Page 112 of Get Me to the Starting Line

Nothing, nothing could have stopped me, except her. I gave her a chance to pull away as I stepped in behind her. Her neck pebbled with goosebumps, and when she leaned back slightly, I didn’t have to say anything, knowing she felt my presence.

I let myself go just like she did, pulling her to me. My hands went to the bare skin at her waist, skin that had taunted me again and again. There was her and me and all the unspoken things between us. All my senses exploded as I moved us to the rhythm of the song with her ass flush against me, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips as she followed my lead.

The other end of my magnet, pulling me in until my lips were on her neck, on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. I have no idea if she could hear me, not that she would’ve known what I was saying in French anyway.

Before I did anything I couldn’t take back, I wrenched myself away and left the club immediately, not trusting myself. I was barely out the door when I got a text.

Adam Ashford

I had the hotel supply your room with some razors *wink face*

Fuck him. He knew. And I couldn’t care less. Not as I went back to my hotel room and jacked off so hard I saw stars. Losing my beard was worth it.

“Julien,” Leah’s exasperated voice yanks me from my thoughts of last night. My dirty, salacious thoughts.

“Hm?” I turn my head, noting the panic in her eyes when she stops abruptly. “What’s wrong?” It’s insane how alarmed I feel in only a matter of seconds. I scan her body, looking for signs of injury.

“We’re last.” She looks devastated.

“What?”

“We’re last.” She’s on the verge of crying, her face pinched in pain. “That woman passed and there’s no one else behind us.”

I look around, realizing she’s right. Damn, how long was I wrapped up in my own head? Glancing at my watch, I see we just passed fifteen kilometres. Six more to go.

Leah folds forward, bracing her hands on her thighs.

“Hey,” I say gently. “Hey,” I say again when she doesn’t look at me the first time. Her head lifts, and there’s defeat in every one of her beautiful features. “It doesn’t matter.”

She stands upright, fire in her eyes, finger jabbing into my chest. “Easy for you to say. You won the fucking Stanley Cup, who cares if you come in last at a race?”

“Leah—”

“No, Julien. You don’t know what it’s like to ... to fail. Of course this race doesn’t matter to you. Compared to all your other achievements, what’s a tiny half marathon? Nothing. But for me? This is the first truly athletic thing I’ve ever done, and I’m going to come in last!” Her voice breaks on the last word.

“And why does coming in last mean you fail?”

“Would it matter to you if your team lost every single game, and you ranked at the bottom?” she spits.

“That’s different. It’s my job.”

If looks could kill. Her stare burns worse than the hot sun searing my neck.

“Forget it, let’s just finish this and be done,” she mumbles, blowing out a huff of air and starting to run again.

Her words hit me like a physical blow. They feel loaded—she’s talking about more than just the race.

Does she want to be done with me?

I don’t let her get far, grabbing her arm to stop her.

“I think the fuck not,” I growl.

She halts. “Excuse me?”

“We’re not done here.”

She closes her eyes, collecting herself before speaking. “Ugh, fine. But can we run and talk, because I don’t want to make everyone wait even longer than they already have to.”

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