Page 26 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

VIRTUAL REALITY BLEEDS INTO TRUTH

~ L ACHLAN~

I walk back into the kitchen with my mind still reeling from the sight of Auren in that bathtub, water cascading over every curve of her naked body like liquid silk.

It's all I can see.

The way the steam gilded her skin in a golden veil, how a constellation of droplets mapped the slopes and valleys of her gorgeous body, each bead of water tracing a path I’d longed to follow with my tongue.

Her hair— jet, slick, shot through with shades of magenta —fanned over her bare shoulders and spilled down her back.

Every inch of her glistened, luminous and perilous, the curve of her hip emerging from the bubbles as she shifted, the taper of her thigh, the line of her calf stretching out until her perfectly painted toes curled against the tub’s far rim. I nearly forgot how to breathe.

Even now, in a sterile kitchen under the flat glow of LED can lights, I can smell her—sugar and summer, ozone and wildflowers—beneath the persistent sting of bleach and tile cleaner.

The memory of her scent worms its way into my brain and detonates there, a feral, desperate need coiled tight as a race car’s clutch at the starting line.

I grip the edge of the countertop and force myself to focus on the work ahead.

Tomato basil: she loves it. Garlic bread, heavy on the herbs, cheese melting into the crags of the crust. Cooking is the only act that gives my hands something else to do besides shaking or betraying me with their longing.

But I can still feel the phantom touch of her gaze, the way she looked at me for that split second when she realized she wasn’t alone.

She didn’t flinch—not really. She just straightened up, arching her back, shifting her arms enough to give me a perfect, devastating view.

It was calculated, competitive, a move straight off the track.

Daring me to react…to break first.

I stare down at the bread dough, knuckles white as I knead it against the cold marble, and try to banish the image before it does any more damage to my self-control.

But it’s impossible. Her body is a fever behind my eyelids, the memory of her curves and how they used to fit against mine, the knowledge that every scar, every freckle, every callus from a decade behind the wheel is mapped into my muscle memory.

There’s a million things I’d do for her, and a million more I’d give up just for a taste—one more night, one more hour, hell, one more minute with her pressed up against me.

But she’s not mine.

Not anymore.

She’s not even supposed to remember me.

I force a slow breath through my nose and count to five.

I’m supposed to be the fucking adult here. I’m supposed to keep her safe from the world and from herself—especially from me.

Every detail is now permanently etched into my memory, joining the collection of moments I've been hoarding like precious gems over the past year of forced separation.

I try to ignore how painfully hard I am at the sight, discreetly adjusting my sweatpants before taking a deep breath and reminding myself that she's supposed to be off limits.

That we all made a pact to stay away from her, to let her heal without the complications our presence would bring. That involving ourselves in her recovery would only cause more damage to a mind that's already been through enough trauma.

But the rational part of my brain is being drowned out by the primal satisfaction of having her back here for the night, unexpectedly, after it's been over a year since I've been able to exist anywhere near her orbit.

For months now, I've only been able to interact with her through our virtual gaming sessions, carefully maintaining the fiction that I'm just some stranger from Croatia while secretly helping to keep that burning competitive flame alive in whatever way I could manage.

I know damn well she can destroy any track in real life— I've witnessed her talent firsthand more times than I can count.

But watching her dominate those simulation races, hearing the joy in her voice when she wins, seeing flashes of the fearless driver she used to be.

.. it's been both a blessing and a torture that I've inflicted on myself week after week.

I decide to distract myself by focusing on cooking, knowing that if I keep thinking about the woman currently soaking in my bathtub, I'm just going to drive myself completely insane with want.

I need to channel this nervous energy into something productive, something that won't result in me doing something incredibly stupid like marching back upstairs and joining her in that tub.

I'm just finishing the tomato basil soup— whisking in the final touches of cream and fresh herbs —with artisanal bread baking in the oven, when her scent drifts down from upstairs and hits me like a physical blow.

