26 USA

26

USA

EARLY NOVEMBER

COSMIN

When I was a child, the American TV programs I saw were mostly old family sitcoms and dramas that were cheap to broadcast in Europe. Because of this, the mid-century American aesthetic has always appealed to me: the huge cars, white picket fences, fathers with briefcases and mothers in heels and pearls, diners and ice cream parlors.

And the food. I’ve eaten in the finest restaurants in the world and sampled nearly every cuisine, but something like a checkered-blanket picnic circa 1962 holds a special glamour.

In July, Phaedra and I talked about the US Grand Prix in Texas, and we planned to enjoy a day trip driving around early in the race week. Sitting in my hotel room last night after arriving here in Austin, staring out at the city lights, I felt quite sorry for myself.

The six races since my P2 in Hungary have been a mixed bag, with podium finishes at Monza, Sochi, and Suzuka, and various disappointments elsewhere. There was Valle’s disaster at Spa. A gearbox failure in Singapore. Botched pit stop in Mexico.

I’ve three races left to get my win, and the focus on that—strategy meetings, brutally intense training sessions, DiL simulations—has mercifully kept me from thinking about Phaedra every waking moment. But this race week in her home country is especially difficult for me.

Which is why, when I awoke this morning, I decided to risk clearing my day to reclaim some semblance of the outing I’d once so eagerly anticipated. I canceled the endurance run scheduled with Guillaume, made a few phone calls to arrange details, and put on the shirt Phaedra has mentioned is especially flattering.

In the elevator on the way down to the dining room, a young woman with an elfish face, rose-gold hair, and brown eyes steps in from the floor reserved by Team Easton, two levels below Emerald’s. We’re alone, and she drapes herself coyly into the corner after I greet her. She blows a bit of stray fringe off her forehead, lips in a sensual pout, and eyes me.

“You’re Owen’s friend, right? Cosmo?”

Her voice is low and a touch raspy, something to which I’ve always been partial. She’s in a sleeveless shirt and spandex shorts, standing in her stocking feet with a pair of trainers dangling by the laces from one hand—on her way to the hotel’s gym, I presume.

“Cosmin.” I extend my hand to shake.

“I’m Peach—Brooklyn’s friend.” She nods at the ceiling. “Staying with ’em this week.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Ah! The infamous Peach. From Los Angeles, yes? Your reputation precedes you.”

“In the flesh, babyboy,” she singsongs, opening her arms. Her gaze prowls me in assessment. “You should come to our party tonight.”

“A party?” I reply, warming to her game. “I’ve not heard about this. Who is coming?”

“You and everyone else, if we do it right.” The elevator chimes, stopping at the dining room level. As the doors glide open, she adds in a whisper, “It’ll just be the four of us.”

Her eyes move from my face to something behind me, and her smile falters. I turn to find Phaedra standing with one hand in the pocket of her favorite jeans, the other holding a half-eaten croissant. She chews, leisurely, her expression sardonic. As the door begins to close, she stops it with an elbow.

“Going down?” she asks, the pun apparent.

“I am,” Peach replies. Her brows lift in feigned innocence, and she adds, “To the gym, that is.” I don’t think I imagine her superior look as she eyes the croissant.

Phaedra laughs and takes a huge bite, saying around the mouthful, “Cool, have at it. I’ll catch a ride on the way back up.” She points her middle finger at the floor. “Off you fuck, sweet pea.”

My lips are clamped together, stifling my mirth, as I step from the elevator.

“This is my floor,” I tell Phaedra. “I was looking for you.”

“Huh. Ya don’t say.” Her triumphant gaze angles past me.

Peach ignores her, focused on me. “See you tonight, babyboy?” She taps her chest with a fingertip. “Peach—like the emoji.”

Phaedra maintains her composure until the elevator doors slide shut, then bursts out laughing. Her hair is in a messy braid draped over her shoulder, pointing at one of her perfect little tits, which strain the writing on a tight gray T-shirt with a picture of an engine, reading STILL PLAYS WITH BLOCKS .

“Like the fuckin’ emoji?” Phaedra cackles. “Oh, that is priceless. Not ‘like the fruit,’ mind you, but the emoji .” She shakes her head, laughter condensing into a groan. “These Gen Z kids slay me—seriously.”

“Wicked girl,” I tease, “to engage in a battle of wits with someone so poorly armed.”

