Bad Boy's Last Race (5 page)

My grin widens. “I made a
conscious decision
—”

“Of course you did.” She slides down the arm of the couch and faces me now. Progress. “Delusions of grandeur, narcissistic behavior . . . You’re quite the head case, Jagger.” She darts one finger out, tentatively, and pushes it against the neck of my beer bottle. I raise an eyebrow at her and offer her the bottle. She nods and takes a swig, her legs sliding over mine.

Now that’s
much
better. I cup a hand on her knee and stroke the soft, creamy skin of her thigh. “I’ve been racing since I was fourteen. Before I even had a license.”

“Needed an escape that badly, huh?” she asks.

I shrug. “It was a good excuse to get out of the house. And I was good at it.”

Sophie hands the beer back to me. “Why? Was home somewhere you needed to escape from?”

God damn. This girl doesn’t miss a thing. I’ll have to be extra careful around her. But then again, I think, my hand slipping between her knees, I don't want to be
too
careful. “You could say that. But it’s not important. Drazic found me, cleaned me up, made me into the finely-tuned machine I am today.” I flex, and she grins again. “All right. Your turn.”

Her smile slips and she glances away. For a second, I think she’s going to dart, but then she leans in. “Nah. I’m pretty boring. No underground racing clubs.” She looks back at me. “I’m finishing up my master’s in psychology and thought I’d take some time away from campus to work on my thesis here. Spend some time with my sister.”

She’s still so tense. I ease my hand up her thigh, eyebrow raised, waiting for her to tell me to stop. But she sighs, soft, and relaxes into my touch, welcoming it. “So you’re psychoanalyzing me right now, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

She props her head on my shoulder, and her legs part. I let my fingers brush up her thigh. God, she feels so velvety and warm.

Sophie drums one finger against her lips. “I can sense that you are sexually frustrated—”

I groan and adjusted my legs to keep from poking her with my rapidly-tenting jeans.

“If I were Freud,” Sophie says, “I would say that all your frustration derives from unresolved feelings for your mother.”

I laugh, straight from my gut. “Not even close.”

Sophie smiles like a cat and I let my fingers work their magic for a minute longer. Teasing up toward her panties. Then she slides around me, right into my lap, her thighs bracing mine, her face before me. I groan again, hard as granite. My hand is still trapped between us, so I slide it under the hem of her shirt and up her soft abdomen, then cup one breast. My thumb traces a slow circle around her nipples. God, I just want to bite it, so ripe like an apple, begging for my teeth . . .

“Then what do you fantasize about?” Sophie’s breath washes over me, warm and intoxicating. “I thought I was just a quick lay to you. And I was fine with that. But you . . . you’re persistent.”

“There’s something different about you,” I say. And I realize it’s the fucking truth. “You got under my skin, in my head . . .” I tugs her sweater over her head, and she lifted her arms up to help me. “It’s like I’m drunk off of you. How clever you are, smart as a whip.”

Sophie’s fingers slide between us and she eases open the fly of my jeans. I can’t take it any longer. I press my mouth to her breast and suck at her soft flesh. Heaven. And the soft, dainty moan she makes only drives me on. She eases my cock out from my jeans and holds it in her iron grip. She’s fished a condom out from somewhere and slowly rolls it onto my shaft.

“I like that,” Sophie murmurs. “I like seeing you desperate.”

I shudder as she strokes me. What is it about this girl that drives me so wild? Everything I told her, and yet so much more. I can’t put a name to it. And it’s becoming a real problem.

I mean, if I, Jagger Richards, can’t keep up my reputation as the sleaziest racer on the planet, then who am I?

Sophie shoves her skirt up over her hips and pressed her lips to mine. She tastes like cherries, juicy and sharp. I suck her lower lip between my teeth and nibbled, and she squeezes my shaft harder in return.

Oh. I’m the guy who gets to fuck this wild woman. Well, I guess I can live with that for now.

“Is this okay?” she asks, angling her hips above me.

I groan. Like there’s any other response. I lean forward, dying to feel her fucking squeezing me once more.

She sinks her hips onto mine. I groan as I slide into her, every inch of her tight pussy like a fist around me. Oh,
fuck.

“You feel so fucking good,” I growl, low in her ear. I grab her by the hips and help her as she bounces up and down, those gorgeous tits jiggling, my cock ramming inside of her.

