He nuzzles my curls.

I groan.

“Look at me. Look at me, crasher.”

I do.

He kisses me. Wipes my tear. His face raw as he pushes his dick inside me. “You feel so right. I want to stay here. I want to pound a path all the way to your damn heart.”

“Don’t stop.” I clutch him to me, whispering, “Racer, you had my heart from the moment you wrote on my page.”

“Come again,” he says, driving inside me.

“Racer Tate.”

“Again, Lana. I fucking want you to look at me when you say it.”

“You! You, RACER TATE!” I breathe, our eyes holding, and no one—ever—has ever looked at me with so much love, so much passion, has ever ignited me with those same emotions. I say, “I’m yours, Racer. I’m yours and you’re mine.”

Lana

We spend most of our free time together as we visit Malaysia, Singapore, and Japan.

Racer and I have hit every car museum in each of these cities for the past month and a half. He loves telling me the exact specifics of any car—and I always tease him that this is why he hasn’t had a girlfriend before.

I don’t think any girl would get turned on hearing about pipes and carburetors, but he’s lucky that I happen to find it quite like dirty talk.

Not the words, really.

But the way this guy’s voice sounds as he talks about it and the way he gets an emotional hard-on for cars and speed.

Not surprising, since he’s a damn F1 pilot.

Also not surprising that driving around each city has become our thing.

We like taking drives and seeing the sights on our free days, listening to music we both like as we cruise around, thriving on the feeling of being free.

We stop at every place we feel like. And our rule is to always take a drive, at least once a week, with no destination in mind. Once, Racer stopped by a huge three-story mansion by the water, and we parked right across and just stared at it while we talked for hours about our upbringings.

I talked about my mom and never wanting to build a family only to leave it. Racer talked about hoping that, despite his career, he could set roots for his family like the ones his parents gave him when he was a kid.

I even got to drive a couple of times. He’s giving me “lessons” though mostly he just frowns at me when I shift gears too soon and make the car squeal.

“Baby you’re killing this vehicle,” he said with a laugh and a frown.

“I’m trying!” I laughed.

I was surprised he’d even let me drive. He simply handed the keys over and said, “Drive.”

“Where to?” I said excitedly.

“Wherever it takes us.”

I grinned, loving to explore the world with him.

We stop for lunch at any place that calls to us. Racer eats a lot, but very clean, and I’m trying to join in for my wellbeing and to tell my father some health-food tips. I’m trying to exercise more too simply because dating a guy that is so fit that his skin is taut over his muscles to the point you can hardly pinch a tenth of an inch only makes you realize how soft your own body is.

Racer says he likes my softness, so I don’t worry too much when he hits the gym and I end up staying at the hotel to organize the team’s flights and future reservations.

I usually write down my reservation confirmations on a ton of Post-its and hotel pads, and I’ve noticed lately that he’s writing his name on every one just to irk me.

We’re negotiating the movie-watching at nights. He likes series, and I like movies with quick resolutions, so we usually alternate a series episode for a movie for me. I watch Sense 8 with him; he watches The Proposal.

“I’m learning to appreciate the benefits of watching these movies with you, baby,” he confided once after a movie ended and we were in a full-out make-out moment.

“Why,” I asked, breathless.

“You acting all warm and romantic. Soft and eager for me.” He grinned, and I groaned and smacked his chest.

“You’re such a guy!”

“Good thing. Considering you’re into guys.”

“I’m into you,” I whispered, unable to say more because his mouth proved too distracting.

I’m fully living again. Every moment feels meaningful with him, even the silly, meaningless ones of hurrying in the morning to get dressed.

Now I watch him climb the car, ready for the race in Japan, and I just wait for that look he always gives me before igniting—one glance, because his eyes are all I can see through his helmet. Just his eyes, connecting with mine, before that visor slips down, and then the hard rumble of the car igniting before it squeals onto the track.

Lana

After kicking ass in Singapore, Malaysia, and Japan with two P2’s and one P1, we arrive on U.S. soil.

I’ve always loved traveling from track to track, but I have a soft spot for the U.S. Grand Prix simply because it feels a little bit like home, even though we have been living abroad for several years now.

Now we’re close to the end of the season, ready for the United States Grand Prix at the Circuit of the Americas in Austin, Texas.

I walk along the stands with Racer before the race, and he’s pointing out his people to me while they wave at him or are too busy looking for their seats.

“So that’s Melanie and Grey, a couple of my parents’ friends.”

He points to a beautiful blonde and a distinguished-looking dark-haired man in a black suit.

“And that’s their other friends.”

He points to a sable-haired woman with a guy wearing a diamond-stud earring.

“Pandora and Mackenna. And that’s their daughter Eve.”

He points to a late-twenties dark-haired girl, and then to a younger girl standing next to her.

“And their other daughter, Sophie.”

He moves his finger down the aisle to another couple, him in about his forties, her a little younger with light honey hair.

“That’s Maverick. He’s a fighter, like my dad, he holds the record of most wins and is still at the top of his game. His wife is Reese. She was my babysitter.”

“Really?” I laugh.

“Really.”

“She’s beautiful. Did you have a crush on her?” I ask, trying to keep the jealousy out of my voice.

“Nah. But she had a crush on me.” He smirks and we watch them suddenly come over to say hello. Racer introduces us.

“Very nice to meet you, Lana,” Reese says, and she won’t stop staring at me with this knowing smile that makes me shift a little nervously.

“Tested your theory the other day,” Racer tells Maverick, and Maverick’s eyebrows rise in instant interest.

“And,” Maverick prods.

“I fucking was ready to eat my competitors’ heads off.” Racer’s lips twist into a wry smile as he shoots a meaningful look in my direction. “But I’m not sacrificing some time with my girl again.”

“Only when it matters.” Maverick steps beside him and lowers his voice so that maybe I don’t overhear. “Besides, it’s sweet to celebrate with your girl after.”

“Yeah. But I intend to celebrate winning this championship by walking her down the aisle in a fucking white dress.”

“Wow! Look at him,” Reese says in amazement, obviously able to overhear like me. She confides to me in a whisper, “He never wanted to get married.”

I’m surprised by that, but then realize Racer’s intent blue gaze is fixed on me, as if he’s curious as to my response to this, so I direct my question to him.

“Why didn’t you?”

A naughty spark appears in his eyes. “I didn’t want anyone to have to deal with my shit.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then I met you, and I wanted to take care of you.”

I bite my lip, and I see Reese take Maverick’s hand and pull him away while Racer continues looking at me as if we’re not in the track—as if there’s no one but us here.

“And I knew myself enough to know that for the one time I’d need you to be patient with me, I would be a hundred times patient for you.” He clenches his jaw as passion and lust and love glow in his eyes. “I’ve never loved anything in my life the way I love you. My crasher. You looked at me with these two eyes … and I haven’t been able to see anything else. You little witch, you crashed my single party.”