After about ten minutes, he asks, “Can you grab me a three-sixteenths wrench over in the drawer?” He nods toward the massive tool chest containing every possible hand tool a man could ever want.
I pull the second drawer open and find the one he’s looking for. When I get back to the truck and he’s still focused on his task in front of him, I step up on the crate and peer inside. His hands are covered in grease as he juggles the bolts. Without even thinking, I reach inside, positioning the wrench to the bolt and turn. I might be a photographer, but I grew up around cars and can hold my own around them.
“I confirmed the rental of a motorhome for the next few races,” he says, concentrating on his task.
“Fontana?”
“And Portland. Long Beach is a few weeks out yet.”
I tighten a bolt and move on to the next. “Makes sense, with Oliver.”
Even though I’m not looking at him, I see him nod his head. “Corporate helped me secure a driver today. We leave for Fontana Friday morning at nine. I have a meeting with my sponsor late morning and a luncheon something or other with all their suits.”
“Oliver and I will be ready,” I confirm.
“I know you will.”
When everything is tightened and in place, Mack turns to me. I should definitely move, considering we’re hip to hip and leaning over the grill of an old Chevy, but I don’t. I can’t. I’m lost in those brown eyes, stuck in their force field by some unknown power.
“Thanks for your help,” he finally says, his voice a touch breathy and labored. Considering he didn’t do anything too strenuous, I’m assuming his reaction is more about our proximity on this crate.
Like mine.
“You’re welcome.”
We stand like that for a few long seconds before he reaches for my face. I suck in a deep breath, my eyes wide as I prepare for his touch, for his hand to cup my cheek like this past weekend. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, I feel his fingers glide along my forehead, leaving a gross trail of slimy grease in their wake. Mack smirks. “Oops.”
I huff out a laugh and give him my best stink-eye. “Right,” I chastise. “Total accident.”
His reply is another hearty laugh. “Totally.”
Mack hops down, throws his tools on the cart, and extends a hand in my direction. It’s dirty, but for some reason, I don’t care. I place mine in his, our palms pressing firmly against each other, and step down.
“Come on, greasy girl. It’s getting late. Let’s go inside.”
I have to force those images of us taking the steps up his back deck together out of my mind. No way should I picture our dirty bodies naked and in the shower together. And I definitely shouldn’t imagine climbing into his massive bed, ready to explore his body with my tongue.
Yet, that’s what I do.
Every dirty fantasy I can conjure up parades through my mind in bright Technicolor. They accompany me to my own room, as I shower alone and slide into the guest bed, clothed and with a very real ache between my legs. It’s those images that help push me over the edge of bliss as my own hands take care of my orgasm, all while pretending they’re his hands.
His mouth.
His body taking me all the way to release.
Chapter Ten
Mack
“Ten to go, Cruz. You’re in second, four-tenths of a second behind the leader,” Coop says in my ear.
“You’re about to hit lap traffic. Daniels is getting caught up. You’ll be on his bumper anytime,” Fish says from his perch up high.
I have Daniels in my sights and am all over his tail in a matter of seconds, looking for that window of opportunity. “Come on,” I mutter. “Give me a hole.”
We head into turn three, and I dig in, sticking to my line and finding grip. My front wheels are even with his rear ones, and the moment we clear the turn, I press the accelerator. Daniels anticipates my move, blocking my advancement like the reigning champion he is. It forces me to contemplate my next move. I could come up with another plan to grab that top spot, or I can stick to my guns and chip away at his lead, praying somewhere in the next few laps, he slips up and the window of opportunity opens just a sliver.
That’s when I’ll kick the window the rest of the way open and take what I want.
“More lap traffic ahead. Three cars in a battle. Be ready for—and there they go, wreck in turn four,” Fish instructs. “One car high along the wall, but two dropping. Maintain middle of the track position.”
I pass the wreckage a few moments later, grateful to not pick up any debris. We’ve slowed down and the pace car now leads the pack. When we get back to green, there should still be a few laps remaining for me to battle Daniels for his spot.
“All right, Cruz, should go green with three laps to go. You’re good on fuel and tires. I don’t see anyone in the top ten pitting. Stay out and give Daniels hell. Hall will line up behind you,” Coop says.
The track is cleared and debris cleaned. With four laps left, we’re lining back up to race. I take my position to the right of Daniels and start warming up my tires. I’ve got a damn good car today, my team working their asses off to make it better with each stop. Now, it’s up to me to get it across the finish line first.
I think back to past conversations with Jim and can practically hear him chirping in my ear, telling me to relax. To breathe. To listen to the car and let her do the talking. A smile