Sophie laughs. “I’m just getting started. Hope you can keep up.”

I shudder. What the fuck is this girl doing to me? She arches her back and tosses her hair over her shoulder as a look of sheer bliss washes over her.

“I know you can go faster than that.” Her voice is low and warm. She nips at my shoulder. “Show me, racer boy.”

I tighten my jaw and slam into her, hard as I can. It’s all I can do not to lose control, she feels so fucking good, but I want—
need
—to feel her come. Know that she’s enjoying this as much as I am. I bare my teeth and count backwards, but all I can think about is her velvet grip. My hands knead her hips, savoring that silky feel of her skin.

Her pink lips round and she cries into my ear. “Fuck me,” she gasps. She tenses around me, like she’s determined to get me off right fucking now. But I’m not quite done with her yet.

I hoist her off of me and turn her around so she’s bent over the coffee table. “Shit,” Sophie gasps. “Yes. Ram me from behind.”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice. She braces her arms on the tabletop and I thrust into her from behind, each pulse sending her gorgeous breasts swaying. What a glorious sight, her ripe ass, her tiny waist, her shoulders, like she’s an ivory violin. I brace her against me with one hand, then with the other, teasing her sweet clit. We rock back and forth, slower than before but more forceful, and I wait until I felt her right on the verge.

Then I grit my teeth, a primal grunt tearing out of me, and lose myself in the release as she does the same.

* * *

M
uch later that night
, with Sophie curled into my arms in her cramped little bed, she feathers her fingers against her face. “Hey, sexy.”

“Hey, you.” I roll over toward her, pinning her beneath me. She laughs and nips at my nose.

“You ever sleep with the same girl twice before?” she whispers. “Or is this a new thing for you?”

“Hmm. I suppose it’s pretty new. But I think I’m a fan.”

“Yeah?” she asks, those blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

I brush her hair back from her face and nibble at her ear lobe. “As a matter of fact . . . I’d be willing to try for a third.”

With a laugh, she rolls me over again, straddling me. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I
wake
up to a hand coiled around my waist.

At first I nearly jump out of my skin, but then I remember—Jagger. He’s here, in Ridgecrest, and we’d—oh, fuck. I slept with him again last night. Several times, in fact. Stupid, stupid. Not that it was a bad time—far from it—but this is
exactly
the sort of shit I don’t need to add to my already heaping shit plate—

“Hey, gorgeous.” Jagger nuzzles his nose against my throat from behind me, scratchy with the faintest hint of stubble, and pulls me closer. I melt into his embrace. He makes it all too easy. In an instant, I’m cradled against the now-familiar curve of his abdomen, and it feels like home. His hand runs in a slow circle against my bare stomach, and his sturdy bicep muscles tense against my ribs.

I go with it, against my better judgment and the best kind of soreness in my thighs. “Hey, handsome.” No sense in lying. He’s smoking hot, a filthy talker, and even better, he actually has the skills to back it up. He can put his money where his mouth was, that’s for sure. His . . . mouth . . . the one that’s slowly sucking at my neck, while his fingers slide down my stomach and tease between my legs . . .

“Last night was fun,” Jagger murmurs in my ear. “But I’m interested in some breakfast.”

His fingers slipped between my legs and press toward my center, and I suck in my breath. Fuck. I’m already soaking wet, my hips grinding against his touch. I don’t want to get turned on. I don’t want to deal with him right now—I have so much shit to do today, it isn’t even funny. But his touch, his mouth, and even that growing hardness I feel wedged right at my spine—He makes it
so
fucking hard to say no.

Jagger rolls me onto my back and crouches over me, his warm brown eyes gleaming with something
very
, very mischievous. “In fact . . .” He plants one kiss on my stomach, just below my belly button. “I think I’ll start . . .” He lowers his kiss, making something deep in my belly tighten. “Right here.”

For one second, I let myself imagine how it might feel to have his mouth on me. His fingers are like magic, I’ve already learned, and his tongue is nothing short of miraculous. A fire stokes low inside of me at the thought. I should really say no. Kick him out of bed right now and get on with my day. Get on with my
life.
I came to Ridgecrest to get away from complications, and getting mixed up with this fucking punk racer is nothing but a complication.

