Chapter 11 #3
“Well, look,” I say, thumbing at the window. “We picked a good place to wait out the rain.”
He turns and we both lean in against the glass to get a better look at the F1 memorabilia display in the shopwindow. Vintage Rossini gloves, a brake disk signed by Mark Webber. A Ferrari helmet worn by Kimi. Danny Ricciardo’s Nomex shirt from his time at Red Bull.
“Jesus, is that a leather jacket worn by Senna?” I say, gasping.
“He probably only wore it once,” Matt quips. “Everyone’s used shit is here.”
“Except yours,” I point out.
“I can offer a private sale of my now wet socks if that’s what you’re after, Chloe.”
We both chuckle along, but then there is a heavy silence. The clapping of shoes on the sidewalk as the rain starts to ease from a downfall into a light shower. The purring rise and fall of passing traffic. Sirens in the distance.
“So . . . if you’re not dating Jack Sheppard, who are you dating?” Matt asks, his eyes still on the window display.
Where did that come from?
“No one,” I say. “Are you dating?” I shoot back, unable to help myself.
“Not recently,” he replies coolly.
“It’s hard to keep up,” I tease, enjoying the dig.
“I was only seriously dating Maria Colenso.”
“The daughter of the Rossini engineer?”
“Yep. Made things a bit awkward on the track for a couple of years after that imploded.”
“And there’s yet another example of why you should never screw the crew,” I say, as though I’ve been keeping a mental checklist.
Matt turns to face me and stills, leaning against the glass of the storefront.
I risk a glance at him and the intensity of his stare pins me to the spot.
His hair, like mine, is wet and hanging slick against his forehead.
His shirt is damp and clinging to the muscles along his arms, slightly transparent.
The warm light from the streetlamp hits his face perfectly, bringing out the green flecks in his eyes.
He flicks his hair back out of his face, and the corner of his mouth turns up in just a hint of a smile.
I look down at my hands, then adjust my tote on my shoulder and turn my attention once again to the contents of the storefront. In the distance is the wail of a siren, like a warning not to go any further.
Matt finally breaks the silence. “I know it’s not ideal, but I gave up trying to have anything normal. It’s hard with this life.”
“Truth.”
“You never met anyone, Chloe? Never fell in love?” he asks, and although the delivery of this question is light, I can detect the awkwardness in his tone.
I do not take my eyes off the contents of that store.
“Sure,” I say.
“When?”
“Oh, way back.” I take a breath, facing him again.
On some level, I guess I want him to know the truth, humiliating as it is.
I bravely hold his gaze and his jaw twitches, those hazel eyes dancing side to side, scanning me for the truth.
A bead of rainwater trails down his temple, and I have to resist the urge to wipe it away.
Instead, I tuck my own wet locks of hair behind my ears.
And I breathe. Slowly. My heart seems determined to unsettle me with heavy thuds against my chest.
“Who?” he pushes. And then I see that little curl at the edge of his mouth and the crinkle in the corner of his eye, and I feel unsure I can trust him with this deeply personal fact.
“Why are you asking me this?” I shoot back, folding my arms, backing away from the storefront and from him. I feel Matt’s hand on mine as he tugs me away from the curb and under the awning into the darkness. His hand is warm, and gentle.
I hear his breath catch slightly as he waits, but I don’t respond.
I don’t really need to. I’m angry with him. Why is he badgering me? What is he looking for from this conversation?
Before I have a chance to walk away, he reaches toward me, his hands grazing slowly up my arm. He touches me so gently, it tickles, and my body twitches against his fingers. I feel so fragile under his touch. Like thin glass. Like I might shatter if I move.
“It’s still raining,” he says quietly.
“Mm-hm,” I barely reply, my voice thin as his fingers move down my arm again, and I try not to sink into the delicious friction against my damp skin.
He’s never touched me like this before. It’s tentative.
This is no friendly arm draped around my shoulder, or bear hug after a race.
This is different. This touch is filled with longing, with intentions.
I don’t blink, I barely breathe, until he gently lays one hand on my cheek, and then I let out a small breath. He smiles tenderly at me, as the rain intensifies against the awning. Then his thumb moves slowly toward my mouth and he traces my lips lightly.
Is he going to kiss me? Is . . . is this happening?
The tension between my anxiety and my desire makes me feel like I’m levitating.
“Matt . . .” I whisper, as his eyes move from my mouth to meet mine, and he looks at me in a way he never has before. A whole new Matt. Gentle. Determined. And maybe, just a hint of vulnerability too.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.
The response from my body is instant, my nipples tighten against the thin, wet cotton of my T-shirt, and I hate that my desire for Matt is, in the end, so instinctual.
Before I have a chance to reason with myself, or think about anything but the million little sparklers that are currently firing across my skin, my lips part for him and he dips down toward me and presses his lips against mine. So gently. So tentatively.
Matt tastes delicious—like barbecue and beer, sweet and fragrant. His lips are just as soft as I’ve imagined all these years.
His hand barely moves on my face, and in a single heated breath, the gentle kiss moves from something sweet and nervous to ravenous, as my mouth opens wider for him and he kisses me hungrily, his hand curling around my waist and yanking me closer.
