Page 52 of Start Your Engines

Fuck it.

My lips crash against hers. I grip her and pull her around a quiet corner where no one will catch us. She whimpers into my mouth. I suck on her lower lip, and she puts her arms around my neck, pulling me close.

She tastes of berries and alcohol. It’s like the sweetness and the sin all at once, and I turn her so her back is pressed against the wall. I pull up her leg, and she tucks it against me so I can grind against her. She makes the sexiest gasps as my hand slides up her thigh and under her hem. My dick is so hard against her. Everything is out of control. I need this. It’s like the last ten years of wanting her are exploding into this moment.

A ringtone stops me dead. It’s “Kids” by MGMT. Niki is calling.

I pull away.

Her face falls.

“It’s Niki?—”

She steps back and out of my reach. “You’d best get it,” she says without bitterness. Her eyes soften. “My brother is important. It’s okay. Let’s pretend this never happened. It was an alcohol-fuelled mistake, and we’re boss and driver. Can you imagine what someone like Antoine would say if he saw us?” She gives a fake laugh that sets my teeth on edge.

“But—”

“Leave it, Connor. It’s okay. Our lives are stressful enough.” She forces a smile, and she strokes her scar. I don’t believe she does it to hurt me and remind me of the accident, but every time I witness her fingers against that silver line, it’s like someone has wrapped an elastic band around my gut. “Well done for the race. Honestly. You were incredible.” She winces and then fakes thatsmile again. “Catch you at the factory or something. The last race of the season is in a fortnight, and then we have a lovely month with time off. Take care, yeah?”

I swear she takes a slow breath as she turns.

As she walks out of my eyeline, I answer the phone to Niki, who praises my podium place. For Niki, I manage a cheery response even as my hopes die.

CHAPTER 24

Senna

I stretchmy neck to one side and down a couple of paracetamol, gulping the water like I’ve returned from the desert. I don’t know if I have a hangover or if kissing Connor last night means my body is punishing me for the years spent not kissing him and having mediocre moments with incomparable men.

Connor fucking Dane can kiss.

I run my thumb across my lower lip.

“Senna?” Ric, the sports psychologist Connor has been speaking to since our chat on the garage floor, says, dragging my focus back. “I must tell you something. As Connor’s boss, you need to know.”

A timely reminder that Connor is a driver on my team and, therefore, off-limits, even though if last night’s kiss is anything to go by, a night with him would be everything I’ve fantasised.

I shake my head, deleting the things I spent the last night imagining when I returned to my hotel room.

“Before you tell me anything, has Connor consented for you to share this?” I ask.

“Yes, we met at lunchtime, and he said it was helpful for you to know.”

I take a deep breath. “Okay, Ric. What is it?”

“Connor doesn’t enjoy driving. I know we’ve only had a few sessions, but even with his third place this weekend, his love for it has gone,” Ric explains.

I hold in my gasp. His celebration on the podium and the interviews I’ve watched while hiding in my office convinced me otherwise.

“Why is he still driving? Because of the contract?”

“He’s asked that his reasons remain confidential.”

I write reasons to stop overthinking them, but one makes me pause. He said when we chatted in the garage that he wanted me to be a success. Is he still racing because of me?

A shadow passes my office. Nearly all the staff have today off, which suits me fine, as I don’t want to see anyone and fake that I’m doing okay.

“What do I do, Ric?”

---