Chapter 11
Francesca
We pull up in front of my flat and I exhale quietly, the familiar sight grounding me a little. It’s only been mine for a few weeks, but it’s my home now. I’m grateful the Titans’ organization had someone help me with relocating because things moved so quickly after they made their offer.
The duality of Woking is apparent with its glass towers at its center, but just a few streets over, the town shifts into rows of Victorian-era buildings tucked between corner shops and narrow lanes.
My flat is part of one of those, a converted townhouse wedged off the High Street.
Redbrick with white-trimmed windows and a private side gate that leads to a shared terrace garden.
Three separate flats make up the structure, each with its own door, and mine is the one at the far end—dark blue with a brass number plate and a crooked hanging lantern that wouldn’t be quite so charming if it were straight.
Because I’m out of sorts after that blistering kiss, I’m comforted by the soft glow spilling from behind the curtains.
It’s my home for now. While I certainly hope for a long relationship with Titans Racing, I have exactly one race under my belt and my future is unknown.
I could as easily be out of a job as I could be building a solid career if I don’t perform as expected. The pressure is suffocating at times.
Ronan hasn’t said much since we left his mother’s estate, but there is a palpable tension in the space between us. He grips the wheel with white knuckles, and I’m trying not to look at his mouth again.
He pulls to a stop at the curb and shifts into park. I unclip my seat belt and glance over at him. His hands are still on the wheel, his profile unreadable in the dimming light.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say quietly.
He nods once, eyes straight ahead.
I open the door, step one boot onto the wet curb, then hesitate. “For someone so convinced this is a bad idea,” I say, turning halfway in my seat, “you sure kiss like a man who hasn’t made up his mind.”
A tiny muscle jumps in his jawline, and I’m pleased with myself for stirring a reaction. I don’t wait for a response because honestly, if that didn’t provoke him to kiss me again, nothing will. I’ll accept the defeat for tonight, but I hardly think this is over.
I step out, shut the door, and walk to my flat. I don’t look back, but sense his stare as I walk away. He knows it’s not over too.
My apartment is still and quiet, the warmth kicking in through the old radiators just enough to fight the chill. I peel off my boots and jacket, leaving them near the door, then make my way into the kitchen.
The flat still doesn’t feel entirely mine and if I have time this week, I’ll go shopping for plants and maybe a few knickknacks to personalize it. It’s nice though. Posher than anything I’ve lived in since starting my racing career, but then again, I’m making a lot more money than I ever did.
It’s true that my family is quite wealthy. Most people who race come from monied backgrounds because it’s an expensive sport. But once I went professional, my parents didn’t pay for anything. I earned my own money and handled everything myself.
My favorite things about this flat are the tall windows—the natural light in the morning is beautiful.
I love that the building is old and has such a rich history.
The hardwood floors creak just enough to know they hold stories.
I like the bookshelves built into the far wall waiting for me to unpack my boxes of treasured novels still in temporary storage.
I drop my bag onto the arm of the couch and walk to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle out of habit more than anything. The cupboards are stocked with the essentials, and I start a mental list of other items I need to grab at the grocery store.
Of course, thinking of that makes me think of Ronan and our mad dash through the aisles to get the last bottle of Drivex. My lips curve remembering the feral competition in his eyes that held a tinge of passion when our fingers first touched.
Knock. Knock.
I freeze, heart leaping into my throat. I don’t know anyone here and haven’t met any neighbors. I most definitely don’t feel like introductions or entertaining if it’s a welcoming party. I move to the door cautiously, peering through the peephole.
I blink twice to make sure I’m not seeing a mirage.
Ronan.
Before I can fully register who is on my porch or even consider the implications, I unlock the door and pull it open. We stare at each other, still as statues.
He doesn’t say a word. I don’t know what to say.
But words don’t matter because Ronan steps inside, grabs my face with both hands, and slams his mouth onto mine.
He doesn’t give me time to think and maybe that’s part of his plan.