We move aside as a group comes to wait for the elevator, and without realizing it, I’ve put an arm lightly around Phaedra’s waist, guiding her toward me. She glances pointedly at my hand on her hip, and I remove it before taking a step back.

“What do you need, Legs?”

“Your company for approximately three hours.” There’s a glitter-size flake of pastry on her upper lip and it’s all I can do not to lick it off. I reach with a thumb and brush it away.

She takes another slow bite of the croissant, examining me with suspicion.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m busy. I’ve got… um, a thing.”

“What kind of thing?”

She casually sweeps a crumb off her shirt. “Are you my PA now?”

There follows a silence into which my hope stumbles, like a hidden hole in the terrain.

I’m not ready to give up. I touch her chin, tipping her face to meet my eyes. Hers go wide, and I see the pain there—she feels as wretched as I do.

“The only person,” I tell her quietly, “who understands how much this hurts is the other. You and I, draga mea. Perhaps we cannot go back, but we can commiserate at least—as friends—on how unfair this is.” I touch her lower lip with my thumb. “I’d like to be friends.”

“That’s dangerous,” she replies immediately.

“So is racing. So is life.”

There’s a long pause in which she considers this.

On impulse, I add, slowly and clearly, “M-am gandit la tine toat? ziua.”

After processing the phrase, she ventures, “You think of me every day?”

“Toat? ziua—all day. But also ?n fiecare zi—every day.” I smile. “You’re still studying.”

She shrugs. “Little bit.”

I sense her thawing, and try, “Consider it a belated birthday gift to come with me today.”

“I sent you a swanky bottle of pinot noir.”

“And no one with whom to share it.”

She takes the last bite of pastry and chews, eyes narrowed. Her tongue darts out to touch one corner of her mouth.

“If you still have the wine,” she says, “I’m pretty sure the horny ‘emoji’ from the elevator would be game to share.”

I can’t resist taunting her.

“And you would have no problem with that—my seducing another woman with the gift you gave me?” I step closer and drop my voice. “Licking the wine from her lips, undressing her, filling her pretty cunt?”

Phaedra freezes, lips parted, brow pinched. “That wouldn’t make me happy, no.”

“Nor I. Which is why I’ve no plans to accept her invitation.” I reposition Phaedra’s braid as an excuse to touch her. “I’ve accepted no invitations since you left me in England.”

“Sure, buddy. July thirteenth is the last day you got laid.”

I open my hands in a gesture of honesty.

“ Sixteen weeks ,” she emphasizes. “For a guy who walks around with puss thrown at him like a perpetual cafeteria food fight. At the very least, I know you must’ve taken that Chilly Willy penguin-ass tramp back to your room.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but the characterization is so delightfully Phaedra that I burst out laughing. I grab her in a spontaneous embrace—arms pinned to her sides—and my laughter trails off into the warmth of her hair.

Bracing her arms between us, she wriggles to escape. “Knock that shit off, Ardelean.”

“My apologies.” I can’t hold back the smile that creeps up.

She gives her T-shirt an indignant swipe as if I’ve wrinkled it. “You smell really good,” she grumbles.

“Phaedra.”

With a huff, she meets my gaze.

“Join me out front in…” I slide my phone from my pocket to check the time. “Forty minutes. I’ve something to show you. If you’re not interested, you are free to walk away.”

Scrunching her mouth to one side, she grants me a tight nod. “Fine.”

She walks to the elevator and prods the button.

My heart aches—she’s so reluctant, it seems there’s little hope of a friendship ever developing. But before the doors open, she pivots back to me with the grumpy smile I treasure.

“This had better be great. Impress me.”

When she comes out the front doors of the hotel, her arms spread in slow motion, as if she’s afraid she’ll faint. She walks toward the car with dreamlike steps, eyes only for this nearly eighteen feet of glossy black, chrome-kissed mid-century beauty.

She puts one hand out, laying it flat on the warm metal as if shyly petting a powerful animal. I watch, hands in my pockets, enjoying her reaction. She throws a lovestruck look over her shoulder at me—though it’s clearly the car she’s fallen for.

“Holy shit! A ’61 Lincoln Continental.” She lifts her arms and drapes herself comically against the passenger-side window and roof with a moan. “Come here, you,” she tells the car. “Have your way with me.”

