower her onto the cushions, her body yielding beneath mine, I know that this is just the beginning of a race neither of us want to end.