One Last Hold, page 13
“Drivers don’t just jump in the car and drive. There’s so much more to it than that. Our days are filled with activity. We must be resourceful and multi-talented to deal with the day-to-day happenings.”
“Do you have a game plan before the big day?”
“Impossible. Nothing is planned. You have to focus on the here and now and expect the unexpected.” Wesley’s lips curled as he spoke. His eyes beamed as he rested his palms on the table, face up. Enthusiasm poured from him, and Caitlyn tried to portray it on the page so readers would understand how much Wesley loved to race.
She tried to maintain the steadiness of her hands as she wrote in her notebook. The steadiness of her heart was another story. She’d lost that a long time ago.
“What about wrecks?”
“What about them?”
“Well, I mean, I’ve always thought racing was so dangerous.”
“No more dangerous than anything else.”
“Going two hundred miles per hour isn’t more dangerous than anything else?” She hadn’t meant to bring this up, it was an interview after all, but the chance of an accident had always been her biggest fear for him.
“The cars are built for safety.” He folded his palms in, big sign that she was overstepping her bounds.
She bit back her retort, and kept going. This wasn’t about her. It wasn’t about her concerns for his safety.
And it damn sure wasn’t about her telling him that she’d love to see where their relationship could go, if they’d just try.
“Why do you race?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Why does anyone do it? Adrenaline, competition, thrills. Fans, winning, victory lane. There’s no way to describe how and why you do something you love.”
And there’s no explaining why you pursue someone you love who just didn’t love you back, but she wasn’t going to say that.
She took a deep breath. Usually her interviews became more personal. She wasn’t sure how personal to get with him. She knew a lot about him—at least she used to—but she was scared of asking him the wrong thing. She didn’t want to set him off.
“What’s your favorite color?” Caitlyn held a pen in her hand, poised to write, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. Her focus, though, was Wesley’s deep green eyes. Eyes able to pierce her and reach a part of her no one had ever been able to touch before. Something about the way he looked at her, like he saw only her, deep down, clear to her soul.
A hint of danger lurked in his eyes, a predator-like stance that made her sense he was ready to devour her, sexually and otherwise. A vulnerability that made Caitlyn yearn to take him in her arms, to be as close to him as possible. His gaze held no arrogance, no indifference, and no deceit.
Her throat felt parched. His eyes devoured every morsel of her power and well-being.
She couldn’t think of a decent thing to say. Thank God it was his turn to talk.
“My favorite color,” he said as he leaned across the table, closer to Caitlyn, “is the capricious color of your eyes.”
His lips were only inches from hers so that his breath licked against her skin. His eyes possessed her.
She clutched her pen in midair, frozen in space for a mere second. He touched her hand.
The pen fell.
“Blueberry,” he said as he trailed a light kiss across her knuckle, his eyes still magnetizing hers. Her heart stopped in her throat. “Dark and wounded. Cornflower blue, tantalizing with banter and witticism.” He kissed the tip of her pinkie and went on to taste each finger, slowly taking his time with each one. “Sea blue, bright and sparkling like the waves catching a sunset, when you’re happy.”
Caitlyn, entranced with his words, was amazed he even noticed her eyes and more amazed he practically recited poetry. Where had he come up with this?
“Storm clouds,” he continued as he stroked the inside of her palm. “Brewing with a passion and desire you’re too afraid to feel. Sometimes periwinkle, sometimes almost lavender and sometimes a sultry gray. Right now though, they are definitely–”
She pulled her hand away and scooted back in her chair. Thoroughly aroused, she squeezed her thighs tighter in an attempt to bury the spark.
“You’re full of it,” she said. “My eyes don’t change colors that much and even if they did, you wouldn’t notice.”
“What makes you say that?” He leaned back in his chair, taking the two back legs to its haunches, something they both used to get in trouble for when they were kids.
She shook her head and didn’t answer. The touch of his warm mouth on her fingers still burned in her core.
“I always notice your eyes.”
Caitlyn ducked under the table in search of her pen, a good attempt to conceal her red face. Her whole body burned. She spotted her pen and reached, feeling like an idiot. But at least it took her mind off everything else.
She straightened and smoothed her skirt, which she now regretted wearing. Ignoring him, she returned to her seat and adjusted her low-cut top.
“So,” she said as she scribbled favorite color on the tablet. “Your favorite color is blue?”
“Come on, Caitlyn, what’s with the interview? I thought you knew everything there was to know about me?”
“It’s been ten years,” she reminded him, this time finally looking at him as she straightened her rumpled hair and made an attempt to discount the object of her passion. “I thought your favorite color was black.”
“Why?”
“The old sports car you drove when we were teenagers, the one you used to keep nice and shiny, was black. Almost all of your fixer uppers were eventually painted black. And you wear the color a lot.”
“I look damn good in black.” He grinned and winked.
Caitlyn agreed, but then again, he looked damn good in anything.
“What’s your favorite color?” he asked.
“Green,” she said and immediately regretted it.
His smile spread wider, more roguish, if that were possible. He shot the chair back down on all fours and folded his hands on the table.
“Oh? Any particular shade?”
