Page 2 of Knot So Lucky
"If you think I'm gay," he growls, and the sound rumbles through his chest into mine, vibrating in the space between heartbeats, "fine."
F-Fine?
His face is so close now I can see individual water droplets caught in his eyelashes, can smell the rain on his skin mixing with that addictive Alpha scent that's making my head spin.
"I'll be fucking gay if it means I get to keep ‘him’."
The way he says 'him' makes it clear he's not buying my disguise for a goddamn second.
I know “him” is the best way to identify me…
His thumb digs into my hip, possessive and claiming, and I should push him away, should knee him in the balls and run, should doanythingother than what I actually do—which is stand there like an idiot, drowning in his scent and the way his body heat cuts through the cold rain.
"I don't give a fuck what the rumors say," he continues, his voice dropping lower, rougher, edged with something that sounds like desperation wrapped in dominance. "If you're a boy or a fucking girl?—"
There it is.
"I. Don't. Fucking. Care."
Each word is punctuated by his hips pressing harder against mine, pinning me so completely to the wall that I can feel every inch of him. And there are alotof inches. Christ, I'm trying not to think about that, trying to keep my breathing even, trying not to let him see how much this is affecting me.
Trying and failing spectacularly.
"Because you're driving me fuckingmad," he continues, and now his free hand comes up to grip my jaw, tilting my face so I have no choice but to meet those burning amber eyes. "And howthe hell am I supposed to go on that track knowing you're the one thing I can't fucking have?"
The raw honesty in his voice cracks something open in my chest.
This man—Formula One new world champion, pack leader, Alpha who could have anyone he wants—is falling apart in front of me over someone he thinks might be male.
Over me.
Before I can process that, before I can think or reason or remember all the ways this is a catastrophically bad idea, his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is nothing like I expected.
It's not gentle or exploratory or tentative.
It's fucking devastating.
He kisses me like he's claiming territory, like he's trying to devour me whole, like if he could crawl inside my skin and live there, he would. His tongue demands entry, and I give it without thought, opening for him with a whimper I can't quite suppress.
The taste of him explodes across my tongue—rain and something darker, richer, and purely him—and it's so good it's almost painful. His hand on my jaw slides into my hair, gripping hard enough to sting, angling my head so he can deepen the kiss even further.
I should be fighting this.
Should be running…
Instead, I grab fistfuls of his soaked shirt and pull him closer, kissing him back with all the pent-up frustration and desire I've been bottling up since the first time we raced virtually and I realized he was the only driver who could match me turn for turn, the only one who pushed me to be better, faster, more reckless.
His scent is everywhere now, overwhelming my suppressants, drowning out the motor oil and rain until all I cansmell is spiced leather and black pepper and storm rain mixed with my own scent—smoked vanilla and gasoline—creating something entirely new.
That scent of belonging.
Like I dare to be a part of his pack.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, and I tear my mouth away from his, gasping for air that tastes like him, like us, like a future I can't afford to want.
We're both breathing hard, chests heaving, faces inches apart as rain continues to hammer down around us. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen from our kiss, and there's a dazed sort of wonder in his expression that mirrors the chaos in my own chest.
