Page 19 of Faster

Chapter Twelve

“I’m not sure why you picked such a romantic spot.

” Cece said as she looked around the dining room of the slick, Michelin-star restaurant he’d snagged a last-minute reservation at.

Ethan’s girl was prickly tonight. And she would be his girl again.

After he’d gotten pole position for tomorrow’s race, the whole team had celebrated.

And then they’d been delayed by strategy meetings.

Ethan usually didn’t mind staying at the track until midnight before a race, but he was eager to leave tonight.

Before he’d cheated—it felt like another era entirely, like an ice age—she’d always pushed to the front and kissed him through his helmet when he’d gotten pole.

Today, she was at the back of the garage with her arms around her waist. The cameras couldn’t have picked it up, but he knew she wasn’t excited. She was nervous.

Ethan shrugged. “The food is good here.” The server filled his glass with sparkling water and hers with red wine. “We always come here after qualifying in Melbourne.”

She bit her bottom lip, and he wondered if it was a mistake to remind her of the traditions in their relationship. He wanted to move forward, not dwell in the past. She didn’t speak and took a long sip of her wine.

“I wanted to talk because I’ve changed my mind.” She gave him a sharp look when he said that, and ice crystals seemed to form in the air between them. “I don’t want a divorce. I want to try to give our marriage a chance.”

If she could have moved away from him, she would have. She looked at the table, not at him, when she said, “I don’t know, Ethan. I think it’s too late for that. Nothing that happened in Bahrain changed—anything.”

“I will give you whatever you need.” He grabbed her hand, needing her to feel what he was telling her, even though he couldn’t quite get the words out. “Whatever you need.”

Even Luca. If she couldn’t stay married to him without Luca being a part of her life, or a part of their life, he would give her that.

He had no idea whether he and Luca could become friends again—whether they could share her as friends, or maybe more, again.

But he would try. It ripped him up to look at him looking at her.

He wouldn’t be able to be in the sport if Cece divorced him and got together with Luca.

He would be torn apart by jealousy coming from both directions.

He would do almost anything to keep that from happening.

“I thought you were going to give me the divorce if I made things look good.” She leaned close to him, lowering her voice. “The way you were with me—I thought you hated me. I thought you wanted out too.”

He tried to ignore the knife in his gut that came along with her admitting she wanted out. “I don’t. I never did. I just acted like I did.”

It didn’t matter if she was already cheating on him with Luca. He’d cheated first, and this was his fault. But they were going to have to get a lot better at communicating if they were going to make their marriage work.

“That’s the problem with our whole marriage, Ethan.

” Cece snatched her hand away. “You decide you want something and then it happens. I never get a say over my own life. You decide that it’s boring being married, so you do some blow and fuck another woman—and I don’t give a shit that you’re foggy on the details.

You made the decision to invite your degenerate friends into our home and do drugs with them. ”

He looked down. She was right, but she was vibrating with anger right now. “We should have talked about this at the hotel.”

If her eyes could have ejected fire, they would have. “You wanted to do it here, at a restaurant I love and would like to be able to return to, so that I wouldn’t blow up at you. Because you know that what you’re asking for is selfish.”

“I saw you looking at him.” Her head snapped back as though he’d hit her.

He wanted to take it back. He sounded ridiculous.

He’d cheated, but now he was jealous. Maybe she was right, and he was a jealous asshole who didn’t deserve her.

Actually, she was definitely correct in that assessment.

But couldn’t she give him credit for trying?

“Looking at who?” She’d decided to play innocent? Fuck that.

“Luca.” The name dropped like a stone in the middle of the table. “Do you want to fuck Luca to get back at me?”

She snorted out a laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bloody hell. This was a mistake. If she wasn’t admitting to wanting him, then something was definitely going on.

Right underneath his nose. “You’re going to get caught.

” He leaned closer and took her hand again.

“Neither of you can hide your emotions for shit, and you’re going to get caught.

I’m the one with the strategy, remember?

