Page 20

Sadie

Make it all the way through one of Cam’s races without feeling anxious – from Sadie’s list of things she’s never done

Cam kisses my mouth the same way he kisses between my legs—like a man obsessed. And I think he just might be. Which would be a good thing, since “obsessed” would be an accurate way to describe how I feel about him lately.

I missed him so badly the last few times he was at races that I booked a last-minute flight to Austin to surprise him at this one.

My possibly-not-so-fake-anymore boyfriend rolls his hips, rubbing his cock against my wetness. Dropping his forehead to mine, he asks, “Any chance you brought condoms?”

Condoms? It never even crossed my mind. Shit, does that mean—

“I didn’t bring any,” he says, rolling his hips again, in a motion I can’t wait to feel inside me. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

Wasn’t expecting me. We never talked about dating other people, and I’ve assumed he wasn’t seeing anyone else because it would have blown our cover. But the confirmation eases something in my chest I hadn’t realized I was carrying.

“I’m okay without, if you are,” I breathe.

He presses his lips to mine before I can finish the thought, teasing his fingers from my entrance to my clit and back.

I’ve already climaxed twice—because apparently, not being rushed is what I need to actually get off. Three weeks ago, I would have thought it’s not possible for me to come a third time without a toy, but as he lines the tip of his cock up at my entrance, and I feel him slowly filling me, I think I’m about to learn how wrong that was.

His eyes lock with mine as he moves inside me, slow and shallow at first, but deeper with each rock of his hips. He kisses me in that obsessed way that makes me wild as he fills me more and more. “You good?” he asks once he’s fully seated inside me.

“You’re big,” I giggle, rolling my eyes at him. He groans. “But it’s not like that’s a bad thing, Hacker.”

“Alright, Winslow ,” he says, a determined set to his jaw. He hooks an arm under one of my legs, folding it up and opening me wider for him, so on his next thrust— oh , fuck —on his next thrust, he’s deeper, hitting me at just the right angle that I can’t help but cry out every time he comes forward.

My nails dig in, scratching down his shoulder blades—overwhelmed with the sensation of him filling me.

A cocky smirk tugs at his lips as I become jelly beneath him. “Still good, Winslow?”

“Uh-huh,” I gasp out, my breath lost in pounding thrusts that are steadily getting faster.

He rocks his hips, making the next thrust particularly poignant, and my head lolls back. “Oh, fuck you,” I breathe.

“Is that not what I’m doing?” he laughs, the sound full and loud as he continues fucking me into oblivion.

But I’m laughing too, and even with the depth of meaning that having sex with Cam carries, the whole situation feels light and free. We’re laughing and enjoying each other just like we always do—Cam gives me another poignant thrust, and I almost come on impact. Okay, not like we always do. But he’s still Cam, and I’m still me, and I’m having fun . I giggle at the preposterous thought— I’ve never had fun having sex before.

“You know when you do that, you clench around me?” he asks, his voice breathy.

“What?” I force a laugh, and he groans. “That?”

He leans down to kiss me, then draws his teeth heavily against my lip as he lets go. “I’m gonna get you for that.”

I’m too far gone to worry about who comes first or how, but I get a great deal of satisfaction at the look on his face when I come for a third time, clenching around him enough to stutter his pace. He follows soon after, making me wonder if he was holding back on my behalf.

When we’re both sated, exhausted, and cleaned up, we lie in bed together—me wearing one of his shirts and him wearing pajama pants low enough for me to read his Ride It Like You Stole It tattoo.

“How was the race for you?” Cam asks, sitting up and drawing my head to his lap.

“It was magnificent,” I nuzzle against his leg. “You won. I love it when you win.”

“I love that too, but how did you feel being at the track?” he asks, brushing his fingers over the pink tips of my hair.

I blow out a breath. “I had a few moments that weren’t great . I really don’t like the chatter. Any way you could avoid that in the future?” I ask—half-joking, half-hopeful.

