Chapter 11
ELEVEN
LESSON LEARNED
Adrienne
Two weeks later…
Inervously stuff a strip of sour watermelon candy tape into my mouth as I stare at the outfit I’m supposed to wear for this photoshoot.
Why did I sign up for this? Right now, I’m not sure.
I can do this, right?
Right.
This photoshoot is about women in racing with a spotlight on me and my crew. Sure, we’re outnumbered by men on the crew by a lot, but the girls and I are women in racing. And yes, it has a sexy twist to get attention, but once we have that attention, we can show the world what women are capable of.
As soon as our call time hit this morning, we were ushered into hair and makeup, not something you usually see around a professional racetrack, but it was fun to get to be a little girly for a change.
The girls and I laughed and cackled as our hair was rolled up in victory rolls and a vintage red lacquer was painted on our lips and nails.
If we weren’t all in our matching wardrobes of lululemon leggings and crop tops, you would think we rolled right off the pages of WWII pinups.
But then we walked into the locker room to change, and I swallowed the watermelon candy ribbon whole.
One look at the outfits and I knew this was a mistake.
Sure, I dress a little sexy. I’m young and I have a nice body, and that’s not me being conceited.
That’s me knowing how many hours I train to prepare for my sport because I am a professional athlete, but this is a little more than I expected.
The girls look adorable. Like modern-day Rosie the Riveters with red polka dot bandanas tied around their curls.
They were given red satin demi bras to wear under white girly tank tops, their men’s coveralls tied low around their waists.
It’s a fun and sassy spin on the men’s attire they wear every day.
They’re going to look amazing across the magazine’s glossy pages.
Me, on the other hand? I’m not so sure about this.
I stuff another candy ribbon into my mouth and chew.
Then I strip off my clothes, down to my panties.
I pull on the black satin demi bra that is not my size, because it’s about two cup sizes too small.
It feels like my nipples are barely contained, that’s it.
And then I step into my racing suit. It’s not skintight, but it’s also not baggy like the coveralls the girls are wearing.
It has a wide elastic belt that cinches the material at my waist.
“Well,” I say to myself. “I guess it’s now or never.”
Then I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders back before walking out of the locker room.
The air immediately changes. It feels heavy and carries with it a charge I can’t place until I turn my head and see Gabe.
His face is a mask of barely concealed rage that I don’t understand.
Sure, he’s made it abundantly clear he doesn’t like me, but I still don’t get why.
I haven’t done anything to him. I know he calls me a brat when he thinks I’m not listening, but I couldn’t be farther from the moniker.
I work for everything in my life. Nothing but a name has been handed to me.
Over the last two weeks, we haven’t shared another meal. We do not talk.
He drives me to and from the track and my various other obligations. He shadows me at the grocery store and home again.
But we don’t talk.
We do not bond.
We are not friends.
The magazine’s photographer poses the girls and me this way and that. We laugh and giggle like friends do the whole time, and I feel light. They somehow manage to chase away my nerves and fears, and it becomes fun.
And then the photographer reaches over to me and yanks the zipper on my suit down to my navel, exposing more than just a sexy hint of cleavage—more like the whole thing.
That dangerous energy fills the room again, and I’d be lying if I said I’m totally comfortable with what just happened, but then again, I’m not comfortable with a lot of what’s going on in my life right now, so who am I to complain?
I suck it up and move on like I always do.
The girls and I keep going for another thirty minutes, but now it feels less fun and more forced.
I breathe a sigh of relief when the photographer shouts, “That’s a wrap!”
I turn to smile at my friends, but before I can, a strong hand wraps around my upper arm, and I’m hauled toward the locker room. I have to run to keep up with Gabe. My legs are long, but his are much longer, and his angry strides eat up the ground to the doorway.
He shoves me through the door and slams it behind me, the sound of the lock flipping over as it’s thrown echoes through the dark locker room.
“W-What’s happening?” I gasp. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I take in that he’s not turning on the lights.
“You get off on that?”
“Get off on what?” What the fuck is he talking about?
I’ve been so focused on putting one foot in front of another, just trying to get the job done, clear another hurtle on my way to earning my place as top dog of DHR.
Anything other than that goal has not really been considered because I don’t have the emotional or mental bandwidth to tackle it. So I have no idea what he’s on about.
“Yeah, baby,” he drawls. It’s the first time he’s let more than a tiny hint of his Texas twang show through. “You like teasing men? Making them hard for you?”
“Don’t be gross,” I snap as I turn to walk away, but he grabs me by the back of my neck and hauls me around until I’m flush against his hard body, and he is hard everywhere.
Then he crashes his mouth to mine.
I gasp, and he does not hesitate to take that opportunity to invade my mouth as he thrusts his tongue between my lips. His kiss is as hungry as it is harsh, and I hate it as much as I want it.
When he rips his mouth away from mine, my breath saws in and out of my lungs.
“B-B-But you don’t like me,” I stammer as I stare with wide eyes at the beautiful man.
“Baby, I don’t have to like you for you to make my dick hard.”
“And do I?” I ask breathlessly. “Make your dick hard?”
“You wanna find out, I’m not gonna stop you.”
God help me but I do. I want to find out if he’s hard for me, if Gabe is as turned on as I am right now. I don’t know what possesses me, because I damn well know I shouldn’t. But I do.
Slowly, with a shaky hand, I press the flat of my palm against the front of his jeans and find him hot and hard and so very thick.
The long, thick ridge of his erection calls to me and emboldens me, and I press firmly as I stroke with my open hand down the covered length of him.
When he lets out a quiet but rough groan, I grip him tightly through the soft, worn denim.
And the true size of him is overwhelming.
I want it.
I want him.