One second, I’m opening the door—heart pounding, still reeling from the tension he left behind—and the next, his hands are in my hair, his mouth in complete control of mine, and my back is hitting the wall inside my flat.
It’s not sweet. It’s not tentative.
It’s pure, driven need.
I gasp into his mouth, caught between the chilled air breezing through the open door and the heat of his body pressed against mine. My fingers fist in the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer, perhaps afraid he’ll let common sense prevail again.
I kiss him with all I have… like I want to reap something from him.
Ronan groans, deep in his throat, and lifts me like I weigh nothing. He kicks the door shut and I wrap my legs around his waist, fueled by need and instinct. I’m carried through my flat, his mouth still on mine, hands gripping my thighs so hard I’ll probably have marks tomorrow. I’m okay with that.
He drops me onto my bed, and I barely register the room tilting before his mouth is on my neck, my shoulder, my collarbone.
He yanks my sweater over my head and tosses it to the floor without looking.
His hands are already under my tank, skimming up my ribs, brushing under my bra. I arch into the touch, greedy for more.
“Why do you have to wear so many layers?” he mutters.
“You’ve got to work for it,” I gasp as a thumb grazes my nipple. “The sweeter the reward.”
He lifts his head, eyes locked on mine. I stare back with challenge as he studies me. His expression is inscrutable, but I’m worried there’s hesitation on his part. I need to ensure he doesn’t get cold feet.
“Do that thing to my nipple again,” I demand, and just like that, the heat in his eyes goes nuclear.
“Maybe later,” he taunts as his mouth reclaims mine. He unhooks my bra with one hand and slides it off with a deliberate slowness that sends heat flooding through me. I tug at his shirt, impatient, but he bats my hands away and strips it off himself.
Jesus.
I’ve seen Ronan dressed in high fashion and I’ve seen him in fireproof layers, soaked in sweat. But half-naked Ronan, all lean strength and tension, muscles carved to perfection—he’s a work of art.
I run my hands down his chest, grazing every ridge of him. I brush past his hipbone, thrilling at his stutter of breath.
“You’re staring,” he says, voice low.
“Can you blame me?”
He smirks, but it fades when I start working on his belt. My fingers tremble, not from nerves but because I want him too badly.
He curses under his breath and brushes my hands aside. “Let me.”
He undoes his jeans and then turns his attention to me—his hands sliding down my hips to the waistband of my pants. He doesn’t ask permission because he doesn’t need to. I lift my hips, and he pulls them down in one smooth motion, taking my underwear along the way.
Cool air brushes over my thighs, sweet relief on my heated skin.
Ronan adjusts his position, kneels between my legs, and looks at me like he’s going to eat me alive. Then he drops down and buries his face between my thighs. My head snaps back with a cry I don’t have the inclination to muffle.
His mouth is hot, his tongue devastating, and the sound he makes as he licks into me sends a violent shiver up my spine.
“Ronan… fuck…!” I choke out, hips lifting off the mattress seeking more friction, but his hands pin me down.
He doesn’t say anything. Just groans again and presses deeper, licking and sucking like he’s starving and I’m his first taste of anything real in years.
I grab fistfuls of the sheets, of his hair, of anything I can reach, trying to ground myself, but it’s a fight I’ll lose.
When he slides a finger inside me, I arch like I’ve been shocked and my hips rock without my permission. Ronan seems to like my reaction because a deep chuckle rumbles against my sensitive skin.
He keeps pace, just like any good formula driver would, adding another finger, curling right as he licks over my clit again and again. My body is winding so tight I don’t know how much longer I can hold.
“Please, Ronan,” I pant, “don’t stop—”
He doesn’t.
And I break.
Hard.
My orgasm crashes through me like a storm-frothed wave, stealing my breath, my thoughts, my everything. My hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in, and I cry out again, shameless and loud and completely undone.
And he holds me there, tongue still moving gently, fingers still inside me, until I’ve got nothing left to give.