His brows furrow. “I hadn’t thought about how that might look to you. It makes the bike tougher to control, but I can handle a tough bike.” He must sense my concern because he adds, “We’re doing our best to make sure it doesn’t happen. That’s something Luke is constantly tuning to avoid, but it’s tough not to get some chatter if I’m riding hard enough.”

I still don’t like that, but it’s better than a crash. “At least you’re keeping your bike upright.”

His fingers trace a soothing path along my scalp. “I’ve been lucky this season—only had two crashes. The first one—”

I cut off his explanation, sitting upright to face him. “What do you mean you crashed twice this season?” My heart pounds frantically. Even though I can see for myself that he’s fine, I hate the thought.

“I’ll tell you,” he says, his voice soothing as he reaches for me. “But why don’t you come here?”

When I move closer, he wraps his arm around my shoulders.

“I think both crashes happened between the first race you came to and when you started watching them on TV,” he explains. “During the first one, I was able to get back up and jump back into the race immediately—still finished top five.”

Of course, that’s what he thinks about—how it impacted the race outcome, not his body or safety.

“The other one my bike got pretty mangled, and I had to finish the race on my second bike, but I managed to pull some points that day too.”

What do I even say? I hate it. I hate this. I hate that it’s even a possibility. I don’t want to lose him. I decide not to say anything, resting my head on his shoulder instead.

“Do you think you’ve gotten comfortable with the idea of me racing by pretending I can’t get hurt?” he asks.

“Cutting right through the bullshit tonight, aren’t you, Hacker?” I snort a laugh. He called it when I hadn’t even realized it myself.

“The thing is, I can get hurt,” he says. “It’s rare, but it can happen.”

My heart races again, but my mind doesn’t. “Can I just say that I hate that, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with it?”

“Yeah.” He nods, then kisses me on the temple. “That’s a good place to start. Did I tell you how happy I am that you’re here?” he asks.

Grateful that he’s shifting the conversation, I answer, “I don’t think so, but you were a little busy.”

“I was happier when I saw you than when I won that race,” he says, giving me a soft kiss.

It sounds like a line, but I know he’s being sincere.

“What about this one?” I ask, tapping the roaring cheetah tattoo on the side of his neck.

His chuckle is low. “Would you believe it has to do with speed?”

“I would.” I smile. “They’re the fastest land animal, aren’t they?”

“Yup,” he answers, turning so I can get a better look. “I actually got this one with Ludlow, the guy I’ve been chasing for number one.”

“Last I checked, you were in first place.” After today’s race, he’s pulled ahead by ten points—his first lead of the season.

“Still a chase.” He shakes his head, always balancing humility and arrogance. “We’re both obsessed with speed, so we got the cheetahs. His is on his arm, though. I’ll ask him to show you tomorrow if you want.”

Tomorrow . Because I’ll be back at the track tomorrow. For another race.

Remembering how many times I’ve heard announcers talk about their friendship and felt weird that I’d never met the guy, I agree.

And, first thing the next morning, he follows through.

“Ludlow!” Cam yells to his friend from across the pits. “Come meet my girl.”

My girl. I don’t think that’ll ever get old.

The man jogs over with a welcoming smile, shaking my hand and introducing himself.

“So, you’re the reason our boy’s been distracted all season?” he asks.

Has he really been? That would be dangerous, wouldn’t it? I don’t let myself dwell on it. Instead, I ask, “Isn’t he still winning, though?”

“Yes, he is. Yes, he is,” Ludlow answers with a laugh.

“Season’s not over,” Cam adds, and I can tell he’s trying not to jinx himself. He never wants to say he’s winning, even when he is.

“Sadie!” someone calls from behind us. No one here knows me , but when I turn, I see her— Shane Hart. I only met her once, at the first race of the season, but she’s running across the pits to greet me.

