Page 9 of Speed

“My bad.”

I’d only ever been with women. And motorsport wasn't an environment that welcomed anything outside of straight white males. But this man? He tempted me in a way that sent my head spinning. I glanced down at the champagne glass in my hand—it was extra to the whiskey I’d already drunk, which blurred the edges and made all the wildest things possible.

And right now, I was buzzing with something far more potent than alcohol.

Where had the lust come from?

Memories crept in, unbidden, of other times when I’d watched men from the corner of my eye and wondered if one of them could be strong enough to quiet the chaos in my head. To stop me from thinking. To take over and let me breathe, just for a moment.

Not that Noah was strong enough or big enough for that. He wasn’t my type. He wasn’t…

Why the hell was I even thinking this?

“Are you okay?” Noah asked, his voice uncertain.

Something in me snapped. I’d been asked that question too many damn times lately—by doctors, by Logan, by everyone who thought they had the right to poke at my pain.

“Yes, I’m fucking okay!” I barked, my voice sharper than I intended.

Noah flinched, his eyes widening and a pang of guilt twisted in my chest.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing away, but his apology only grated on my nerves.

I didn’t want his sorry. I didn’t want anyone’s pity or cautious words. What I wanted was him—his quiet confidence and the warmth he radiated that made me feel I wasn’t sinking for the first time in forever.

My eyes drifted to his lips again, slightly parted, and a bolt of desire shot through me. I shifted in the chair, widening my legs as I leaned back, letting the tension roll off me as best I could.I’m crazy. Is this the aneurysm making me want things I’ve never let myself have here?

“Come here,” I said, my voice low, the words more a command than a request.

Noah blinked at me, startled, his breath catching in his throat. And for the first time all night, I felt alive.

Make me feel alive.

FOUR

Noah

Okay,so I was officially in the Land of Mixed Messages.

Brody Vance—the king of Formula One sexiness and JemimafreakingWren’s ex—was five feet from me, sending off all kinds of mixed vibes. I wasn’t sure what I was picking up on my gaydar. On the one hand, he was curt as fuck about my being bi, somewhat accepting but super reserved. On the other, his pretty gray eyes kept going to my mouth, which was so not what a straight guy did.

“Noah,” he called my name with a rough purr that made my dick twitch. “Are you involved with someone?”

“Hockey,” I stammered, my gaze locked with his. He had a powerful aura that tempted me to me want to forget that five hundred people—two of whom were my fathers—were on the other side of that door. One corner of his mouth drew up. “I mean…”

“No, I know what you mean.” He held up a hand and twisted it to show a tattoo of a stylized bird on his wrist. I didn’t recognize it, but I guessed it was connected to his racing. “Our sports are our lovers, right? We dedicate our lives to them, and then, out of the blue, they dump us as if we don’t matter.”

Oh-kay. So, the guy had some baggage with an ex by the sounds. Or was he talking about his sudden hiatus from racing?

“Look, I should maybe just finish up here with my sugar and return to the fundraiser,” I said, even as I moved closer to him. He was so fucking cocky, sitting in that armchair like Pacino inScarface, oozing confidence and masculinity.

“Why don’t you tend to your medical needs first? Then, we can leave. Do you have a hotel room nearby?”

“Y-yes,” I stammered, my grip on my supplies tightening as he nodded, just once, then rose from his seat. I held my ground as he neared, the heady smell of his musky aftershave scrambling my already frazzled brain cells. He got close. His chest and mine were a breath apart, and then, he slid the fingers of his left hand into my hair.

“We should go.” His grip tightened a fraction. My cock swelled despite the sounds of laughter and music ten feet away. I wet my lips. His pupils swallowed all that stormy gray with black.

It had been a long time since I’d been with anyone. Who had time? I was working hard to make sure I made the team. Training camp kicked off the next day. I’d shown myself as an asset in development camp and rookie competitions. I’d won a high percentage of my faceoffs at the rookie tournament a few weeks ago—one of my best skills—and scored four goals. That performance had gotten me invited to thebigtraining camp. I was not going to blow it. I should be heading home to sleep so that I was in good shape for day one of the most important three weeks of my career. Yet, I was already trying to devise an excuse for the parental units to cut out early.

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