Page 82 of Start Your Engines

He grumbles. His eyes drift upwards. “You took painkillers at lunch. Is that because of how hard I rocked your world or because of where we are?” I ignore that one, but it doesn’t deter him, although his voice drops in panic. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? Your arse is so fucking spankable, but if I went too far, you’d tell me, right?”

I brush kisses to his knuckles and drop my voice in case someone comes to the door. “Your spanks nearly made me come, especially when you did it again this morning. You have nothing to apologise for. And I’d tell you if you went too far.”

“Good. So where are we?”

The door opens and reveals a woman in a vest and baggy jeans. A paisley square of cotton is rolled up in her hair, and she has a big grin. “Senna, come in. The studio is next door, and I’mfinishing an appointment with another client. You’re my last one for the day.”

“Thank you for fitting me in, Polly.”

Connor’s brows dance in confusion.

“When my wife told me your reason for coming, I had to fit you in. Take a seat in my sitting room.” Polly points to the room at the side. “There’s lots for you to look through in there. I’ll get you when I’m free. Kel is heading out soon for the evening rush, but she’ll get you a drink before she goes.”

Kel, the woman who runs the bistro where Connor and I were the night before, bustles in and takes our coffee orders. Connor taps his foot repeatedly as she hands us our drinks and rushes out the door with a wave.

An old indie song plays from a smart speaker. I glance at Connor, who sips his coffee in silence. It must be scalding. I blow on mine. He’s glaring at his mug and has a wrinkly forehead. I could put him out of his misery, but instead, I wait for him to burst.

He crosses his arms and glares at me. “I can’t take it. Where are we, and what is going on? Why is the woman from the bistro making us coffee in her house, and who is her wife?”

He’s like a little boy who’s been told he has to believe in Father Christmas if he wants presents. I hide my smirk behind my mug. I love that he brings out this cheeky side of me. Everywhere else, I’m all business, but with him, I get to be free.

“When you were getting the car last night, I asked the lady that runs the bistro if she knew of any tattoo artists, and she told me about her wife Polly.”

“You’re getting a tattoo? Since when?”

I put our cups down and take his hands between mine. “Last night, you said it hurts you when I rub my scar.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t listen to me. I’m a selfish dick. It’s your scar and my issue.”

“I know that.” With one hand, I brush his cheekbones with my fingertips. “But what you said made me realise I was ashamed of this mark, this branding. It proved I couldn’t race with the men and was a failure.”

He gasps. “But you aren’t a failure.”

I smooth the lines on his forehead away, but he takes my hand and kisses my scar.

“I’m starting to believe that now. But I made this scar a reason to feel humiliated.”

“I’m so sorry. To me, you’re strong. You fought past the accident and drove again. Even when I told myself I shouldn’t care about you, I was in awe of you. People have been scared to drive again, but not you. And some drivers have waxed lyrical about their accidents and never done anything else but moan. But you trained and fought to be a leader in a world that put barriers in your way. You inspire me and many others, including Tawny and everyone growing up who wants to be part of this world professionally. You’re incredible.”

My cheeks flush, and as much as I’m tempted to rub the scar shyly, I don’t. Instead, I press my lips hard against Connor’s. His eyelashes tickle my face, and his finger traces a heart around my scar.

“You say the best things,” I whisper against his lips.

He shrugs, but his smile is more extensive than his dick, and that’s saying something.

“I want to make this scar a feature. I crashed and came back from it. I was a successful racing driver, and I want to celebrate that. And if it makes you hurt less, that’s good, too.”

I worry my lip as I wait for something, anything.

“Connor?”

“Don’t do this for me. I don’t deserve it.” He stumbles over the words.

“I’m doing this for both of us. I’m doing this for all those times I failed but didn’t give up.”

“You’re incredible,” he repeats as his lips brush my scar. I get a pull in my stomach that reminds me this thing between us could be forever, but we’ve only just reconnected. I can’t risk everything yet. “What tattoo are you getting? What about your old racing car or a map of your favourite track?”

“I’m going to get the time of my fastest lap around Silverstone.”

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