“Hey. Hey, baby,” Racer says, more sternly. “I’m coming out of this car and you’re going to be the first person I want there. You remember what I like to do the moment I get out of the car, you got to be there to greet me in the winner’s circle. I’ll be pissed if you’re not there.”

“Racer, please, slow down. Stop. I don’t mind if you lose the race.” More frantic tears fall, and I’m fearing that if I lose him, there will be only a dark black pit for me. No more life, no more love, no more good things for me.

“Don’t worry about me, baby, this is for your dad, this is for you.”

I can barely speak through the pikes in my throat. It’s a war just to force my voice to stay level. “I love you. You have no idea how much.”

“I love you like that too,” he says.

I get mad the next second. “Racer Tate! People die from this! You know that?! This is not something to fuck around with, this is not street racing anymore! These are dangerous machines that you’re fucking with!”

“Not me. Not today. I know this car. It’s a part of me.” The steel in his voice strengthens me, and I exhale as he quietly commands, “Now walk me through it. Where’s Clark.”

I wipe my tears and straighten my spine, trying to focus as I strain my eyes and try to lead him safely back home. So the best driver in the world can please come safely back to me.

Racer

Come on, girl.

I struggle with the gearbox on every turn, trying to get Kelsey back on her fastest speed on the straightaway.

I cannot disappoint my people. I can’t fucking lose this—I never. Fucking. Lose.

I’m the best driver in the world.

Motherfucker Clark’s got a better car? A better damn gearbox?

I’ve got more talent, and a girl to woo.

Lana

On lap 69, we’re holding our collective breaths out by the tent. The announcers are going crazy speculating what is wrong with Racer’s car, for it’s been acting even more reckless than ever, leaving skid marks as Racer’s rough, raw driving comes to show.

On lap 70, I cannot look but at the same time, I cannot take my eyes away from that red car, growling past us like a storm …

We’re down to the last lap.

Clark is trying to take the lead on every turn—attempting pass after pass—and Racer is fighting not to give it to him.

They head into the turn, almost nose to nose. Clark passes him. The crowd collectively gasps as Clark retakes the lead. They take the straightaway, and we’re down to the last seconds when Tate positions Kelsey right behind Clark—using his draft to pull him forward.

Two seconds to go, Racer veers right and passes him on the straightaway.

One second to go … and then … the checkered flag is waving as #38, the most beautiful car in the world driven by the best fucking driver in existence, zooms past the winning line.

The announcers are going crazy.

“And it’s RACER TATE, RACER TATE! The BEST rookie driver we have seen for as long as this Grand Prix has been standing! RACER TATE takes the win in the last SECOND of the race! This is unbelievable …”

After both the car and pilot get weighed, Racer finally steps off the scale and pulls off his helmet, swiftly scanning the crowd gathering around him.

I’m trying to push myself forward as Racer starts walking into the crowd and people start chanting,

“TATE! TATE! TATE!!”

My dad is crying like he’s never cried in his life.

Racer grins as my brothers and the mechanics catch up with him and they fling him in the air, and when he lands back on his feet, his eyes lock on mine. My lungs seize up for a heart-stopping moment. Because his eyes are the most marvelous, most gorgeous blue they have ever been.

They flash primitively as he narrows them on my face, and he picks up his pace as he cuts a path toward me.

I’m frantic and breathless as I shove my way forward, needing nothing but to reach him right now. Yes, he’s an amazing driver, but he is so much more than that.

He’s my guy.

He’s my guy and this is one of the most important moments of his life.

When I finally reach him, his hands take my waist and I’m tossed up in the air as if I weigh nothing. One second I squeak, and the next he catches me, and his hot mouth is on me, and I’m getting kissed as if Racer Tate means to eat me whole.

Dizzy and euphoric as he sets me back down, I laughingly press my face to his warm palm, and he shifts so that I can get closer. I slide my cheek down his arm and against his chest while he slides his arms around me and draws me closer.

He kisses my freckles. I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale.

“I love you,” he growls in my ear, squeezing me.

“I love you so much I can’t believe it,” I admit between tears and laughter, biting down on my smile as I kiss his dimple. He groans softly and becomes hard. I lift my head, and his eyes are vivid with possessiveness—and when they drop to my lips, he presses them to mine, and I press them back to his, suddenly kissing him as if my life depends on it, and maybe it does, because right now all I know is hot, warm, hard Racer’s mouth on mine, and he is my #1 in everything.

Unfortunately, I cannot kiss him forever—and soon we’re caught up in the excitement of the award ceremony as I watch with a full heart as Racer gets his award and steps up to the very top of the Formula One Grand Prix podium. After a lot of cheers, a lot of crying from not only my dad, but my brothers and the mechanics, I spend the rest of the day out of the track, watching on the sidelines as Racer gets crammed with interviews and autograph requests.

Racer

“… thank you for the interview, Racer Tate. And that was Racer Tate! This year’s Formula One champion, live with us! At the Abu Dhabi Formula One championship …”

I head to the motorhome to change, and I realize I’ve got a bazillion calls from Seattle. I shower, dress in my jeans and a plain tee, then I hop on Skype to connect with my parents.

“Racer!! My boy!” My mom is practically yelling, her face blotchy. “I am so proud I haven’t stopped crying!” She seems so emotional as she presses a Kleenex to her face and buries her face in my dad’s chest.

“Hey, Mom,” I say, amused as shit.

My dad? He’s fucking grinning ear to ear.

The pride in his eyes, the pride is basically oozing off him as he looks at me across the screen.

“You make me proud, you know that? You make me proud. If I did nothing right in this damned life, the day I die, I’ll die happy, because you and your sister? Me and your mom did you right.”

I’m fucking wordless. I nod in silence, a language my dad understands well since he’s not someone you’d call expressive.

I feel my jaw flex while I handle this emotion—the fucking happiness of making your parents truly proud. I end up promising to see them soon before I disconnect, then I sit there and digest shit for the next minute.

I won.

We. Fucking. WON.

I picture Lana, and her big green eyes, staring up at me in amazement. Suddenly, I want her whole damn face to be soft and wanton and her lips open as she gasps and writhes beneath me tonight, and I want my hands to run down all her sweet curves, and then my tongue, tasting and exploring every damn inch of her until I get my fill of her and fill her up with me. Yeah, and I want her fingers in my hair, or on the back of my neck, caressing my goddamn chest—I want her as turned on with me tonight as she seemed about this win. I want her sopping wet—and the mere thought of what’s in store for me tonight has me throbbing in my jeans as I finally get to my feet and storm out of the motorhome.

The Heyworths drive us to a five-star restaurant nearby.

“How do you feel, champion?” Lana asks as she takes my hand and leads me to the restaurant entrance. “Do you feel hot?”

“Hot as shit.” I run my eyes over her to let her know exactly what I mean.

“You amazed me today,” she breathes.

“That was for you and your dad.” I lift her hand and kiss the back of it.

“I would totally race back for you.”

“Is that riiight?” I croon down at her as we walk inside, not certain she’s the ideal person to race anything that actually moves.