Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Anton

I stop myself heading to Juan's yacht.

I don't want to be there. The old Anton might have, but…

The old Anton. Ha.

Weak , my father's voice whispers in my head. Always so weak. No wonder you fail. Can't even stand up to a woman.

Gritting my teeth, I head instead for isolation. I need to get my head wrapped around the chaos storming in it. I need to process everything I'm feeling, thinking. Wanting…

I reach my motor home in the Paddock a few moments later. Unless someone is dying, my motor home is off-limits during the Grand Prix race weekend pandemonium. It's my sanctuary, my place to reset. The Equis team know this.

Weak, the insidious voice sneers. Gutless. Chicken.

Fists bunched, I stop at the bottom step, bend over and, hands planted on my knees, scream at the ground.

It helps. I think.

No, it doesn't. It's my voice in my head this time. My thoughts. Going back to the meeting, looking Charlotte in the eyes, telling her what you're feeling—that is what you need to ?—

Someone grabs my upper arm and yanks me around to face them, and all the heat vanishes from the world.

Charlotte glares at me, rage and indignation and confusion warring on her beautiful face. "What the fuck is your problem, Laurant?"

I stare at her. Devour the serious lines of her eyebrows, the perfection of her wide eyes, the upturned tilt of her nose, the smattering of freckles across her cheeks. How can it be? To feel so much for someone I barely know?

"Well?" she snarls, releasing my arm and taking a step back, crossing her arms over her breasts. "What's the excuse? Too full of yourself to acknowledge when someone knows something you?—"

"I'm not worthy of you," I state.

She blinks. Frowns. Opens her mouth and closes it again. Her frown deepens, and my heart aches. I want to kiss it away.

"What?" She shakes her head, taking another step back. "What?"

"I mistreated when you joined Equis," I say, a heavy thickness in my throat. "I disrespected you. I ignored you."

"Yes." She narrows her eyes at me. "You did. Thanks for that, by the way."

The sharpness in her reply cuts, and I drag my hands through my hair, puffing out a choppy breath. I'm failing at this. At what I'm trying to say. There's an ache in my chest. No, in my heart . "I'm not worthy of you, Charlotte," I repeat. "You are incredible."

Her lips part, and her frown disappears, replaced with an emotion I wish I could understand. But how can I? Thanks to my father, I've spent my life concerned only with myself, un…unopened? Is that the word? No, closed off to everyone else. Protecting myself even as I grew more isolated from connection.

Her frown returns, and she shakes her head again. "I don't… What are you saying?"

Another sigh escapes me. English isn't my first language, and I'm struggling to articulate what I want to say. "The second I saw you, Charlotte, punching into the bag with my face on it, things…shifted."

She opens her mouth, but I hold up my finger. "I wanted you," I continue. "On a physical level. More than I've ever wanted anyone. Or anyt hing . I thought it was just lust, until I listened to you, really listened to you, in the meeting, and I saw everything you are. You're not just an object to lust after. You're smart and passionate and committed." I swallow, my mouth dry. "Everything I am not."

Her forehead furrows, and she takes a step toward me. "Anton…"

"I realised," I say, "listening to you in the meeting, that I am everything my father said I was—a failure who got lucky." My shoulders slump, and here I am, at the crux of my anguish. "I don't deserve to be in the same space as you."

Her frown deepens. "Anton…" she repeats, her voice a husky whisper. "What the hell am I meant to do with that?"

I shrug, even though what I want to say is, please, give me a chance .

"Perhaps," she says, closing the distance between us again, her gaze holding my motionless, "I could do this?"

Her fingertips trace up my jaw, over my temples, and as I suck in a sharp breath, she draws my head down to hers.

"If it's okay with you?" she whispers, her lips brushing mine.

For an answer, I slide my hands around her waist, pull her to my body and kiss her.

She moans into my mouth, the sound igniting an urgency in me I've never experienced before. Tearing my lips from hers, I gaze down into her eyes. "Come inside with me, chérie," I say.

Lips curling, she lets out a low hmm and tightens her fists in my hand. "So we can talk racing tactics?"

My cock throbs and I press my forehead to hers, my own lips stretching into a smile I know is part filthy, part elated. "So I can make you come over and over and over."

She pulls away from me, takes my hand, and leads me into my motor home.

I yank her back to me the second the door closes behind us, my lips crushing hers, my hands tugging at her clothes. She does the same, tiny noises vibrating in the back of her throat as her tongue slides against mine. Her fingers pop the buttons of my shirt, and she smooths her hands over my skin, flicking one of my nipples with her thumb, and I groan into her mouth. She responds by raking her nails down my abs to the waistband of my jeans, releasing the button and lowering the zip of my fly.

My erection springs free, jutting out of my jeans, and she wraps her fingers around its turgid length.

A ragged groan bursts from me, and I move my lips down to the column of her throat, nipping and biting until I get to the curve of her shoulder. "I need you naked, chérie. Now."

"I love how you call me that," she murmurs, squeezing my cock.

"Less talk." I nibble a path to the little dip below her ear. "More nakedness."

She laughs, and steps backward, arching one eyebrow. "Well?"

I move. Fast. Removing her clothes, tossing them over my shoulder. She laughs, and then moans as I explore every inch of her creamy skin I reveal. Her breasts are incredible, the curve of her hips sublime. I draw one dusky nipple into my mouth, sucking on it with a hunger I can't deny.

She fists her hands in my hair again, making low sounds of desire that turns my already hard length to a straining rod.

I can't wait. But I have to. I'm not going to destroy what this is becoming, what it might be, by rushing her, no matter how much I ache to be inside?—

"Your turn," she declares, and before I know it, she's pushing me onto my back on the motor home's bed.

She strips my jeans down my legs, laughing again when they get caught on my boots. "Oh, for the love of…" she mutters, yanking them off my feet and casting them aside. My socks follow. She lifts a playful eyebrow at me. "Are you ticklish, Laurant?"

Fingers curling around my right ankle, she lifts my foot and blows a gentle stream of cool air on my sole.

A strangled chuckle bubbles from me, and I shake my head even as my cock pulses. "Oui, oui, chérie." I grip the bedding beneath me. If I don't, I will grab her and pull her down onto my body and claim her completely. "I am ticklish."

Delight and triumph fill her eyes, and she slowly traces a line from my heel to the base of my middle toe with her fingertip.

Wicked, delicious sensations flay through me, and I moan, the reaction becoming a laugh as she repeats the caress again.

"Chérie…" I plead, my erection so hard it aches. Fuck, I want her more than breath. "S'il te plait… Please…"

She pauses, a stillness falling over her. An emotion darkens her eyes, and she looks like she's about to say something.

I think I'm falling in love with you, Anton.

I grow still, my blood hot, my head buzzing at the notion. Love? Charlotte Madigan, in love with me? If only I were to be so fortunate.

Because I think I'm falling in love with her.

My heart hammers into my throat at the realization.

I am. It's absurd, impossible. But I am.

"Charlotte," I say, her name a raw plea for everything I've never realised I wanted until now.

Her chest rises with a shaky breath and, lips parting, she climbs onto the bed, straddles my hips and aligns herself over the jutting tip of my cock. "Anton," she says, her stare on mine. "This…" Her eyes flutter close for a heartbeat before she looks at me again.

And I am hers.

The pleasure, the passion, the raw trust and honesty in her eyes… I am hers.

Forever.

"Je suis à toi pour toujours, Charlotte Madigan," I say, my throat thick and my heart racing as I smooth my hands to her hips.

"Forever," she echoes in English, and slowly impales herself on my length.