So am I.

Higher than high.

I think Racer Tate is higher than high from it too.

The air around us crackles and burns as we step off on our floor. I tell myself I’ll just kiss him for five minutes. One goodnight kiss just because I’m on cloud nine and I need to get down from there. But being with him doesn’t get me down.

Quite the opposite.

And yet here I am, a little bit like a junkie who cannot save herself, no matter what. All because he said he wanted to be alone with me tonight … and because I want that too.

Have wanted that since St. Petersburg—

A shiver of anticipation runs through me as he slides the key into the slot and holds the door open, and I know I really shouldn’t be here, but at the same time I cannot turn back. Something happened, something is happening—every second we look at each other, every breath he and I take.

I walk inside.

He narrows his eyes and looks at me. He towers over me, his hair a little rumpled from the breeze out on the track, and he runs his hand over it as I look at him questioningly.

“I want you. I’m not going to lie. I want you in that bed with me tonight.”

I swallow thickly, laughing and shaking my head.

He laughs too and reaches out, pulling me closer. “You’re not going to spend the night with me, Lana?”

“No,” I breathe as I lean on the shut door. “I just wanted to spend some time with you.”

His eyes darken, and he exhales a sound of frustration. “Go out on a drive with me.”

“Where?”

He touches my cheek, and my reaction is so visceral, so strong, that I arch and moan softly, pressing closer as I whisper his name.

And in that name is the real reason that I’m here.

And in that name is all the pent-up feelings I’ve tried to lock away ever since that night in St. Petersburg where I brought him with me to my hotel.

And then Racer is scraping his thumb along my lip as if he means to destroy it. He scrapes his thumb along my mouth, side to side. And Racer is leaning his dark head. And Racer is pressing his lips to mine as if I’m the petal of a rose and any brush of wind would break it off.

I lose all semblance of control and rationale. I don’t know what’s going on, all I know is suddenly my hands are curving along the back of his neck, and my whole body is trembling beneath the sensual, seductive, barely there graze of his lips.

He eases back to look at me with blue, blue eyes fringed with dark lashes, half-mast over his sleepy-looking eyes.

And then he ducks his dark head again, and his tongue flicks out. He touches the tip against mine, rubbing, back and forth, and his taste swarms me. Cinnamon bubble gum and guy.

Kissing me slow and deep. Lips moving. Tongues stroking, tasting. His fingers bite into my waist as he murmurs that he wants me.

His voice thick as he strokes his hand down my sides, working open my buttons as he sets his forehead on mine and watches my reactions.

“My whole life I’ve guarded against addictions. Driving was my one addiction. Never smoked, don’t drink except socially, eat right, but you, Lana. You’re an addiction I can’t say no to. Don’t want to say no to. If I don’t have you beneath me now I’m going implode on myself.”

I pull his T-shirt up to his neck, and my fingers run along the velvety muscles of his chest, hard and smooth; my lips follow to suck on his nipple. A sound very much like a growl runs up his throat, rumbling against my hair.

The air burns between us. His hands push my racing-team T-shirt off and over my head, leaving me in my bra and jeans. My nails rake along his back as his hungry mouth runs all over my body. My breasts, my stomach, my neck, my mouth. I undulate and press him closer, needing more but afraid to voice it.

He circles his tongue along the tip of my breast, suckling gently. Oh wow. My nipples are always so sensitive when he’s around, but the feel of his warm mouth on them debilitates me. The pull of his mouth causes me to gasp and my whole body to squeeze pleasurably. I’m so wet I can smell myself, and when I see his nostrils flare, I feel myself blush because I know Racer can probably smell me too.

He holds me by the waist, he unzips my jeans and shoves his hand into my panties, then he plays with my wet flesh and I jerk and thrust my hips out—begging for it, begging for him.

He eases one finger inside me.

He moves it slowly in, and slowly out, repeating the motion, watching as I arch up, fighting not to go off too soon, the pleasure too intense. His eyes are like blue lightning pinning me down, his finger-thrusts filling me so much with desire that I cannot take any second more. I start to convulse.

My nails sink into his scalp, a cry leaves me, and he smothers it with his mouth, pumping his finger deeper and harder to keep me there—at the pinnacle of pleasure. His hand moves faster, harder, my own hips recklessly, haphazardly trying to meet his hand-thrusts and keep him touching me forever. Every atom and cell in my body shivering for him, craving him, wanting him, needing him.

My breath sounds raspy when I ask him, “Do you sleep with women after you and she, well after—”

“No. Usually I call them an Uber and send them home.”

“I don’t need an Uber so I’ll head to my room …”

He snatches my wrist. “Stay,” he rasps, his gaze hungry and possessive.

I exhale and ease back to his side. “If I stay I may lose control again.”

“Why is that wrong?”

“Because …” I flush. My eyes run over him and I can barely keep my hands at my sides. Because I really want to touch him, taste him. I want to run my fingers over that gorgeous chest, look at him without a stitch of clothing on in ways that I didn’t dare look at him when he stripped at the pool.