But then his warm breath glides over my skin and, oh, fuck, I’m so wet and ready and
gone.

I heave a sigh. “
Fine.
”

“Wow. Don’t act so thrilled about it.” He raises one of my legs and hooks my thigh over his shoulder for better access. His tongue darts out quick, tentative, sending a shivering moan straight through me. “Mm, on second thought, I’d say you’re more excited than you let on.”

I run my fingers over his short, buzzed hair. No point lying about it now. I arch my back as a frisson of pleasure runs through me. I want to feel that tongue again. “Please,” I whisper. “More.”

Jagger’s tongue finds the contours of my lips, leaving a burning trail in his wake. I’m burning up from the inside, overwhelmed with how fucking good he feels. With one hand, I tighten my grip on his head, and the other clutches at the rumpled sheets around us. That fire in me is burning hotter and hotter, threatening to scald me. As he sucks at my clit, I feel just about ready to explode—

And then all at once, I shatter. Pleasure explodes through me. My whole body is tingling and alive with climax. My toes curl and my knees buckle of their own will as the pleasure ripples out. I tip my head back, lost until I can pull myself back together, and pant for air to speak.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” Jagger says. “Mm. And taste.” He licks his lips, watching me with a devious grin, and pulls himself to his feet.

He towers over me, all six feet of him naked and on glorious display. His lean muscles, his tattoos, his thick cock, already stirring. I drink it all in, right down to his wry smile as he holds his hand out to me.

That’s when I know I’m addicted. To his wit, his attitude, and the easy, cheerful gusto with which he leaps into bed with me like it’s a goddamned gift. It could be so easy to make this a
thing
. To keep fucking that tight, luscious body and kissing that smug, devilish face. A part of me aches for it. Something fun, normal, and drama-free.

But that isn’t my life. That isn’t me. Not yet. Fuck fate, that fickle bitch. I just can’t give in until I’m sure I’ve broken free.

“How about some real food?” Jagger asks, as he slides into his tight jeans. “Peggy’s Diner serves the most amazing French toast . . .”

I groan and roll over so I won’t have to look at him. If I’m looking at him, I’m worried I might not be able to resist. “I’m not the kind of girl you take to breakfast.”

He snarls with frustration. “C’mon, Soph. I thought we’d gotten past that.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, but refuse to look back at him.

He sighs. “Okay. I get it. You’re just interested in messing around.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I . . . I really shouldn’t be doing that, either.”

“Shouldn’t be? What the fuck do you mean,
shouldn’t
?” His feet stomp into his boots. “Actually, you know what? Never mind. I don’t need to know.”

My hands make fists at my sides, but I refuse to move. I stare at the cramped garage apartment that’s my home now—my penance for getting ahead of myself in the past.

“I really like you, Sophie. You’re a little wild, to be sure, but you’re fun and clever and hot as hell and I just thought that maybe—Nah. It’s not important.”

“What’s not important?” I glance back just in time to see him shaking his head.

“Let me in, Sophie.” He steps back from the mattress, his hands raised defensively. “Or let me out.”

I count to ten, gripping the rumpled sheets. Don’t say something you’ll regret, Sophie. There are so many things we can’t take back. So many things we can’t undo.

And yet here I am in Ridgecrest, living in my sister’s garage, trying to erase them anyway.

“I can’t let you in,” I whisper. For his sake
or
mine.

Jagger nods to himself, a vein throbbing alongside his throat. “All right. Well, thanks for the fun, I guess.”

And then he’s gone.

* * *

I
give
myself until the end of my shower to mope and feel sorry for myself, but the moment I step out, it’s Big Girl Panties time. I can’t just loaf around Darla’s house poking at my thesis endlessly. I never did get a chance for a work-study internship during my other semesters—it would’ve ended horrendously anyway, given everything else that was going on—so it’s past time for me to go flesh out my resume. I’ll need it for once I graduate and try to head into advanced research programs, or even a private practice.

Ridgecrest Youth Center is on the other side of the mountain, just below the decaying grid of downtown where I’d attended Jagger’s race. Its cinder block walls are cracked and webbed from shoddy foundation work, and the once sun-bright yellow paint job now looks faded and streaked. I open the door and am greeted by a distinct aroma of sweat and teenage hormones. Far from the posh, well-funded child development centers I’d visited on research projects, the unmoored youth of Ridgecrest are probably a lot more likely to tell me to fuck off than risk listening to my advice.