She wasn’t going to be baited by him. She could describe the color of his eyes as immaculately as he had described hers. The way they changed from light to dark and every shade in between, from delight to anger, aloofness to desire, tantalizing to satiating. Deep, dark emerald green in passion, olive green when he became perturbed and a light, apple green, like now, when he teased.
“We’re not here to interview me.” She adjusted her body to fit the contours of the seat more comfortably. “What’s your favorite food?” Surely food would be a safe subject.
“You know I’m a meat man. Steak and potatoes mostly. Builds big muscles.” To prove it, he demonstrated by flexing a well-toned bicep.
She grinned and rolled her eyes. “Favorite fruit?”
He lowered his arm and looked into her eyes again. “Blueberries. Definitely blueberries. Or strawberries,” he added as his gaze trailed to her lips.
She shied away, writing in her notebook. Wesley reached up and touched her lips softly with his fingertip. Her gaze flew to his and she tossed her pen. It bounded off the table to the floor, again.
“Wesley!” She gripped his hand, was tempted to squeeze him toward her, but pushed it away instead. “Please! What are you trying to do? Do you want to just strip naked right now and do it on the table, to hell with the consequences?”
“I’d like to,” he said and laughed.
Caitlyn loved the way his body moved as he laughed and his eyes crinkled—that was new—when he smiled.
“I’m sorry,” he said, all laughter ceased. “I’ll answer seriously now.”
“Why did you think that was funny?”
“What, the getting on the table and doing the wild thing?”
She nodded.
“It wasn’t your words so much,” he answered. “It was your look. Like you were afraid I might actually take you up on that offer. Not that I wouldn’t want to,” he added.
She huffed and glanced away all the while thinking he was wrong in that respect. She did want him to take her up on her offer. Very badly.
But for some reason, whenever either of them got too close, the other pushed away. He’d done it at her house. She’d done it when he dropped her off at her hotel. It was an ongoing cycle, them pushing each other away, and it should have been a clue.
Don’t have sex. Don’t touch each other. Don’t even look at each other. Hell, don’t even associate with other.
“Shall we get on with it?” she asked. He nodded and she cleared her throat. “What’s your favorite drink?”
“Water and milk. Builds bigger muscles.” This time he used his other arm to demonstrate, but Caitlyn didn’t smile at his fun. He coughed and sat up in his chair. “Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin.
“You know, this interview would take half the time or less if you would give up on your antics.”
“Good thing we decided not to record it then, huh? I can’t believe someone would want to know what my favorite book is. Come on, ask me something interesting.”
“Tell me what got you into racing.”
“My Uncle Tim.”
“Ah, so I was right,” Caitlyn said.
“No, he helped me with a passion I already had.”
Caitlyn wanted to ask him why anyone wasn’t aware of that passion, but she didn’t. And as far as asking him something interesting, she didn’t know what to ask him. Most questions she would ask people were off limits. Too personal. He didn’t want to talk about that. She could tell.
“I’m tired of sitting here at this table and getting antsy,” Wesley said. “Can’t we go out and get some sunshine?”
“We haven’t been here long.”
“Yes, we have.” He pulled his long legs out from underneath the table and stood up. “Let’s do something. I can’t sit still much longer.”
She stood along with him. “How do you sit in a racecar for hours on end?”
“That’s different, but I think it’s also why I can’t sit very still when I’m not racing.”
“That’s good,” she said as she leaned over to write his comment, a personal aspect of Wesley he wasn’t ashamed of.
*
As Caitlyn leaned over to write, her shirt, which was only slightly low cut, hung lower. Wesley saw the unmistakable sign of pink underneath the tee. His breath whooshed out of him at the thought of what hid underneath that concoction: dusky pink tips, full and poised in perfect unison. He longed to brace her with his hands and cup her perfect breasts.
She continued to write, stopping to think before writing again and clucking her tongue a couple of times, in tune with the words flowing on paper. A pang of lust shot through him and he stiffened. His entire body hardened.
She didn’t notice. Did she?
Finally straightening, she picked up her tablet of paper and pen and sauntered away. “Be right back.”
He watched the sway of her backside and practically drooled. He knew exactly what would be covering that perfect ass of hers: panties, lacy and silky and pink. Pink panties to match her pink bra. She always wore a matching bra and panties, telling him once that it made her feel sexier, like a woman should feel. Would it be a bikini, a thong, or those sexy boyshorts?
Wondering made things worse, made him want to lift up her skirt, wrap his hands around her firm ass, and find out. That thought lingered on his mind when she emerged from the bathroom.
“Wesley?” She sashayed over to him and stopped within an arm’s length, her eyes level with his torso. When he didn’t reply, she snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Are you okay?”
He saw her, every inch of her, even the parts covered. And if he hadn’t been able to see her, her scent gave her away. He breathed in and closed his eyes a mere second.
Summoning his willpower, he turned away from her and headed for the door. “I gotta get out of here.”
*
The tap-tap of the keyboard as Caitlyn typed mimicked the sound of her heartbeat. Chattering, stopping to think then pounding away again. When a thunderous knock crashed at her door, she jumped. She’d been deep in concentration, focusing on the words she typed.
