Page 7 of Throttle

My heart flutters as he speeds around the dirt bowl's berm, causing me to clench my thighs. When the mud kicks up, the crowd cheers.

Oh, and there's me. I leap out of my chair, sending my hot chocolate over the cup and onto my legs once again. “Go Throttle! Go get em!” I plop back on the bench, wrapping his blanket up and around me.

He clears the dirt mound with an impressive high triple jump. It's exciting, and it gives me butterflies in my stomach. He's fantastic and might even secure a spot on the podium. Normally, he comes out on top, but these guys are skilled tonight. And he hasn’t been practicing as much. Racing time is decreasing due to club responsibilities.

“She must be his girlfriend. So sad,” the woman tells her friend.

I smile and pretend to be his. Only for a little.

After completing their last lap, the riders come to a halt and gather near the judging table. I hold my breath and count the seconds as they announce the winners.

Please make podium, please make podium.

“Yes!” I squeal with a jump when his name is called for third place.

I toss my empty cup in the trash and rush to the beginning of the track, walking faster when I see him. It makes me smile when he looks for me. Being the person he relies on. I’m right here. I’ve always been right here. Standing in front of you. Unfortunately, I'll have to settle for being on the sidelines.

I gawk at him. The sight of his chiseled jaw, dusted with dark hair, is enough to drive me mad.

He finds me and his face lights up. Those stellar brown eyes of his widening with excitement. Despite being covered in dirt and muck, he's never looked sexier. And good Lord, those thick pants and boots should be illegal.

I snap out of my creepy stare and quicken my pace. Then before I knew it, I’m sprinting. We’re closing the gap between us.

“There’s my girl.” He flashes that dimple at me.

My girl. Why does it sound so flawless?

“You did it!” I shout with joy as he lifts me up and spins me. The touch of his rough palms on my bare skin sends tingles down my spine. “I’m so proud of you, Throttle.”

He smells of musty sweat, but it’s not gross to me. It's a big turn-on.

He glides me against his powerful body, and I can feel every solid muscle. He holds onto me tightly with my breasts pressed against him and his arms locked around my back. With nerves, I swallow and leave the safe embrace before things get awkward. We've had no weirdness between us, but I want to reduce the number of sexy embraces with him. For my heart’s sake.

His tall frame makes me tilt my head back to see his handsome face, slightly tearing away from his comforting, warm scent.

“You smell sweet, my Tequila Rose.” He tells me that a lot. Which is why I make zero effort on buying a different body lotion. But I believe the multiple hot cocoa spills are to blame this time.

Hearing his nickname for me is addicting and I’m selfish for loving it so much. For loving that it’s mine and mine alone.

He grabs the fallen blanket, flicking off any leaves or dirt, then covers me with it. “I made third place. I didn't figure I’d even finish on the podium. These guys were sick.” He raises the trophy—small enough to be shoved into a pocket, but I’ve never been happier for him. “Guess that practice paid off. Not to mention, I have my biggest fan and cheerleader right here. It means a lot that you came.”

Like I could miss it.

“Nah, it was all you, Throttle.” I smile up at him, my cheeks heating.

“Come on, help me with my bike?” He winks, taking my hand, and walks me alongside him to his KTM. When I climb on the back of it, I hold on for dear life, and hug my body against Throttle’s, wishing I could stay like this forever.

He takes us to his parked truck and together we secure his dirt bike onto the bed of his old ninety-eight Silverado. I’ve done this a few times. After all, I haven’t missed a race. Except for when I had the flu and asked him to record it on his go pro for me to watch later. Even sick, I was prepared to go.

He hops to the ground, reaching out his hand for me to grasp and join him. My breath catches when I land in his arms, against his chest. Jesus Tequila, control yourself. He has touched you before, so what is wrong with me today?

I see him grab the huge duffle bag and take cover by his truck, pulling out his clothes. I glue my eyes to him as he removes his gear and then his shirt. He may be slender, but his muscular build, coupled with the ink adorning his skin, is enough to make any woman swoon.

When he goes for his pants, that's my cue to turn. I fumble with the bungee on his bike, pretending to secure it more from below, as if he didn’t just do that two minutes ago.

I sneak a glance to check if he's finished, but I hesitate as I catch another glimpse of him pulling a shirt over his head. Every time he flexes, his tattoos and abs ripple.

“Tequila.”

---