The familiar aroma of vanilla and wildflowers mixed with something uniquely her fills the kitchen, and I have to stop myself from actually groaning out loud.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting myself remember how her scent used to affect me when we were together.

Near or far, just catching the faintest hint of her unique sweet aroma—like walking through a floral wonderland on a perfect spring day—could transform even the shittiest day into the best one, regardless of whether I'd won or lost whatever race I was running.

But this version of her scent is only a fraction of how intoxicating it used to be, and I find myself wondering if it's simply because we've been apart for so long.

Scent bonds can fade with distance and time, becoming muted echoes of what they once were. Or maybe it's because she doesn't remember our connection, so her body isn't producing the same chemical responses that used to drive me absolutely wild.

I let myself slip into the memory of when we first met, that moment when everything changed for both of us forever.

The chemistry had been immediate and undeniable, but it was the way our scents blended instantaneously that clued me into the reality that she not only smelled absolutely immaculate, but she was most certainly my scent match in every way that mattered.

I can still recall that very moment with perfect clarity—the thrilling adrenaline pumping through my veins as I climbed out of my car after losing the mock race, my competitive pride stinging from the defeat as I went to face the winner who was pulling off her helmet beside one of the new prototype models we'd both been testing simultaneously.

The removal of that neon pink and purple helmet had revealed jet black hair with those signature magenta highlights that caught the sunlight like flames, and then those stormy lavender-sapphire eyes locked onto mine with the same determined heat that was probably radiating from my own gaze.

She had dark, sinful lips that looked like they were specifically designed to be devoured and claimed by mine, and then came that cocky, confident smile as she realized she'd not only beaten the three-time world champion, but was enjoying every second of my shocked defeat.

I fell in love instantly, completely, irrevocably.

Then her scent hit me and sealed the deal like the final nails in a coffin I was more than happy to be buried in.

The memory is so vivid, so consuming, that I almost don't notice the soft touch that suddenly wraps around my waist. I freeze completely, convinced for a moment that I'm losing my mind and hallucinating from the combination of sexual frustration and emotional torment.

But then I look down and see those familiar arms wrapped around my waist with a casualness that speaks of muscle memory and intimate familiarity.

My heart stops beating for several seconds because there's no way this is actually happening.

Certainly, I'm not being embraced by the Omega who supposedly doesn't remember me, who's been maintaining careful distance for months, who just moments ago was calling me by my gaming alias.

That's when she whispers against my back, her breath warm through the thin fabric of my t-shirt, "How do you know that tomato basil soup with cheese and garlic herb bread was her all-time favorite?"

The question sends electricity shooting down my spine, and I allow myself a small smirk as I dare to look over my shoulder.

What I see there makes my cock twitch with renewed interest—that defiant look in her eyes that reminds me so powerfully of the old days, of heated arguments that always ended with us tearing each other's clothes off, of the passionate wildness that used to scorch between us like wildfire.

We weren't the perfect couple, not even close. We fought as hard as we loved, challenged each other constantly, pushed every boundary we could find just to see what would happen. But damn, we loved with an intensity that was hard, fast, and absolutely electric.

And this moment— her arms around me, that familiar challenge in her voice —is making it nearly impossible not to let that old spark explode and take us both hostage.

"I had a hunch it would be the perfect meal after a nice, relaxing bath," I whisper back, my voice rougher than I intended. "Was I right?"

She smirks in response, and I arch an eyebrow as I take in her appearance, realizing she's not wearing any of the clothes I carefully selected and left for her upstairs.

Instead, she's stolen one of my shirts— my racing team jersey, no less.

The oversized garment hangs on her smaller frame in a way that's both innocent and incredibly sexy, the hem hitting her mid-thigh and leaving me with tantalizing questions about what she might or might not be wearing underneath.

I sigh and turn to face her fully, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.

"Should I ask where the clothes I picked out for you ended up?"

"Nope," she says with that same mischievous grin that used to get us both into so much trouble.

"Are you hungry?" I ask, even though I already know the answer from the way she's been gravitating toward the kitchen.