“O Doamne,” I say with a laugh. “I’d have rented one of these ages ago, had I known it would so enrapture you.”

Her hands glide down to the side-by-side door handles. “Mmm, suicide doors.” She begins a slow walk around the Lincoln, trailing her fingers along the car’s body.

“You like it?”

“I haven’t seen anything this gorgeous since your clothes were on the floor.” She says it so matter-of-factly that I almost laugh—she’s not even flirting. “Can I pop the hood?”

“Anything you like. She’s ours for the next six hours.”

Phaedra looks at me over the top of the car as she opens the driver-side door. “No shit? Oh my God.”

She ducks in and releases the hood then walks to the front to lift it, arms stretched over her head, gazing at the engine as if it’s a banquet. My eyes trace the contours of muscle in her arms and shoulders, the pert swell of her breasts, the womanly curve of her lower belly.

She’s wearing the same T-shirt and jeans as earlier, but with a man’s oxford shirt over the top, rolled to the elbows. With a ripple of warm surprise, I realize the shirt was once mine. I cannot help but notice she’s put on a touch of makeup. Her hair has been loosed from the earlier braid and is now held back by a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses.

I’m drawn to her like a magnet, standing beside her as she surveys the engine.

“A 430 V8,” she murmurs. “Three hundred twenty-five sexy-ass horses in this baby. The car’s a goddamned beast—weighs over two-and-a-half tons.”

“Will you drive?” I pull the loop of three keys from my pocket and jingle them.

Her hand closes around the bundle, then lingers. The pressure of her fingers is electric, and when I look from our touching hands to her face, her plump lips are parted, and her pupils are puddles of black that shine like the car.

I force myself not to check, but I’m fairly sure between the intimacy of the moment and her love for the car, her nipples are hard. I myself am glad my jeans are a bit snug, as my cock asserts itself with a twitch.

“Hell yeah,” she breathes, clutching the keys. There’s a pause while emotions fight for dominance in her expression. Then she stands on the toes of her untied Converse and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Thank you.”

I almost lay my hand over the spot like a bashful boy as she walks away to get into the driver’s seat.

“Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” she tells me with a radiant smile.

We roar northward at nearly ninety miles per hour, the gray ribbon of highway parting the landscape.

“Open your window all the way!” Phaedra cries.

I crank the window down, and her hair becomes a lush storm churning around her shoulders. Her cheeks are pink with exhilaration; I cannot take my eyes off her.

“It’s a shame they didn’t have the convertible model,” I say. “Though in my experience, women don’t like them. It ruins the hairdo.”

“Ha! Hairdo-schmairdo—you know I’m trash.” Phaedra throws a look at me, cocking one eyebrow. “You’ve been hanging out with some fussy little princesses. Did the penguin throw a tantrum when you messed up her ’do?”

I shake my head with a baffled smile. “Again, this ‘penguin’?”

She chews at her lower lip. “That chick at the dinner in Sochi. The one with the, uh, ‘bountiful bosoms’ spilling out of a black-and-white dress.”

“I’m sure it makes me a bad man that your jealousy charms me,” I tease.

“That’s not the only thing that makes you a bad man.”

“She did make her interest apparent. But truly, I don’t even remember her name. I did nothing to ‘muss her hair,’ rest assured.”

“ Hmph. ” Her hands glide up and down the steering wheel restlessly.

“You must think very little of me, sweet girl,” I say gravely, “to believe I would say to you what I did outside as we waited for your car, then make love to another woman.”

She shrugs. “The person I thought you were back in March would do exactly that.”

“And we were wrong about each other,” I say simply.

She shoots a glare my way. “How were you wrong about me ?”

“You thought me incapable of love. I thought the same of you, for different reasons.”

Phaedra is silent for a long minute, and I don’t press her.

“Hey, wanna know something about my Romanian studies?” she finally asks.

Assuming she’s changing the subject, I hide a sigh. “Yes, of course.”

“I learned something about myself. According to the app’s analytics, I’ve got over two hundred hours of practice. And I’m getting pretty damned good at reading it. No surprise there—it’s mechanics. Patterns, data. But the skill where I totally suck?”

She waits for me to say it. Because we both know.

“Speaking,” I supply quietly.