After Wesley left, she moped around for at least an hour and then finally fired up her laptop. Her written words soothed her, and it wasn’t even the assignment she was supposed to be working on. Journaling calmed her
Saving her work, Caitlyn closed the laptop and clumped to the door. Her body, still on edge after being startled so abruptly, weakened when she spotted Wesley.
Caitlyn couldn’t handle anymore. She just couldn’t keep doing this.
She opened the door and was overtaken with a stunning bouquet of flowers.
“What’s this?” She placed a hand on her hip and frowned. The flowers were beautiful, but he’d left her in the middle of an interview. She resented that he thought flowers would fix everything.
“I noticed when I was here earlier your room is dreary. Thought you might appreciate a splash of color.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t sure what to think, but she had to remember this was not a game. It wasn’t a relationship. It wasn’t anything.
It was her job.
And his job.
Nothing else.
She accepted the spray, stepped aside for him to enter, and set the flowers on the middle of the drab table. He was right. The bouquet, full of purple and orange and yellow, did brighten the room. “Nice vase. Thank you, I do appreciate it.”
An awkward silence followed as they faced each other. She wasn’t sure what to do, what he expected her to do, or if he was about to leave.
Wesley ran his fingers through his hair. “Sorry for being a little shit.”
Caitlyn was taken aback by his apology. “Okay.” She pressed on the knot forming in her neck, compliments of stress and the long hours she spent hunched over as she wrote.
“I hate being interviewed and asked personal questions. I hate feeling like I’m being put in a spotlight. And I hate that with you it’s different, because you know so much about me. Things that hurt.”
He stepped forward and replaced the hand on her neck with his. She palmed his face, tracing the stubble on his jaw, unmindful of the pain she would suffer when this was all over. She’d gladly face them for one night of passion in his arms. She wouldn’t let him go without a fight.
“Who am I kidding?” Wesley murmured, his low rasp igniting fire across her skin. He swept a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I ran because I want you. I fucking want you bad. And I knew that if I didn’t leave, I was not going to be able to stop.”
Her lids fluttered, mouth parting, as he continued to stroke her face. “Then why did you come back?”
“Because I fucking want you bad,” he growled before his mouth came down on hers.
He offered no softness in his kiss. This was all give and take, hungry and gratifying. They kissed as if it was their first kiss, their last kiss. His hands ran down the length of her, swooping under her rear to pull her closer, to crush her pelvis with his. The bulge in his jeans intensified her liquid ache.
She gripped his shoulders, reveling in the curve of muscle, the swell of his bicep. He groaned inside her mouth, his tongue reaching deep. They stopped kissing long enough for her to rip his shirt over his head then their mouths joined again as if that’s where they belonged—locked in synchronous time.
Her hands explored the grooves of his chest, arms, torso, neckline. She could touch him forever and never grow tired. His hands, course and raw and rugged, slid under her shirt to touch her breasts, then down to lift her. She wrapped her legs around him the few steps to the bed and he lowered her, gently. Heat and cold consumed her as she watched him remove his shoes, his jeans.
Eyes locked with hers, his fingers skated under her skirt, dipped inside her thighs, through her lacy thong to where she burned. He pushed up her skirt, his fingers grazing her inner thighs without touching where she really needed his touch. She was wet. God she was so wet and ready for him.
He remained just within her reach and took time exploring her body. Kissed her neck then stripped her of her shirt and bra to suckle each breast. Made his way down her body to remove her skirt and panties, then opened her legs and lowered his face into her.
She cried out at the initial contact. The way his warm tongue darted in and out, in and out, sweeping over her skin, licking her heat. He instinctively knew where to touch, where to taste to make her quiver for more. She arched back, gripped his hair, and cried out when she finally exploded.
He rolled away and grabbed a condom from his wallet, tore it from the package. His body shook as he rolled it over his length.
“Are you sure…” he asked, but she grasped his shoulders and brought him to her.
“Yes,” she cried, arching to meet him.
He thrust into her, and she spread her legs for him to go deeper. He filled her. Oh, how he filled her.
“God yes,” she cried again.
Their bodies moved together, their senses heightened, hands exploring, ears attentive to every moan.
Nothing in her life had ever felt more right. Wesley was the person she should be with, the part of her missing for so long. They moved together, in a natural rhythm, until they came in a maelstrom of emotion too deep for anything but a declaration of ecstasy.
*
Wesley couldn’t help but wonder what Caitlyn’s reaction would be after that breathtaking event. He’d never experienced anything quite like it. Since Caitlyn, other women left him longing for something more…emotional. He couldn’t explain it, hated the reality of it, but only Caitlyn could complete him.
In the past, he’d always been ready to leave immediately after sex. With Caitlyn, forever etched his heart.
In the past, he’d attributed it to being a horny teenager. Now, he knew better.
His body, satisfied, yet, he wanted more of her.
Taking her had been his exact intention when he’d come back to the hotel. He’d even stopped at the store to purchase condoms.
They couldn’t keep pushing each other away like this. The stress, the tension, the longing for soul-binding sex would break them. Hopefully, she wouldn’t blame him for taking advantage of her. Would she be upset? Full of regret?