The receptionist hits pause on the show she’d been streaming from her phone and plucks one earbud from her ear. “May I help you?” Her tone of voice makes it abundantly clear she hopes the answer is no.

I smooth out my ankle-length skirt, still creased from spending most of its life folded in a drawer, and lace my fingers together. “Hi, yes, I’m here to meet with Mister Howard about the volunteer counselor position?”

“Oh. Sure.” She plucks the other earbud free and stands from the desk. “I’ll go see if he’s in. Have a seat.”

“Sure.”

I tuck myself into one of the garish paisley patterned chairs from the ‘70s. I can hear the sounds of shouts and shoes squealing on rubber flooring from a gymnasium somewhere; in the waiting room, a couple of tweens stare at their phones while what look to be their younger siblings squabble on the floor.

“No! It’s my turn! You’ve hogged it long enough!” the little boy cries. His greasy blonde hair is in bad need of a trim, and his shirt hangs around him like a sack.

“I don’t think so.” The girl yanks the toy—a plastic horse—away and clutches it to her chest.

I stand up and creep toward them. “Hey, guys. What seems to be the issue?”

One of the tweens—the little boy’s sister, judging by the matching blonde hair and hand-me-down clothing—gives me the side eye, but must decide I’m not a threat, because she goes right back to her phone.

“I was here first,” the girl says. “I was playing with it but he keeps trying to take it.”

I survey the toys spread around her. She had a couple of different figurines, from a superhero to another horse to some kind of crocodile-man. “And why do you want to play with that toy in particular?”

“Because I had it first!” she cries.

I glance to the boy. “And why don’t you want to play with these other toys?” I ask.

“Because they’re dumb. And some of them are broken,” he adds.

“Some, okay. But not all of them.” I crouch down between them. “Why didn’t you ask to play with her instead?”

“Because she’s weird!”

“What’s so weird about her?”

The boy wrinkles his nose at me. “You ask a lot of questions.”

I grin. “Sure do.” That’s the trick I’ve learned about kids. They love to ask why, because they’re always wanting to learn about the world around them. But I prefer to make
them
tell me about the world. Get them thinking about it, rather than just swallowing down whatever answers adults will give. It helps them figure out things for themselves better, in the long run.

Hah. Then at least one of us will have their lives figured out.

“So.” I fold my arms. “What do you think a fair solution might be?”

“Let me play with all the toys,” the girl responds instantly. The boy groans and flops onto his back, as if crushed by the weight of the world, while she giggles.

“Now, I said
fair
.” I turn to the boy. “Do you have any ideas?”

He exhales loudly. “I guess we could . . . try playing together.”

“Sounds pretty fair to me.”

“Miss Gallagher?”

I bounce to my feet and turn toward the doorway. Mr. Howard, the center’s director, is standing in the doorway, next to the assistant. The assistant smiles at me and slinks back toward her desk. There’s something in her smile that makes me raise an eyebrow—like she thinks I’m getting in over my head with the place, but also like she thinks I just might be able to handle it.

“That’s me.” I jut my hand toward Mr. Howard for a handshake. “Call me Sophie.”

“Sophie.” He smiles and shakes with a firm grip. “I’m so glad you came today.”

* * *

M
r. Howard seems pretty frazzled
, so I focus on getting him to open up more about the center’s duties and all the ways I can maybe make life less stressful for him. He genuinely seems to care about the numerous kids in Ridgecrest who come from broken homes, uncertain situations, or just plain sad lives. It isn’t all bleak—the Cartwright Foundation recently made a generous donation, and attendance with the center’s after-school programs are finally on the rise. Now we have to focus on getting the same kids to go to school in the first place.

I’m so mellowed out from a great interview that I don’t even think twice about answering my phone when it rings as I climb into my car. Is Mr. Howard already calling me back to offer me the spot? Or is it Jagger? I hit Accept on my car’s Bluetooth panel as I back out of my spot. “This is Sophie.”

“Hello, beautiful.”

I slam on the brakes in the middle of the center’s parking lot. My heart is jackhammering against my ribs; a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to throw up. I swallow down the bitter taste of bile and clench the steering wheel like I’m choking it.