She points sideways at me without looking. “ Ding ding ding! Winner!” Shaking her head with a wry laugh, she adds, “And also listening. I’m shit at talking and listening—the symbolism couldn’t be more fucking apt.”

There are many things I wish to say. But with a defeating weight, the reality of our situation crushes them out of me. It doesn’t matter that we were improving these skills, “practicing” with each other, and it doesn’t matter that we fell in love by pretending. The die has been cast, and we must now move on.

“It didn’t make me a very good girlfriend, Cos. But I’m going to be a good owner. It’s what Mo wanted, and he obviously expected me to make sacrifices for it. Which is why…” She throws a pained glance my way.

“Please, tell me.”

Her hands tighten on the steering wheel, the knuckles going pale.

“I need you to get used to Lars as your race engineer. I shouldn’t be back on the pit wall. I’ll be working as a non-trackside developmental engineer next season. Unless, uh, circumstances necessitate a more business-focused role as owner. In which case I’d be working from the US offices.”

The boundaries have been drawn. And what hurts me the most, perhaps, is that Phaedra was the one to choose them. The distance between us will only increase.

I reach for her hand and squeeze it briefly. “I understand.”

She starts to squeeze back just as I’m pulling away. I almost take her hand again, but don’t. Our timing seems destined to be wrong in every respect.

For the next mile we ride in silence, pretending to examine the scenery while reflecting on the futility of our situation. Our feelings for each other are still there—I doubt even Phaedra would deny it, however pragmatic she’s trying to appear—and like the aftermath of a flood, the landscape cannot instantly revert to what it was. Friendship will take time.

The diner is everything I hoped it would be when I looked it up online this morning, and for a moment after we’ve parked, all I can do is stare.

“Jesus, Ardelean,” Phaedra teases. “You look like a kid who’s spied Santa from across the mall and is going to sit on his lap for the first time. It’s like…” She leans back with an assessing squint. “A combination of starstruck and disbelief and greed.”

I angle an impish smile at her. “You know me too well.”

As I begin to open my door, Phaedra does too, and I lay a hand on her shoulder.

“Please wait—allow me. I want to do this exactly how I imagined.”

Her eyebrows lift in perplexity, but she pulls her door closed. I get out and walk around the huge car, then open her door, extending a hand. Her eyes glint with amusement as she pauses before accepting. I tuck her fingers into the crook of my elbow and lead her to the front door of the diner, opening it to usher her through.

A middle-aged woman behind the counter pivots to call through the service window, “Carl! It’s the guy. The one you showed me the picture of.”

A sturdy man with a mustache hurries from the kitchen.

“I’ll be smoked,” he says. Steering the woman our way, he offers a hand to shake. “Carl and Debbie Moore. Real honored to make your lunch today.” He points one thumb over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Found a basket and the right kind of blanket and everything.”

His wife pinches her lips into a line. “You ‘found’ it? In my craft room, along with one of my best—”

He stops her with a squeeze. “For a thousand-dollar lunch , baby, we can buy another basket for your knitting, and a whole stack of plaid blankets.” He gives us a toothy smile. “She don’t mind—honest.”

“Would you like a pass to the race on Sunday?” Phaedra offers.

The man’s eyes go wide as the woman’s narrow. He’s about to reply when his wife cuts in, “We have to keep this place humming on weekends, but thank you kindly.”

Phaedra looks at me, and I know exactly what she’s thinking.

“How much does your restaurant typically make on a Sunday?” I ask.

The woman’s expression softens. “Aw, just listen to that pretty accent. Where’d you say you’re from? You sound Eye-talian.”

“Romania,” I tell her. “But you have a fine ear; the languages are a bit similar.”

The man leans toward his wife. “Deb, we don’t—”

She shushes him. “On a busy Sunday, we can make twelve hundred,” she tells me.

“Deb…” the man ventures.

“Get the basket, Carl.”

He pauses only a moment before slipping into the back.

The woman steps behind the cash register. “Cash or card?”

“Card, please.” I withdraw my wallet.

Phaedra exchanges a smile with me, and it’s the happiest I’ve felt in months.

I hold the card out. “Please run it for twenty-five hundred. Twelve for lunch and gratuity, and thirteen for Sunday, so you can close and attend the grand prix.” I tip my head sideways, indicating Phaedra. “This is team owner Phaedra Morgan. She’ll arrange for your pass.”

