Page 32 of Drive Me Wild
“Only boys have to convince women they’re men.” Josie challenges me with a look of deliberate nonchalance. Once again, my willpower to not devour her lips in kisses that’ll make her writhe is tested. “I’m going to go back to bed, but if you need to relieve yourself in the bathroom again, feel free to do so. Will you wake me up in an hour or so?”
She shoots me a tired smile before burrowing underneath the comforter and turning so I’m spooning her with my hard-as-concrete dick nestled against her ass.Yup.Definitely going to relieve myself. I hear a soft giggle from the bed as I make my way to the bathroom.
Cheeky, cheeky woman.
“Hey, Jos?” I ask before shutting the door to shower.
“Mm-hmm?”
“I feel weird even having to ask this, but do you suddenly like bananas or something?”
“No.” She lifts her head and makes a face. “I still think they’re gross.”
Interesting…
Josie’s already fallen back asleep by the time I’ve showered, so I grab my phone from the nightstand and head into the sitting area. There’s a text from Jenna.Shit.
Jenna (from Berlin)
I’m in town next week. You around?
For the first time in forever, the idea of having sex with Jenna sounds… meh. My cock doesn’t twitch in anticipation or do a happy dance, especially not when there’s a sweet blonde sound asleep in my bed.
Theo Walker
Nah, I’ll be in France for the Grand Prix.
At least I don’t have to lie to her. I lay down on the couch in the suite’s sitting room, but instead of checking Instagram—a.k.a my normal morning routine—I text Martin to see what connections he has in Le Mans.
THIRTEEN
JOSIE
A swirling layerof clouds interrupts the sunny weather of Marseilles, France. I slip my sunglasses onto my head, the glaring sun no longer making me squint. It’s a few hours away from qualifying, but I cross my fingers that any undesirable weather stays away so McAllister has a successful qualifier. The Circuit Paul Ricard has traditionally been a McAllister stronghold, with Blake and Theo taking first and second place victories in each edition the past few years. But this year, Harry Thompson’s impressive practices have spectators pegging him to take pole, so the pressure is on.
I’m up on the rooftop of the motorhome finishing some work when my phone rings. I groan when I see it’s my mum calling because I really don’t want to talk about my cancelled trip to Le Mans. Does it suck that I was finally doing something for myself, only for it to tatter quicker than an old blanket? Yes. But the race happens every year. I’ll go next year. Maybe.
Knowing she’ll phone the police if I don’t get pick up or call her back in the next hour or so, I bite the bullet and answer. Her sing-song voice greets me almost immediately.
“Hello, my darling. How’s Marseille?” She pronounces the city name in a near-perfect French accent. A perk of being bilingual and having lived in Paris for a bit. “Beau et étonnant?”
I laugh. “Speaking to me in French is not going to make me magically understand it.”
We all have our strengths, but learning languages is not one of mine. I accepted this years ago, although it seems my mother has not, as she still insists on sneaking in French phrases here or there to see if I’ve miraculously become fluent.
“Context clues, Josephine,” she clucks jokingly. I cringe at her use of my full name.Josephine Violet Bancroft.It sounds hoity-toity, like it should belong to a long-dead poet who wrote about her adulteress husband or one of Marie Antoinette’s ladies-in-waiting. It’s the reason I exclusively go by Josie. According to my mum, if she wanted to call me Josie, she would have put that on my birth certificate instead of Josephine.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble. “Marseille is good, though. Did Dad watch the practice earlier?”
My dad may not understand what I do for a living—I’m pretty sure he thinks I just scroll through Instagram all day—but he’s insanely proud, nonetheless. He watches every practice, qualifying round, and race, not because he loves Formula 1, but so he can try to spot me anywhere in the background. He’s managed to locate me a few times and then proceeds to text his friends to brag.
“He hasn’t left the recliner all morning,” she tells me.
I chuckle. “Tell him I’m in a white McAllister shirt and flower-patterned skirt.”
“I’ll let him know. And I’m sorry about Le Mans, love,” my mum says, her voice softening. “Maybe we’ll go on a family trip there over the summer?”
If you go to Le Mans, you go for the 24 Heures du Mans endurance race. The city is great, but if you can be there duringwhat’s considered one of the world’s most prestigious races, you do. No questions asked.
