Page 49 of Racing Hearts
“Don’t suppose there’s any chance I can get my underwear back?”
I pulled the scrap of purple lace from my pocket, letting it dangle from my fingers.
“And give away my good luck charm?” She reached for it, but I held it just out of reach with a grin. “You want it back?” I teased. “You’ll have to earn it.”
I placed it back into my jacket pocket before taking a seat on the couch, patting my lap. I loved how her eyes narrowed at me, loved how she crossed her arms with pursed lips as she studied me. I could see the wheels in her head turning, could see her deciding on whether or not to call my bluff.
Georgia stalked towards where I was sitting on the couch, and before I could frantically add a “just kidding,” she straddled my lap, her dress hiking up her body. When she reached for my belt, I raised a soft, questioning eyebrow, but Georgia just licked her lips in anticipation. As she unbuckled it, a soft moan fell from my lips, and she grazed her hand along my waistband, a silent question of consent. Without hesitation, I eagerly nodded, watching Georgia’s hand as it slid into my boxers, palming my already hard and aching cock.
Grabbing the edge of my pants, she instructed me to lift, letting my cock spring free as my pants slid down.
Then she sank to her knees. Her tongue ran a slow, deliberate line up my shaft, and I choked out a curse.
“Oh fuck,” I gritted out. “That feels—”
Her lips wrapped around me, her pace torturously slow. One hand stroked my length while the other gently cupped my balls. I buried my hands in her hair, pulling, needing something to hold on to.
“Stop teasing,amore,” I demanded.
She continued to work me, her hands gently massaging my balls in a steady rhythm. As I started to get closer, my moans got louder and louder. Both of my hands were now tight in Georgia’s hair, grabbing and pulling.
“Fuck, amore, such a good girl for me. Taking me like this.”
I tapped her shoulder to warn her I was close, but to my delight Georgia didn’t stop. Just kept going, deeper, until I came hard, her name on my lips.
Clutching my chest, I gasped for air as I gazed at Georgia’s flushed face and tousled hair, feeling completely spent. She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, then stood slowly, her eyes locked on mine as she reached into my jacket and plucked out her underwear.
“I’d say I earned this, wouldn’t you agree?” Before I could answer, Georgia sauntered back to her room, looking awfully proud of herself.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Georgia
Sunday morning, I woke up before my alarm, likely from the anticipation of today’s Grand Prix. The high from the driver’s dinner—and everything that happened afterward—had carried us both through the weekend. I’d topped Friday’s free practice sessions and taken pole in Saturday’s qualifying. Luca was right behind me in P2.
After the gala, I expected things to be weird between us, but to my surprise, they weren’t. I’d contemplated bringing it up, but the moment never felt right.
Still, I could tell it lingered between us, unspoken but present. The way his gaze held mine too long. The way he bit his bottom lip like he was keeping words in. Based on Luca’s heated gaze and the subconscious biting of his bottom lip, I figured he was probably having the same debate.
And if I was being honest? I liked having the upper hand for once. I liked the way he looked at me, like he was still thinking about me on my knees.
Because God knew I was thinking about having him on his.
And based on his blown pupils and the desire lingering in his eyes, I suspected he would have returned the favor if I hadn’t waltzed out of the room. But I’d stupidly let my pride stop me. In the moment, it felt more fun to tease Luca, to show him that I wasn’t as boring as everyone said—but now? Now I had spent all weekend debating how to get myself alone with him in between our hectic schedules.
A loud noise from the living room caught my attention. A thud, then something like a muffled curse. Curious, I cracked the door open just enough to peer into the suite. Luca was sitting on our living room couch, his head buried in his hands. He was rocking back and forth, muttering under breaths that were barely audible.
I shut the door quietly. It seemed like a private moment, and as much as I was dying for a cup of coffee, I didn’t feel as though it was right to invade his personal space.
When the bathroom door closed, I took that as my cue and tiptoed out into the living room, making my way to the suite’s kitchenette so I could brew my much-needed coffee. As I carefully poured hot water over my ground beans, I noticed Luca emerging from the bathroom, holding his shirt in his hands.
Was this man genetically opposed to wearing clothing indoors?
I opened my mouth to make a joke about this being a shared living room where shirts were necessary, but before I could utter a word I tripped over my own feet, and a panged scream escaped me before I caught myself on the back of the sofa.
Absolute idiot, Georgia.
Luca turned. His eyes were red and puffy, slightly sunken in. The vibrant gleam I usually saw in them dulled to something tired and heavy. Thinking back, I realized I’d never seen Luca cry, not even after his first win several years ago. His face was always a picture of stoicism, like one of Michelangelo’s sculptures.
