Page 19 of Close Contact

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She turned on the chandelier that hung in my living room, giving more light to the space that I’d paid an interior decorator an ungodly amount to design.

“Starving, actually,” she replied. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

I shook my head, sighing. I couldn’t blame her, though. If I was in theheadspaceshe was, food would probably be the last thing on my mind. I moved around the kitchen, pulling ingredients from the fridge.Auréliesat at the counter, her chin resting on her palm as she watched me. She looked more relaxed now, the tension in her shoulders easing with each passing minute as she took in my flat from this angle.

I was never one for being self-conscious, yet having her here in my space messed with my head.

She turned to face me, mirth written all over her face, practically spelling out trouble. She was so goddamn intoxicating, even with her makeup smudged and her hair a wild mess.Auréliecompletely undone was a creature I would never tire of.

“How much did this place cost you?” she wondered.

I snorted. “You could look that up online.”

“I know,” she said casually. “But I’m asking you.”

I turned away from her to grab spices, a cutting board, and a knife. “About twenty million.”

“Jesus,” she muttered.

“Come on; you’re inF1now, too. We’re all millionaires.”

The giggle that erupted had me turning to gawk at her. It was light, free, and so completely unlike theAurélieI’d seen all day—but the one I saw in my car. That version of her was still here with me. The sound lingered, wrapping around me like warmth on a cold day, and I grinned back at her.

“Careful,” I teased. “If you keep laughing like that, I might start thinking I’m funny.”

She rolled her eyes, but her amusement didn’t fade. “Don’t push your luck.”

I planted my hands on the granite counters and leaned toward her. “I have you here in my kitchen. How am I not lucky?”

Her eyelashes fluttered, her cheeks turning pink. Then she bit her lip, and I lost my goddamn mind. I knew how she tasted and wanted more. And right now, her lips were pink and puffy, as if the wind had ravaged her mouth and left it raw and ready for me to claim. And that fucking look she was giving me?—

I turned back to the stove, taking a deep breath. Trying to fucking focus on anything but kissing her within an inch of ruin and carrying her into my bedroom to remind her who she belonged to.

Me.

“You know, whenLuminiscame to me with an offer, it was the best thing in the world. Knowing now what the other drivers make, it’s a joke.”

Thank God for the change of subject.

“Most rookies don’t get the best offers.”

“That wasn’t true for you.”

My eyes flicked up to hers as I set a bowl of greens on the counter. “How much do you know about me,Dubois?” I meant it jokingly, but judging by the deep red hue her neck and cheeks turned, it was clearly ill-timed. So, I added, “My circumstances were an exception. I was plucked straight out ofF3. My first time in anF1car was shortly after my seventeenth birthday, and the next year I replaced a driver who was retiring. It was back when only the brave teams were taking a chance on such young drivers.”

She ran her fingers along the counter, slow and absent-minded. I should’ve looked away, but I couldn’t. Her hands—those hands that gripped a steering wheel with ruthless precision—were delicate here. Soft. Curious. And for one dangerous second, I remembered what they’d felt like on me. Nails on my back. Clutching the bedding. Gripping my cock. Ecstasy shooting through me as she touched my piercing.

Fucking Christ.

What were we talking about?

“Well, Vanguard’s gamble paid off.”

Oh. Right.

I cleared my throat. “You should be proud of yourself. Being only the third woman in the history ofF1to compete in a race? That’s legendary.”

Her expression grew solemn, and again I was kicking myself for an insensitive comment. Apparently when it came to her, all my charm went out the window.