So much longing fills my body. I love him. I am angry with him. I want him. I have always wanted him.
I find no way to stop as I find myself reaching up and clawing at his hair. I’m rough. I want more.
Matt’s hands are all over my body, roughly tugging at my T-shirt as he snakes a hand underneath, fingers searching for my breasts. He’s gentle but single-minded, and I find myself arching into him as his palm grazes my nipples through my damp bra.
I moan into his mouth and bite him gently on his lip. He laughs, and moves in closer, pulling me toward his hips as he presses into me. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s hard, and the thought makes me feel as though I’m drowning, my body falling limply into him.
Suddenly, I’m pushed up against the glass, and with expert ease, he slips his hand down the waistband of my skirt. I am aching for him to touch me, but he pauses, his fingers so close, and he stares at me, searching my eyes for permission.
“Please,” I say, my voice gravelly and hoarse. His hand fans out, his fingers curling between my thighs as that whisper of a smile returns. “Don’t tease me,” I say, pushing forward into his hand, hungrily.
Matt seems to take a moment, closes his eyes, and buries his face briefly in my hair, inhaling deeply.
“Please, Matt,” I say again. “I want you to.”
He obeys with a groan into my ear, his fingers pushing aside the elastic of my lace thong and moving expertly to find my clit. I gasp, stiffening under his touch, but he just groans again, this time into my mouth, as he kisses me hard.
“Fuck,” he says. And then his other hand moves from my breast to my lower back and his head drops onto my shoulder, his breath hot on my neck. I want him to move his fingers. To fill me up inside with them. I want so much that release that I always felt only Matt could give me.
His first stroke is soft, and I cry out, with the intensity of the pleasure and the sensitivity. It’s been so long since anyone has touched me like that, I think, and then I push the thought away.
“Please,” I say again. Before I think too much.
His second stroke is long and I hear his breath hitch as I move against his finger.
I can feel how wet I am as he continues to stroke me gently, rhythmically, and I cling to his neck, hanging there in delicious pleasure, my body giving away my desire completely. I want more. I want all of it right here. Right now.
He moves his finger down and teases my entrance, moving the tip of his finger against me, while never sliding it inside. My body is flooded with heat, my mind swimming. I move against him again, tugging at his hand, pulling it toward me.
“You feel delicious, Chloe,” he says, pulling back to kiss my neck as I feel the cold glass on my back, his breath moving to my ear, my chest heaving. “You’re so hot.”
Speech isn’t something I can manage right now, but I do manage to let out another strangled growl as he circles my clit again. He’s driving me crazy with this teasing game.
“I want to do this properly. I want to take my time,” he whispers, between kisses. “Let’s take this to the hotel.”
His words immediately cut through the frenzy and I’m alert again.
Suddenly I can hear traffic, and people’s voices, and footfalls, and even though we’re out of sight I’m seized by a fear of being caught.
I pull at his wrist, and he hesitates, before sliding his hand up and wrapping his fingers around my waistband, tugging at me to come closer.
“Matt,” I whisper into his mouth, against my lips. His hands move back to my face right away, and I can see his pupils have dilated. His eyes look almost black in this lighting, his desire for me undeniable. It’s enough to almost make me change my mind. Almost.
“We should stop. People will recognize us.” I say it so quietly, so gently, and so at odds with my body I can barely get the words out.
“But,” he says hoarsely, almost as if in pain, “I don’t want to stop, and I have a feeling you really don’t either.”
“You’re right, I don’t want to. But we have to.”
I feel him stiffen in my arms, and he pulls back to look at me.
He is ravaged. His hair tousled, his lips red and swollen.
An unmistakable bulge presses into my hip, and I try not to imagine him sliding inside me, taking me to the brink again.
I’m still clutching him hard, so I loosen my grip a little. Matt’s eyes are resolute.
“This is a mistake,” I say, my breathing heavy.
He looks like he’s just been slapped. “Do you really think that?”
I don’t know how to answer. Part of me doesn’t think this is a mistake. Part of me, the romantic, whimsical girl inside, believes this is what always should have been. But all of me knows this can’t end up anywhere good. It’s a no-win feeling that can’t be figured out between Matt’s sheets tonight.
When I don’t respond, he takes a small step back and puts his hands in his jean pockets. “Okay. You go to the hotel first, then I’ll follow. No one will see us,” he says.
He takes a moment, looking frantically at me, and then he smiles sadly, dropping his head so our foreheads touch and we both try to slow our breathing.
“But who gives a fuck if it’s a mistake? We’re adults,” he whispers.
I step back. “We have to go,” I say. Unable to find any other words, I try to smooth the creases in my T-shirt where Matt’s fingers bunched it up just moments ago.
I look in the reflection of the shopwindow, stepping slowly back. My hair is damp and wild, my nipples still hard under my shirt. I’m desperately unsatisfied, and by the look of Matt, he is too. That kiss will never be enough. Never. And yet.
“This can’t ever happen again, Matt,” I say, feeling tears of frustration prickling in my eyes. “For the sake of the team and our careers.” And because it’ll completely undo me.
I turn in the direction of the hotel, my stomach churning. And I hear Matt call out to me. “You think you can just turn this feeling off?”
I don’t respond. I already know the answer.