The woman swipes the card, eyeing Phaedra. “Lady business owner, eh?”

“You and I both ,” Phaedra tells her. “Your diner is adorable.” She looks up at me, eyes shining. “The perfect slice of Americana.”

We drive to a small lake nearby and spread the blanket beneath a tree that looks straight out of a cowboy film. Phaedra insists on laying out the food while I lounge and watch.

“If you’re gonna go legit Mad Men on this,” she tells me with a saucy wink, “the lady needs to serve you. It’s just a shame we don’t have the right outfits.” She removes the first plate and unwraps it.

“You look lovely in anything you wear,” I tell her, leaning back on my hands.

“ Psh! Whatevs.” She pokes her tongue out at me and extracts another dish from the basket. “Apple pie, potato salad… holy shit, they really committed to the ‘classic picnic’ script—they even wrapped the sandwiches in wax paper.” She examines them. “Tuna, egg, good ol’ PB and J.” Peeling the foil off another dish, she laughs. “Awwww! Precious. Your appetizers, sir.” She hands me a length of celery stuffed with a white paste and raisins. “Ants on a log.”

I take a bite and consider while I chew. “What is this substance?”

“Cream cheese.”

I inspect it. “What flavor of cheese is it meant to be?”

“It doesn’t technically have a flavor. Milk , I guess?”

She sets a filled plate between us, then flops onto her stomach. Her long shirt flips up as she lands, and I can’t resist admiring her round ass.

“I’m not fond of this item,” I say, laying the celery aside. “But the view would make anything palatable.”

She pulls the shirt down. “Hilarious.”

We eat our lunch and talk business, and the conversation is surprisingly comfortable despite the clear-but-unacknowledged fact that we’d be undressing each other on this blanket under different circumstances.

I finish a glass of lemonade and lie back, hands behind my head.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” I say to Phaedra, “that your advice concerning Viorica was very intuitive, and much appreciated.” I study the patterns of branches over us, and the gray clouds that have crept up. “She is marrying the man I mentioned. Grigore.”

“The ‘villain’?” Phaedra asks cautiously.

I nod. She rotates to lie down perpendicular to me, propping her head on my chest in an amiable way.

“Is she, like, happy?”

“I believe so. Grigore agreed to everything she requested: a small ceremony at Vlasia House, lavish food and gifts for the children and staff, and for construction on the new buildings to begin immediately.”

I brush a bit of Phaedra’s hair off her cheek.

“Things between Rica and me could have been very different, had I not heeded your advice and learned to listen better. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“Meh.” She shrugs and chases my fingertip away, but then clasps it as I’m withdrawing. “You’re welcome. Hope it works out well for them.”

My heart is beating hard from the way she’s grasping my index finger, and I’m sure she must hear it with her cheek pressed against me. A little smile flickers at one corner of her lips.

“Thank you for today,” she says quietly.

“It’s entirely selfish.”

“Bullshit, Ardelean. You not only made my day with the car and the picnic, but between the money and the race pass, that couple at the diner will never stop talking about this.”

She’s still holding my forefinger, so I use my pinky to trace a line down her nose. “You gave them the tickets.”

“We worked together on it.”

“A good team.”

Her mouth scrunches to one side, rueful. “In some ways.” She brings the tip of my finger to her lower lip and makes one quick touch that isn’t a kiss. “Not in the ways we wished.”

“I don’t know if I agree.” I touch her lip again. “It worked well, but life had other plans.”

A tense minute passes as I continue to touch her face, and she allows it. Her lips part and I can’t resist putting my finger inside to the first joint, sweeping her tongue as her lips close around me for just an instant.

She pushes upright and backs away, on her knees on the blanket.

“Cosmin.”

“I know…”

I’m about to apologize when the clamor of sudden rain hits the leaves above us, and we both look up.

“Fuck!” Phaedra begins scrambling to pack everything into the basket, and I help.

As we reach for a cup at the same time, her forehead hits my cheekbone, and we both recoil with a yelp and a laugh. I bundle the blanket and follow as Phaedra dashes for the car. By the time we put the picnic things into the trunk, we’re half soaked. The rain is so fierce, the surface of the nearby lake boils dark as a stormy sea.

I jerk the back door open. Without hesitation Phaedra dives across the bench seat and I leap in after her, dragging the heavy door shut behind us.