When she wraps me up in a hug, I feel the strength in her. She’s tall like Devon, probably around six feet of lean muscle. “Thank fuck you’re here. Sometimes I need a break from all the boys.”

“We’re not so bad, are we?” Ludlow asks, exchanging a mock-offended look with Cam.

“You two are tolerable,” she says, but there’s a friendly affection in her tone.

“She’s having an amazing first season out,” Cam explains, pulling me closer. “Made more than a few podiums.”

“ You’re having an amazing first season,” Shane laughs.

“That’s just because I’m old,” Cam says, rubbing his thumb at my hip. “Should’ve been my third. Don’t worry. You’ll be lapping me in no time.”

Most of the racers spend the morning like it’s just another day—eating foiled-wrapped breakfast burritos, scrolling on their phones, and messing with each other. It’s not until about an hour before the race that the energy shifts, and they stop buzzing around to other pits.

My anxiety is lower than it was at the first race I attended, and even a little less than yesterday’s. Each time he finishes a race without getting hurt, it’s easier to quiet the ever-present fear of losing him and focus on the joy of watching him do what he loves.

“Any race advice for me?” Cam asks when I meet him on the grid.

“From me?” I laugh. “I don’t know... go slower than you want to? Did you remember your sunscreen?”

His face softens, and he leans closer. He knows it’s my way of asking him to be careful— not to crash . “I can’t promise to go slow, but I will make the safest choices I can, and I always wear my sunscreen.”

It has to be enough.

Once the race starts, I stand by Luke, his presence a comfort. He loves the shit out of Cam. I have to believe he wouldn’t support his racing if he thought it was too dangerous. It helps, too, that I’ve met so many more of the racers today—learned their names and faces, how friendly they are, and how much they all seem to care about Cam. It makes them look less intimidating as a unit—seeing them more as individuals who all want everyone to be safe.

Cam’s qualifying for today’s race had him starting in third, and by the fourth of twenty laps, he still hasn’t managed to pass either of the front bikes—Ludlow in second, and another racer I met this morning in first. Shane Hart follows him close behind.

My gut twists when he gains enough on Ludlow to try moving in on the turns—looking to pass. The image of my high school friends laid out on the asphalt flashes in my mind again as his bike gets closer to Ludlow. I don’t know if that will ever go away, but this is different. Cam’s not an inexperienced teenager trying to impress a girl on the back of his bike. He’s wearing protective gear. He’s a professional. All of these racers are.

This is not the same.

On the next turn, his tire bounces with the chatter he doesn’t seem to be worried about.

This is not the same.

“Got a little contact there,” Luke comments as Cam makes it past Ludlow on the next lap.

This is not the same.

I lied to him yesterday when I said I only had a few moments of fear during the race, but today is better. I saw him race safely on this exact track. He can do this without getting hurt.

I run back and forth from the screens that stream the race to the edge of the pit to see him pass by each lap. He’s getting close to the lead racer now. He could really do this. He could win this race. There are only two races left this season after today, and he’s still in the lead. Cam is so close to getting exactly what he wants—a superbike championship and a spot on his dream team next year.

And I’m only two and a half races away from relief until next season. Next season. Will we still be together next season? Are we even together now? I think so, but we—

“Shit,” Luke’s low voice says from beside me. “ Shit ,” he repeats, with an edge to his voice I don’t want to believe is there.

My eyes scan the screens, finding the one he must be watching. There is smoke coming from Cam’s tailpipe. Smoke can’t be good, especially if Luke is concerned— which he is . His jaw is clenched, and he keeps stepping closer to the screens—as if it will show him something different if he gets close.

My breath catches in my throat, but I try to reason with myself. Maybe this doesn’t mean —flames accompany the smoke. Occasionally, a small burst of flame will appear at the end of a tailpipe during a normal race, and it actually isn’t something to be concerned about. But that’s not what this is. This is fire. His bike is on fire. And he’s still racing.