Banging Wheels (2 page)

“Well... I’ve got a room.”

She looked at him, enjoying the tension, the moment just hanging there.

“Wanna join?” he asked.

This really wasn’t her kind of thing. She didn’t generally let strange men get so close to her. And this smooth-talker — he was so clearly exactly the wrong kind of guy. She should definitely say no. But now she’d let him inside her sphere of trust, it just felt so good. She could smell the subtle, manly cologne drifting up from his neck, his own masculine scent mixing in with it. Together it created a heady scent. She could already imagine her head on his chest.

“Yes,” she said, her hand flat on his chest. “I do wanna join.”

She dragged her hand across his stubbly face, and gazed into those blue eyes of his — completely open, yet so impenetrable — trying to work him out. Who was this guy?

Out in the parking lot, heading past her bike, she grabbed him by the hair and their lips came crashing together once again, launching into a deep kiss, her lips searching their way around his. He took over, pressing her against the wall of the building, then she took control back, slamming him back against the same wall, their heads locked one way, and then the other, lips connecting and reconnecting, hair being pulled, tongues going on some adventure somewhere.

Where had all this come from? It had been simmering away beneath the surface for months, but the pot was bubbling over now. Her judgment was clouded, and she knew it, but she was carried away on a feeling. Once she got set a certain way, she just couldn’t help herself — her self-control just went out the window.

A few moments later they stood in the hotel lift next to each other, along with a respectable man and woman, both in suits. Callie briefly maintained her decorum, holding fingers with the man next to her like naive sweethearts, though a glance in the mirrored side-wall showed that their hair was wild, her lipstick was smudged, and his shirt was gaping open two buttons too far.

TING — the doors opened, and the respectable couple stepped out.

The doors slid shut and their lips were once again clashing into each other.

Downstairs, the receptionist thumbed through a gossip magazine, while unnoticed, on the small bank of security monitors, a man and a woman careered down the hall in a lustful hair-pulling frenzy, bouncing off walls, scrambling through pockets for a keycard, and practically falling through the door in their mutual eagerness.

They bounced onto the bed together, in a flurry of arms and hair and unwanted clothes. His shirt was the first to go, as she climbed atop him on the bed, adrenaline surging through her, half undoing it, half ripping the damn thing apart, with at least one button pinging off for good. Her fingers gorged themselves on his chest, consumed with passion. Then it was his turn — he rolled her over and took the dominant position. She looked up at him, at eyes dripping with desire. Her biker jacket long since discarded on the floor, he started chasing kisses around her neck and down into the v-shape of her partially unbuttoned blouse. She felt the impatience in his fingers as they picked her blouse apart, revealing her creamy satin bra. She was about to lean forward, anticipating an attempt to undo it, but instead he teased it downwards. She gave an involuntary gasp as she felt her breast become exposed to the chill of the air-conditioning. Oh my God, they were so going to have sex — the anticipation was almost enough to bring her to climax on its own.

She looked at him with hunger. He caught her gaze masterfully, giving her a wicked look before licking at her nipple, its stiffness occupying his tongue. She fumbled behind her at her bra clasp, desperate to rid herself of the constraints of clothing. His hands grasped at the hems of her now unbuttoned jeans, and sought to pull them off in one clean go, without taking her panties, like someone whipping off a tablecloth and leaving all the crockery behind. She helped him, squirming her backside free, and with one leg still jean-ridden, she used all her leverage to push him back over, sitting astride him, feeling his bulge through his jeans. It throbbed beneath her, like a bike. She liked bikes, but she never ached for one like she ached for this. She ground herself against him, sensing her own moistness as she did so.

But then she was off balance again as he took control once more, kicking his own jeans off and rolling her around underneath him. She whimpered momentarily as he went from rough to delicate, his fingers coming to rest on that moist mound of hers, her flimsy satin panties the last remaining obstacle. My God, she was aching for it. Months and months of using that toy in her drawer, mechanically relieving herself like it was just another function to fulfill — wanting something more real, but not feeling like she was ready for it. But boy, did she ever feel ready for it now. She gasped again as she felt his fingers on her skin, sliding under the elastic of her underwear, teasing their way down, down, across the stubble where she had shaped her own pubic hair. Damn, she’d have gone for a wax if she’d known. Down they went until she felt them gently brushing her most intimate parts, to another giddy involuntary sound.

Within moments her satin panties lay on the floor, joined by his boxers, the hotel room now looking like a hurricane had torn through a rummage sale. He knelt proudly between her thighs, fixing her a naughty look as he unrolled a condom down the length of his shaft. Dammit, she liked a man who knew what he was doing, even if that did seem a little, well, practiced. His gaze switched between her and his own offering, guiding her eyes in one last game of anticipation.

Enough — just take me already!

Finally (finally!) he eased inside her. She gave a shudder as he slowly filled her up right up to the hilt — she was so impossibly wet that she offered no friction whatsoever. She squeezed tightly, gripping him, and felt him tense up in return, savoring the pleasure himself, before getting into a rhythm. At this point with her ex she would often reach down to touch herself, to help herself on her way, but tonight there was no need — she could already feel the waves of an orgasm lapping up her shoreline.

“Oh God! Oh God!”