She rakes damp hair away from her face, then presses her fingers to her forehead.

“Ow,” she says with a wince. “You okay?”

I touch my cheek. “It’s tender, but I doubt it will bruise.”

Phaedra reaches into the foot well and pulls off her sneakers, followed by the socks. “If it does, I can tell everyone you put the moves on me and I decked you.”

She rises onto her knees and comes toward me across the massive seat, turning my head toward the light.

“Yeah, you’re fine,” she pronounces, inspecting.

I trap her hand against my cheek, and her smile flattens into something grave.

“Hey, Cos?”

“Yes, sweet one.” I snake one hand around her thigh and shift her to straddle my lap.

Her other hand joins the first, cradling my jaw. She licks her lips, and we watch each other for a long time.

Her gaze darts from one of my eyes to the other.

“What happens in the car stays in the car, right?” she murmurs.

“Agreed.”

She’s already peeling her clothes off before I’ve finished the word. She strips, then climbs back onto my lap and twists the buttons of my shirt apart. I’m wrestling with my jeans to free myself and arch up to push them out of the way, lifting her in the process.

“Nice core strength,” she jokes, clinging to my shoulders.

When I set her down, she reaches between her legs and her chilled hand wraps around my cock. I gasp with both the pleasure and cold. Her icy touch is replaced by slick heat as she impales herself with a moan, then throws her arms around my neck, pressing her tits against me.

She goes still, panting shallowly, one fist tangled in my hair. Her delicious little cunt is a hot vise, and I slide my arms around her and hold her tight, burying my face in the curve of her neck, savoring her scent.

My hands weave into her hair, tipping her head so our eyes meet. “We aren’t leaving this car,” I tell her.

“That”—she bites my shoulder—“is a brilliant but impractical plan, as someone once told me.”

I drag my fingertips along the warm valley of her spine, and a shiver goes through her. She tightens on me, and I groan.

“There’s enough food in that basket for days.” I slide my hands under her ass and begin to guide her up and down, staring into her eyes as we roll against each other in hot waves. “And it will take me at least that long to fuck you every way I want.”

When I dip to lick one of her nipples, she pushes against my mouth, raising her arms over her head and bracing her hands on the car’s ceiling. I suck and flick until her soft whimpers are rhythmic with our movement.

The sweet juice of her pools around my cock, and her head is tipped at an angle, lashes swept closed, lost in arousal. Everything about this woman is irresistible. I never want to stop looking at her.

Reaching for me, nearing her peak, she goes quiet in the way I recall well—a lull so intense that to me it’s a symphony.

“Are you going to come for me, gorgeous girl?”

Her hands tense, the right fisting my hair while the left digs into my bicep.

I drop a hand between us and massage her clit. She bucks against my hand, her muscles seizing me inside as a gasp escapes her.

“Uita-te la ochii mei,” I say, directing her to look at me.

She shakes her head, brow furrowing in resistance. I pinch her clit between my fingers and she cries out, then shivers.

“Eyes on me if you want to come. Or should I keep you at the edge while you tremble and beg?” Her lips are parted and I grasp her chin, putting my thumb against her lower lip. “Shall I stop? How much do you need it?”

She takes my thumb into her mouth, stroking it with her tongue, reminding me exactly how good she is with my cock. Her eyes open, locking on mine, and I smile.

“You’re enticing me, hm? Making promises with your hot, wet mouth like the shameless girl you are?” I pull my thumb from her lips. “Two can play at that game.” I rub her clit upward, feathering against her favorite spot. “I could hold you down and taste this sweet fruit until you sob for release.”

I pinch her clit again and the hand she now has at the back of my head all but tears my hair. I give one side of her plump ass a smack and push down on her thighs, freezing her in place, my gaze riveted on hers.

“My God, how I’ve wanted you always. Since the first moment we met.” My hands splay, and I move both thumbs to tease her where she’s stretched wide around me. “I cannot give you up, draga mea. You say it doesn’t leave this car, but you’re everywhere with me already—in my head, in my heart, in my fucking soul.”

Her thighs tense as she tries to rock against me and find her climax. With a cruel grin I shake my head. I stroke down her arms, move them behind her back, and manacle her wrists with one hand, then tuck my other between us again, gently teasing her swollen flesh.

“The price?” I taunt. “Your mouth on mine when you come. Don’t think it’s escaped my notice that you haven’t kissed me.”