I’m still trembling when he finally eases back, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to my inner thigh.
My breath is jagged, my legs weak, and my heart thuds against my ribs like it’s trying to outrun whatever the hell just happened.
Ronan rises slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the look in his eyes…
God.
It’s hunger and reverence and a need even darker. My heart twists because behind all that lies something more fragile.
“Come here,” I whisper, reaching for him.
I’m not sure if he needs to have control, but my skin prickles with delicious apprehension as he shakes his head to deny my request. Instead, he watches me through hooded eyelids and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet.
Out comes a condom and I’m breathless as I watch him roll it onto his length.
Ronan doesn’t bother taking off his pants. He pushes them down farther and covers me. One hand planted on the mattress near my head, the other gripping my thigh roughly.
I like that he’s not gentle and that he’s authentically Ronan. Our mouths meet again, slower this time, but no less urgent. I taste myself on him, and it only turns me on more.
I snake my hand between us, wrap my fingers around his shaft. It’s thick and hard and impossibly huge. “I want you,” I murmur against his lips while giving him a rough squeeze. “Now.”
The sound he makes is low and ragged, almost pained. He presses himself against me just right. It’s perfect. The heat. The promise of fulfillment.
Ronan’s forehead touches mine. “This changes things,” he says hoarsely.
“I hope so,” I breathe, and guide him in with a slow roll of my hips. The stretch makes me gasp. It’s been a while. And he’s… a lot. But I don’t want to stop. I want every inch of him.
My hands find his back, fingers flexing against muscle as he bottoms out with a shudder and a curse.
“Fuck,” he grits. “You feel bloody amazing.”
I arch up into him. “Then don’t just sit there.”
That earns me a laugh, strained and disbelieving. “Are all Italians so bossy?”
“Always,” I whisper.
And then he moves.
It starts slow, long strokes, deep and controlled, like he’s trying to memorize everything about this. I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging in, chasing the friction.
“More,” I demand.
Ronan doesn’t leave me hanging, his thrusts hitting harder now. He drives his hips into mine with the kind of urgency that only race car drivers recognize. I meet him thrust for thrust, matching his rhythm. His eyes lock onto mine as our bodies slam together.
His hand finds my thigh, lifting one leg higher to open me even more, and that angle…
I cry out, my whole body tightening again as my second orgasm sweeps through me, bright and blinding. My nails score down his back as I gasp out his name, and he thrusts once, twice more before he groans deeply and spills inside me.
“Fuck,” he snarls, rotating his hips to draw out the pleasure. My own body ripples with aftershocks, leaving me breathless and sated.
Ronan goes still, buried deep, and presses his forehead to mine. Our breathing is erratic but starts to calm after a few moments.
I remain quiet, not just because I’m shattered in a way that’s never happened to me before, but because I’m at a loss for what to say. The only thing I know with any certainty is that was the best sex I’ve ever had and I’m already craving it again.
Ronan sighs and rolls off me, right off the bed. I push up, my elbows digging into the mattress, thrusting my breasts up. It has the intended effect as Ronan’s eyes come to my chest.
“Heading home?” I ask, trying to sound casual. Because this is not a relationship.
Ronan blinks at me in surprise. “No… getting rid of the condom. Don’t get too comfortable.”
That means he’s staying. He wants to stay, which implies maybe this means something.
He knocks that starry feeling right out of me though as his gaze flattens. “This is just sex, you know that, right?”
I don’t let him see the pang of hurt that causes, even though I know in my heart, that’s all it would be with a man like Ronan Barnes.
I don the confident armor I’m known for on the track.
“Of course it’s just sex,” I purr as I drag my hand down my stomach.
His eyes darken to denim and follow the path.
“But it’s sex more than one time tonight. ”
Ronan frowns slightly but then lifts his chin as if to acknowledge this truth. He turns his back on me and heads into the bath, closing the door behind him.
I sink down in the pillows and exhale. “What are you getting yourself into, Francesca?”