Chapter 24 #3
“You’re welcome. Will there be anything else?”
“No. Not tonight.” I open my door.
“Goodnight then, Ms. Hayter.”
“Goodnight, Rigo. Thanks again.”
“My pleasure.”
Finally alone, I wash my hair and take a long, hot bath, soaking away race day fatigue. Room service delivers exactly what Cin and my nutritionist ordered—protein, complex carbs, nothing too heavy before bed.
I definitely don’t check my phone a million times. Definitely don’t wonder what Nico’s doing, or if he’s thinking about me as much as I am about him.
After eating, I brush my teeth then square up before the bathroom mirror for a proper telling-off.
“Petra Hayter, you’re not some teenage girl mooning over her first kiss.
You’re a professional driver who won the United States Grand Prix only hours ago.
And he’s just Nico, the shy Spanish kid who used to piss you off on the track every weekend.
And still does. Stop being such a plonker.
If you want to fuck him, just bloody well fuck him.
No need to second guess and analyze the shit out of everything. ”
A knock interrupts my pep talk. Plonker Petra hustles to open it.
God, I’m thirsty as hell for this man.
When I open the door, Nico stands there looking exactly like everything I’ve been trying not to think about. Handsome, sexy, and… sweet.
“Hola.” His grey eyes darken as they travel from my bare legs up to where my damp hair curls against my thin white tank top.
“Hi, yourself.” I move aside to let him in. “Successful escape from our rabid fans?”
“Eventually.” He enters, letting the door close behind him. “It’s hard to say, “No,” to people wearing rabbit ears.”
“Poor Conejo.” But I’m already stepping closer, drawn by whatever this is between us. “Suffering through your own fan club.”
“I resent how long I’ve had to wait to do this again.”
He catches my hip and the back of my neck, pulls me tight to his body and kisses me like a champion. No cameras, no audience, no reason to hold back. The kiss is all heat and want and perfect friction.
“Been thinking about this all fucking day,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Prove it.”
The growl that escapes his throat unleashes heat between my legs. Then his mouth is on my neck, hands sliding under my tank top, and thinking becomes remarkably difficult.
“Bed?” I ask, breathless.
“Absolutamente.”
We stumble toward the bed, lips still locked, hands moving from clothes to skin and back again. His shirt hits the floor, and I pause to appreciate what twice daily training creates. When I trace his abs, his muscles jump under my touch.
“Fuck, Petra.”
“That’s the idea.”
His laugh turns to a groan as I palm him through his jeans. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Only the little death.”
His mouth finds mine again, as he drags my tank top up over my head and throws it somewhere. When he cups my breasts, thumbs brushing my nipples, it’s my turn to curse.
“You like that?” His tone is making wicked promises. “Want to know what else I’ve been thinking about?”
“Show me.”
He does. With hands and mouth and precision, he shows me exactly what he’s been imagining. By the time he slides down my body, skating kisses across my stomach, over my pelvis, and down to my inner thighs, I’m already embarrassingly wet.
“God, look at you.” His breath ghosts over my skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Petra Lison Meris Hayter.”
Then his tongue finds my clit, and any coherent reply I had skids right off track.
His mouth is as talented as I’d imagined—and I’d imagined plenty last night. He works me with the same focus he brings to racing, reading my reactions, chasing my orgasm. When he slides two fingers inside me while sucking my clit, my hips buck off the bed.
“That’s it.” He gazes at me over the swell of my breasts. “I want to see you come apart.”
The orgasm builds like qualifying lap adrenaline. His fingers curl, finding a perfect spot while his tongue maintains steady pressure, and I—
“Nico!”
He works me, not letting up until I crash through that barrier and skid to a halt, trembling like a live wire and higher than a kite. When he raises his head and crawls up my body, his smirk should be illegal.
“My turn?” I manage once I can form words.
“Please.”
I flip us, straddling his hips. His erection strains against his jeans, and I waste no time getting him naked. When I wrap my hand around his cock, his breath hisses through his teeth. He’s not too big and not too small. This man was built just right for me.
“Nico Belmonte, tell me you brought a johnny.”
He drags his discarded jeans across the bed and produces a strip of condoms from a pocket.
I raise an eyebrow. “Optimistic?”
“Hopeful.” His hands settle on my hips as I tear one off, open the package, and roll the condom onto his cock. “Very, very hopeful.”
I sink down onto him slowly, savoring the stretch, the fullness of having him inside me. His fingers tighten on my hips, muscles straining with the effort to stay still.
“Joder,” he breathes. “Te sientes perfecta para mí.”
“You too.” I roll my hips and love seeing his head arch back, his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
I start moving, finding a rhythm that has us both breathing harder. His grip on my hips guides me, but he lets me set the pace and gives over control. I fucking love taking the wheel.
"Faster?" he asks, voice rough.
"Not yet." I lean forward, bracing my hands on his chest, changing the angle. The shift has him hitting a spot that makes my breath catch.
"Mierda, Petra." His thumbs dig into my hip bones. "You're going to kill me."
"Thought you were a champion." I pick up speed, chasing the friction. "Can't you handle the pressure?”
That gets me exactly what I want—his hips surge up to meet mine, deeper, harder. We find our rhythm like we've been doing this for years instead of minutes. Every thrust, every angle is like discovering the ideal racing line.
His hands slide up my ribcage, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. "So fucking beautiful like this."
I sit up straighter, arching into his touch, and the movement drives him deeper. We both groan.
"Touch yourself," he commands, and fuck if that doesn't send another wave of heat through me. But I drop my chin and smirk at him through my curtain of damp hair. “You’re not in charge here, Bunny Boy.”
I'm not ready to finish yet. Instead, I slow down, moving my hips in figure-eights that have his eyes rolling back.
"Petra—" It's half warning, half plea.
"What? Can't handle a little strategy?"
He sits up and wraps his arms around me, and the shift in angle steals my breath. Now we're chest to chest, his mouth finding my neck, hands gripping my arse. His teeth graze my jaw. “I like chasing when you’re in pole position.”
I laugh. “Fuck. Yes."
He’s controlling the rhythm now, moving me on his cock, and the combination of sensations—him deep inside me, his mouth on my neck, the way he's gripping my arse—has me speeding up.
"I'm going to make you come again." Nico sounds so rough and that turns me on even more. His teeth scrape against my pulse point. "I want to feel it." His grip tightens, angling my hips just right, and the pressure builds with every thrust.
Nico shifts forward and suddenly I’m on my back and he’s leveraging his body over me, thrusting so deeply I’m seeing stars and moons and other celestial shite. He plants one hand, slips the other between us, and strokes my clit.
That's all it takes. I shatter around him, arching against his fingers and moaning.
He follows me over the cliff, cursing in Spanish as his hips snap forward one last time.
For a long moment, we just breathe together. Then he kisses my eyelids and mouth, so gentle, so tender. “Eso fue perfecto, Petra.”
I smile against his lips. “It really was.”
Nico envelopes me in his arms, turns us onto our sides, and runs his fingers through my hair. His touch feels amazing.
But I have questions. I need to understand why this is happening, and I want a strategy.
“Nico, what are we doing?”
He’s quiet for a moment and I know he’s putting his thoughts in order. “Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”
I look into his eyes, needing to read him.
What I see is absolute sincerity. Which doesn’t really surprise me.
Nico’s always been the driver who focused one hundred percent on doing the best job he could.
He wasn’t a partier. He didn’t date a different woman every month.
He just drove better than everyone else in the world.
He strokes his fingers down my temple and sweeps my hair back behind my ear, and the way he looks at me threatens to turn my heart inside out and upside down.
Bloody. Hell.