“No.” Her reply is so quiet over the drumming of the rain that I only see the shape of it.

I squeeze her wrists, and she sucks in a gasp through clenched teeth.

“I know your games—how you hold back, how you hide.” My voice is dark, and I realize that as intensely as I love her in this moment, there’s anger too. Anger for everything she can’t give and at myself for wanting her to give it anyway.

Her nostrils flare and her eyes glitter. “No kissing.”

My temper breaks, and I hate myself as I throw the words at her. “Is it because you don’t want to, or because you do ? Not brave enough?”

Her look is murder. “Fuck you, Ardelean!”

She rips her wrists from my grasp and starts to climb off my lap, and I wrap her in my arms. After one half-hearted shrug of resistance, she softens.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into her hair, stroking her back.

“We can’t take it with us, Cosmin—it has to stay here. And we can’t keep flirting with danger, finding excuses to be alone.”

She pulls back and clasps my face.

“And yes, I shouldn’t kiss you, because I fucking want to . When we’re like this I’d wreck everything for you. And that’s exactly what terrifies me. Don’t you understand?”

“Yes. Forgive me.”

She watches my eyes intently for a long minute, then begins to move on my cock.

I touch her again at our juncture, asking, “Tell me what you want. Your desire, your command. Anything, everything.”

Her eyes flutter closed again. “It’s too good,” she breathes. “Why do you have to feel this good?” She presses close and slides her nipples up and down my chest as she thrusts against me.

“We’re this good together. It’s us—it’s always been us…”

She tucks her forehead into my shoulder, and I know she’s afraid to look at me. Her body is curved like a bow as she moves faster, panting. Her thighs tremor and her frantic thrusting slows into near stillness as I feel the tide of orgasm crash through her, milking me hard with spasms as she gasps out, “ Fuckfuckfucknoooo… ”

To my shock, she slides her cheek along mine and positions her lips to kiss me hard—I feel the moaning tail end of her words in my mouth. I open my lips with a joy and sorrow that bewilders me as her tongue searches for my own.

Her hips rock back and forth, and I’m not sure if it’s another climax or a lingering continuation of the first, but a fresh cry—louder—vibrates between our mouths, and she sucks my lower lip with a groan as the final shudder rattles through her.

For a minute she catches her breath, face buried against my neck, and I graze a hand up and down her back. When she finally looks at me, her eyes are full of tears and her teeth are clenched as if she’s cold.

“Cos,” she begins, shaking her head as if in apology.

I cradle her face and kiss her. “Sweet one.”

Her look is panic. “I can’t stay. I have to go home. I’m going home , Cosmin. If I don’t, this’ll keep happening, and it can’t .”

“No.”

“I’ll fly back to Charlotte tomorrow. Klaus is right—”

“No!”

I flip her onto her back on the seat and re-enter her roughly. For a moment I’m terrified I’ve crossed a line, but her legs wrap around my waist and she claws at me, squeezing her eyes shut with a groaning “ Yes, more… ”

I fuck her hard, bracing both hands on her head to protect her as my angry grunts punctuate each thump of her pounding against the door. She gasps and cries out with every brutal thrust, writhing against me. Her legs open, one pressing the back of the front seats as she splays herself greedily, raking my ass to pull me in deeper.

Her little tits jostle between us, and I’m barely human, lost in something almost like animal bloodlust, nailing her in place with my cock. My jeans, halfway down, bite into my thighs.

The litany of things I babble in Romanian is so filthy that I hope she never learns such words. I’m owning her completely with my body as my voice tightens a net of rage and desire around her so she’ll never escape.

With a desperate roar I spill into her, slamming deep and docking there, grinding her into submission. My fists are in her hair, and I crush a kiss to her mouth.

“You’re not leaving—do you hear me? We earned each other, for good or ill.”

Tears are sliding back along her temples, and she nods, eyes wide. I press light kisses to the salty tracks and lick her grief from my lips.

“I’m yours, draga mea. Ruin me if you must, but never leave .”

She chokes out a sob, covering her face.

“No tears, my love.” I gather her in my arms and twist so she’s lying on top of me, where she goes limp, melting into my every contour so our bodies are seamless. I breathe in our combined scent.

The next morning, I discover she’s checked out of the hotel and flown home.