Spurred on, he ground harder and deeper, letting out his own deep moans of pleasure and screwing up his eyes. He was close too, that much she could tell. Harder and faster still he went, sending her nearer and nearer. She was right on the cusp when she felt him starting to lose control, giving out great manly gasps, banging into her spasmodically. She let go, right as he exploded inside her, joining him in a frenzy of flickering eyes, open mouths and exaltation, their backs arching in some great orgasmic stretch, her mouth spilling out all kinds of noises.

Finally, she collapsed, lying there in sticky haze of fuzziness and conjoined skin. And there she lay with him for quite some time, stuck to him in a mound of sweat and lost thoughts, before drifting off into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

She woke the next morning naked and tangled up in a wreck of sheets, wondering where the hell she was, and then remembering. A double bed and the smell of vaguely-familiar man. She waved her arms about, expecting another body, but met with no obstacles, no flesh.

Ah, yeah. Okay. She’d slept with the jerk in the bar. Her mind wandered back. What the hell had she been thinking? He was exactly the opposite of what she needed in her life.

She slid to the edge of the bed. Her clothes were still strewn about the floor, but his were no longer tangled up in them. He must be in the bathroom. She slipped her panties back on and snapped her bra into place in search of some semblance of dignity, then knocked on the bathroom door. It pushed open — dark, empty. The hotel room wasn’t big and there was nothing in there — no clothes, no nothing. Not a sign that he’d even been there. Except maybe his smell on the pillow, and the sense of being used — in a good way — down below. Oh, and the sense of conflict in her head. Boy, had she needed that, even if she hadn’t admitted it to herself. But it might have been nice to wait for someone who wasn’t a jerk. And while it was nice to be spared the awkwardness of waking up next to him, and despite having regrets of her own, it still felt kind of insulting that he’d pretty much run away, especially given it was his hotel room.

She checked her phone for the time. Dammit — she couldn’t afford to be late. She slid back into her jeans, fixed her hair in the mirror, patched up last night’s lipstick, now inappropriately — or perhaps perfectly appropriately — a bright, harlot red, and prepared for the walk of shame, pulling the keycard from its housing in the wall.

The lift door opened with a TING and in there was the couple from the previous night. She walked in, defiantly upright and sophisticated. Some part of her wanted to blurt out, ‘How was the sex last night?’

“Ahem,” said the woman.

What is it? My lipstick too bright for you prissy people?

“Ahem,” she said again, more softly, her eyes guiding Callie’s down to her jeans with a kindly look of female solidarity.

Oh no! The condom wrapper was stuck to her. Callie pulled it off in a flushed terror, and let them leave the lift first.

Never, never, never again.

“Would you like to pay by cash or credit card?” said the woman at reception as she handed over the keycard.

“I’m not paying, it’s—” Dammit, what was his name? It had gone. “My partner.”

“Your partner said you were paying before he left.”

“He did?”

“Yes, Madam.”

He ran off and left me to pay for his hotel. I didn’t even know that was even possible.

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling her temper rise, “but he’s...”

An arrogant little jerk? A presumptuous asshole? Just some guy I met at the bar last night and will almost certainly never see again?

“...mistaken. You need to go ahead and charge his card.”

“I’ll do that, Madam.”

That she’d gotten out of the situation didn’t lessen her sense of annoyance. The mere fact that he’d thought it okay to try such a cheap, cheap trick was a slap in the face. What was the implication here — that it had been her privilege to sleep with him? That she somehow owed him? Or was it just that he was a massive troll? Whatever the truth, she had to snap out of this quickly — today was an important day, and she needed to face it with positivity and dignity. Despite that, as she headed out through the automatic doors, she was still digging around trying to recall his name, partly because she’d never slept with someone and not known their name before, and partly because she wanted a name to match up to her internal cursing.

Her destination was only a couple of miles away, and the bike was barely warm when she got there. She killed the engine and walked up the asphalt driveway, smoothing out her blouse as she went, her cropped leather jacket hiding the worst of the crumples. It was hardly a business position or something where appearances were paramount, but she still wanted to come across right. As herself, sure, but not as someone who doesn’t give a shit. Not slovenly. Not someone in last night’s clothes and with a condom wrapper stuck to her. A maverick, perhaps, but not a loose cannon. A professional racing driver.

The building was not large, but it was still an impressive structure, featuring copious amounts of steel and glass. Exactly the kind of office-like space that she felt out of place in. A couple of details made her feel more at home — a pristine racing engine sat in a Perspex case opposite the reception desk, and, more strikingly, at the end of the hall, a racing car, complete with sponsors’ logos. Though somehow seeing these things in this context made her feel uneasy — this sanitization of visceral objects. Engines and cars were living, breathing things that belonged in the heat and fury of the race track, not preserved in boxes like this.

“Mr. Hutton is waiting for you upstairs,” said the well-mannered young man behind reception.

“It’s exactly as we discussed over the phone,” said Travis Hutton, team boss of Travis Hutton Racing, all grey hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. “Just sign in about... oh... 657 different places and, if you haven’t collapsed by then, I’ll introduce you to your teammate.”

Her teammate. She felt her stomach tense. This was the great unknown element, and yet perhaps the most important. She’d managed to secure a drive in a good car, but your teammate is your biggest rival. That is who you will ultimately be judged against. After all, you’ve got equal equipment, so there’s nowhere to hide. You can have the best car in the world, but if you can’t beat your teammate, you’ll always be seen as second rate.