That’s how I won you in the first place. ”

“I’m not a fucking trophy.”

He wanted to hurt her, so he cocked his head to the side and said, “Aren’t you?”

“I guess that’s why you put me in a dusty case and forgot about me after winning me.

” Part of him was thrilled at her anger.

It wasn’t exactly what he craved, but it was more passion than she’d shown for him in ages.

“Fuck you, Ethan. If anything was going on with Luca—and there isn’t —it’s your fault. You started this.”

It was true. He was the one who treated her like a prize instead of the treasure that she was. But that didn’t dissipate his agitation. “I might not have started this if you’d actually paid attention to our marriage in the past six months.”

Her pupils were blown wide on pure adrenaline. He’d seen it in other drivers—in himself—more than once after a crash or an incident during the race. He knew she felt out of control at that moment, and that’s why he’d said what he’d said. He wanted her out of control with him.

Before she said anything, though, she looked around the dining room. People were paying attention to their meals, but they would probably take notice if she threw a plate at him or emptied her glass of wine in his lap.

He was disappointed. “You kind of like your dusty case right now?” He knew he was goading her, but he couldn’t stop. “You don’t want anyone to see how angry you are at me because they’ll know that you’re not perfect.”

“No one thinks I’m perfect, Ethan.” She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. He looked down at her tits. “Those are, but that’s not what we’re talking about right now.”

“What are we talking about?” He might have been the one who arranged this dinner—to talk—but then she got mad at him, it turned him on, and he forgot about everything but how much he wanted her.

“We’re discussing how much I hate you.” And that made his dick hard.

He drained his water and wished there was something stronger in his glass, but he had to stay sharp for the race tomorrow. He stared Cece down, and she narrowed her gaze at him. He looked down at her chest, and her nipples were hard. She shifted in her seat. This was making her hot for him too.

“Do you hate me enough to meet in that single-stall bathroom in two minutes?”

She bit the inside of her cheek for a long moment, and he was afraid she really might slap him across the face.

But she nodded, and he let out a breath he’d been holding unconsciously.

On her way to go fuck her husband, Cece recounted to herself all the reasons that fucking her husband was a really dumb thing to do. She didn’t know precisely why she was doing this, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself once he’d propositioned her.

Ethan hadn’t looked at her like that in ages. When they’d first met, she’d thought he was an arrogant prick, and that was half his appeal to her. She liked his cocky walk and the way he seemed to pose and preen for his adoring fans—chiefly her—sometimes.

But then, they’d gotten into an actual relationship, and she realized he was damaged and scared that no one liked him.

Just like everyone else. It had given her the ick, but she’d told herself it was a good thing.

He was opening up and being vulnerable. They were in a real relationship.

She had to mean something to him if he was letting her in to see the side of himself that wasn’t so macho and toxic.

There was something fucked up about her, though. She needed the toxic arrogance to get off with him. She’d started to miss it and think about it when they had sex.

The way he’d told her she was nothing but a trophy to him should not have made her wet, but it had. And she might have had sex with his former best friend—earlier that day, and it was over, so she hadn’t lied—but he was her husband. They were allowed to do this.

She opened the door to the WC he’d indicated, and he pulled her inside immediately, slamming her against the door and ravaging her with his mouth. His hands were everywhere.

After qualifying, she’d changed out of her linen set and into an archival Hervé Léger black bandage dress.

As he touched her exactly where he knew she liked to be touched, she felt like she couldn’t get enough breath in her body.

His mouth trailed down her neck, over the tendon there, and he bit down into her shoulder, almost so hard she yelped.

“Ow,” she said, but then he laved the welt he’d made with his tongue. Just like in the hotel room a few weeks ago, he was feral. She loved it.

She grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his mouth to hers, rubbing up against his body and feeling his hard length press into her stomach. They were the same height because she was wearing heels. So, when she pulled away to get a breath, they were looking into each other’s eyes.

“I still hate you.” She hated that she still wanted him—or maybe that she wanted him again. And she hated that she wanted him for all the wrong reasons.