Crashed

As his eyes flicker back and forth between my eyes and my fingers, I spread my legs further apart wanting to make sure he can see everything I’m doing. My fingers slip just beneath the waistband of my panties and then stop, my own body aching for my touch as much as I can see he is by the look in his eyes and his own fingers rubbing together, itching to touch me himself. But he’s still in control. Still so calm.

Time to test that restraint.

“I thought racing wasn’t a team sport,” I say from beneath my lashes. “You know, more of an every man for himself kind of thing.” I make sure he’s watching, make sure he sees my fingers slide a little farther south. And I know he does because his Adam’s apple bobs as he works a swallow down his throat.

“Every man, yes,” he finally says, his voice strained. “Racing can be a dangerous sport too, you know?”

“Oh really?” I respond.

I take it upon myself to give into the sweet torture of parting myself and rubbing the evidence of my arousal around so I can apply the much needed friction to my clit. And as good as it feels—the pressure, the friction, his hardened dick rubbing against me—nothing turns me on more than the look on Colton’s face. Undeniable arousal and complete concentration as he watches movements he can’t see but can only guess at through the silky red fabric.

I want more from him. I want that stoic restraint snapped, and so I give into the feeling, into the eroticism of the moment—of him watching me while I pleasure myself—and I do the one thing I know will help push him over the edge, pull that hair-string trigger I know he has so tightly wound. I lift my head back, close my eyes, and let “Oh, God!” slip from my lips.

“Sweet Jesus!” he swears, restraint snapped right along with the strings of fabric holding my panties together.

I keep my head back knowing he’s watching me move my fingers—absorb the pleasure—because there is something unexpectedly liberating about him stripping my clothes so he can see. I am unbound, unashamed, and utterly his for the taking, both physically and mentally.

I feel my pulse quicken. Warmth spreads through me like a tidal wave of sensation that I willingly want to be drowned in. Colton groans out in front of me and I come back into the present, lift my head up, and open my eyes to find his trained on the delta between my thighs. I hiss a moan as I bring my hand out for him to see the evidence of my arousal glistening on my fingers. I struggle to control the burning fire spreading through me, igniting places I didn’t even know exist and try to find my voice.

“Well, Ace, danger can be overrated. It seems I know how to handle a slick track perfectly well,” I purr, unable to fight the smirk that plays as his fingers dig deeper into the flesh at my hips. I keep my eyes locked and taunting on his as I bring my fingers up to my lips and suck slowly before withdrawing them.

The muscle in his jaw tics. His dick pulses beneath me in reaction. His breath rasps out. “Slippery and wet, huh? Danger has never been more fucking tempting,” he drawls before his tongue darts out and wets his lips as he tracks my hands sliding back down my torso, over my breasts, down my stomach, and back down to between my thighs. This time though, I spread my knees wider as I use one hand to part my cleft so he can see my other hand slide down between the swollen, pink flesh. I can see the struggle flicker across the magnificent lines of his face, watch the desire swamp him, and the knowing smile that curls up his lips somehow fits him with absolute perfection.

My handsome, arrogant rogue.

A little cocky.

A lot imperfect.

And completely mine.

“You know,” he rasps, trailing a fingertip up one thigh, purposely missing my core clenching in anticipation before continuing down the other leg. “Sometimes in a race, in order to reach the finish line, rookies like you have to tag team to get the result you want.”

I don’t fight the smile that comes or hide the shudder of breath as his fingers leave my skin. I lean forward placing my hands on his chest and look straight into his eyes. “Sorry, but this engine seems to be doing just fine running solo,” I say, scraping my fingernails in lines down his chest as I sit back up. His muscles convulse beneath my fingers proving that even though the arrogant curl to his lips remains, his body still wants and needs what I have to offer. I slip my fingers between my thighs again and deliver the line I’m hoping will push him over the edge. “I know exactly what it’s going to take to get me to the finish line.”

“Oh, so you like to race dirty, huh? Break all the rules?” he taunts, tossing the ball right back into my court.

“Oh, I most definitely can race dirty,” I tease with a raise of my eyebrows before I reach a hand out, his eyes narrowing as I bring a finger, coated with my moisture, to his lips. His hand flashes up immediately and grabs my wrist, guiding my fingers into his mouth, the low hum in the back of his throat reverberating over me, through me, into me. And my own restraint is tested as his tongue swirls over them, my hips grinding down and rocking over him in automatic response. Holy shit that feels like Heaven. My nerves reach the fever pitch of ache as I rock back again, his hard to my soft, and all I can think about is the need coursing through me. The moisture pooling between my legs. The thought of his fingers on me, in me, driving me.

Fuck, I need him now. Desperately. So I do the only thing I can without downright begging. I deliver the last coherent dare I have left because all of my thoughts are jumbling in my head with this onslaught of sensation. I lean forward, the feather of my lips up his whiskered jaw line, and inhale his scent before I whisper, “Being a seasoned pro such as yourself, you just might have to show this rookie exactly why they say rubbing’s racing.”