Then it’s gone in the blink of an eye, and my wrist is gripped in his tight fist as he hauls it over my head. His hazel eyes burn my skin everywhere they track down my body.
“You like what you do to me?” he growls.
“Yes,” I answer in a whisper.
He uses his free hand to grab my other wrist and lift it over my head, holding it securely with the other.
“If I pulled down your bra, would your nipples be hard?” he asks.
I gasp at his coarse words, but the undeniable truth is there for him to see if he follows up his words with actions.
“Yes.”
He keeps me anchored to the lockers behind me. With just a finger, he parts my fire suit to gape open even more and then hooks the cup of my bra and yanks swiftly until my flesh pours over the top. His touch whispers over my hard tip, barely even touching me, yet he sets me on fire.
He circles my nipple with his fingertip over and over until I’m arching my back, against my own will, to get more from him, and then he pinches it hard.
I gasp at the intrusion and moisture pools between my thighs. If he does it again, I might come.
“And if I undid this belt and touched your pussy, would you be wet for me?”
“Yes,” I gasp as the plastic belt clacks open.
He leans into me, resting more of his weight against me, pinning me to the lockers. His mouth is just a breath away from mine. Not kissing me but I want him to so badly.
“And if I fucked you with my fingers right now, would you come for me?” he asks as he kicks my legs wide with his booted foot.
“Yes.”
“Damn right you would.”
And then with his palm flat to my belly, he dips his hand into my suit, into my panties, until he spears me with two thick fingers. He drives them in with one thrust, pushing me to my tiptoes.
He pumps his fingers in and out of my pussy, the harsh sounds mingling with my heavy breaths. His hazel eyes are locked on mine as he drives me higher and higher. There is no play, no gentleness as he pushes me hard toward the climax that’s barreling down on me.
He presses his thumb to my clit, and I detonate around his fingers. I come harder than I ever have before, and he opens his mouth over mine and drinks in my whimpers, my cries, as I fall apart in his arms.
He lets me come back to myself, but he still holds my hands over my head.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You get off on making my dick hard.”
“Yeah.”
“You like what you do to me?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“You want it, baby, just say the word. I won’t stop you if you want to get on your knees and suck me off.”
And even through the harsh tone, more wetness hit my thighs, his coarse words turning me on.
“Yeah,” he says, still just as quietly. “She wants it.”
I had forgotten his hand was still between my legs and he can feel it too.
“I want it,” I repeat his words. I want to give him what he gave me.
He lets go of my wrists, but doesn’t step away, so I drop to my knees in front of the lockers, my back scrapping against the little slats in them as I go and I don’t fucking care.
I quickly slide my arms out of my sleeves—my fire suit hangs around my waist—exposing my breasts pushed up over the cups of my bra. His eyes heat as he looks down at me, and I fucking love it. I love that I can turn him on, that I can make him burn the way he makes me.
I make quick work of his belt and zipper, and as I part the soft denim of his jeans, his heavy cock springs free.
And it does not disappoint. It’s long—longer than any man I’ve been with before—and so thick I don’t think my hand will wrap all the way around him.
And he’s hard—so hard, for me. Veins pop attractively under the smooth skin of him, and the tip is round and flushed red.
“Don’t just stare at it, baby,” he growls, and I wrap my hand around him and stroke. “That’s it. Jack it. Harder.”
I do. I grip him in my fist and stroke him from root to tip, faster and faster, but that’s not what I want. I lean forward and wrap my lips around him. He hisses through his teeth as I swirl my tongue over the tip of him.
“Don’t fuck around,” he growls. “Suck me.”
“Yes,” I pant around the head. I lick him again, and he digs the fingers of one hand into my hair. The other cups my jaw, putting pressure on the hinge, and I look up at his handsome face awash with passion as I let the tip of my tongue dart out again and touch him.
“Deep, baby,” he growls. “I need you to take me deep.”
And I need that too.
I need him to come undone for me. It feels like he’s hanging on by a thread, and I need it to fray and snap.
“Yes,” I hiss.
With his thumb still pressing to my jaw, he thrusts deep into my mouth. It takes me by surprise, and I gag as he hits the back of my throat, tears pooling in my eyes.
“That’s it, fresa. Just breathe through it,” he encourages. The intense feeling passes, and I swallow around him. “Fuck, fuck. I gotta move.”
I nod swiftly, and it’s all the indication Gabe needs, because he begins to thrust, holding my face where he needs me, pumping into my mouth. I wrap my arms around his powerful thighs and hold on tight as he takes control of my blowjob away from me and fucks my mouth.
His cock hits the back of my throat again, and I do my best to breathe through my nose as he comes undone. I need to give him this. His release is mine for the taking, and I want it.
Then he rips his cock from my mouth at the same time the hand in my hair pulls my head back, exposing my throat and breasts to him. His hot cum erupts from him with a growl as he paints my breasts with his spent passion.
My chest heaves as air saws in and out of my lungs.
Something has changed between us—for some reason, I feel like Gabe and I are now an us.
After the way he’s treated me these past few weeks, I’d be lying if I said now that I have this, I don’t want it.
I’m as surprised as anyone by that realization.
“I should have known you’d like a walk on the wild side, fresa,” he says, ripping me from my romantic thoughts.
“What?” The same confused feeling I had earlier washes over me again because where I thought we were on the same page, I have a sinking feeling that I was completely wrong.
“Gotta say, you ever feel like slumming it again, give me a call.”
And then he turns on his heels and stalks out of the locker room, leaving me half naked on my knees and covered in his cum.
But that’s nothing compared to the shame that blankets me. For all the years I’ve worked my ass off, never whoring myself out for favors or success, all it took was this one man dragging my hard work through the dirt and throwing it in my face. To him, I’m no better than a whore.
I won’t be making this same mistake again.
Lesson learned.