Page 63 of Don't Brake My Heart
‘Um,’ I began inauspiciously.
He peered at me, the look in his eyes somehow pained. The energy coming off him was compelling – and concerning. I was picturing his sad dragon once more, the dark expressions that crossed his face occasionally – his tightness with his father.
‘Is it this stuff with your parents that’s bothering you? I’m sorry I overheard.’
He released a long breath and let his head fall back onto the seat. ‘We’ve all got shit with our parents, right?’ His gaze snapped back to mine, heavy with something I couldn’t interpret. ‘But yeah, I suppose. Some of it. I see Nellie all gaga for Ramila and obsessed with the baby and then there’s Mum and Dad, 28 years of marriage and they don’t even talk – except to argue about me.’
The vulnerability in his voice shocked me, not because it was there – I’d been catching glimpses of it for weeks – but because he’d voiced it, with me.
‘It isn’t fair the way Tony treats you differently.’
‘I don’t need you to defend me, Kubicka,’ he responded with a chuckle. Apparently today was not the day for him to confront that vulnerability. ‘But thank you. It’s sweet.’
‘I just think maybe you should sort this stuff out before the Tour. Talking about it might be more productive than getting a tattoo.’
He gave an odd huff and stared out of the windscreen for a long moment. ‘You my psychologist now?’
No one in my life had ever made me this itchy with frustration. ‘You can’t go through life as though nothing can touch you. At some point, you have to own up to feeling something and deal with the consequences!’
He still wouldn’t look at me, but his jaw was working. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
That hurt. It probably shouldn’t have, but the accusation that I didn’t know him well hit me too hard. ‘I can see something’s bothering you. You can’t hide it.’
So suddenly I flinched back in surprise, he turned to face me, propping one arm on the steering wheel. ‘Leesa, how’s this for what’s bothering me? The woman I’ve had a childish crush on for six years finally had sex with me and it was so good I don’t fucking know what to do with myself.’
My brain seized up, goosebumps racing to my hairline. I must admit, gratification was the first emotion that gripped me. A crush. A fling. They weren’t big words. He was using me to avoid his real-life struggles – again.
He kept speaking, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as my conviction slowly crumbled. ‘I’ve always been an idiot when it comes to you. I know it means fuck all. I’m not like Nellie. I only ever learned how to race and to train and everything else has been a series of mistakes. Everything I do hurts you, but right now I’m struggling to think about anything elsebutyou.’
I could only react on instinct. Fisting a hand in his hair, I hauled him close and kissed him, open-mouthed, zero to everything in a single second. He was with me instantly, no hesitation, his lips dragging against mine, his tongue in my mouth.
It seemed once we’d started kissing, it was difficult to stop. As he pressed closer, bracing himself against my seat so he could kiss me harder, a bolt of memory intruded on the heated moment: Colin in the breakfast room of some crappy hotel in Ghent years ago, snatching the last banana right from under my nose on the morning of a race, flashing his eyes at me. He would have been 20 or 21 – such a baby. It was so strange to think that was the same man who was now groaning from deep in his chest and kissing me as though his life depended on it – as though winning the Tour de France depended on it.
I wasn’t sure what to do with the knowledge that he’d had a crush on me but, on the other hand, everything was getting a little hazy – other than the feeling of his mouth on mine.
He broke the kiss and I sucked in a much-needed breath. ‘Are you sure we should—? Ohhhhhh.’
He’d opened his mouth on my neck, breathing kisses along my throat, and my brain turned the consistency of oatmeal.
‘This dress is one of my favourites,’ he said, his voice ghosting over my skin as he dropped his head further. My dress had a low, square neckline, ruched at the bodice, and when he said things like that, I imagined grabbing the elastic and dragging it down for him.
His hands still gripping the seat on either side of me, he opened his mouth on the skin below my collarbone, swiping with his tongue. ‘You wearing one of those little bra things with this? I’m never going to recover from that lace.’
‘You’ll have to see.’ My voice was mostly breath, but I was oddly proud of myself for getting the words out.
He drew back and peered at me doubtfully. ‘You playing with me, Kubicka?’
‘Yes.’
The smile that stretched on his face was giddy and wicked and utterly irresistible. ‘C’mere.’
I could hardly recognise myself when I let him urge me up and over the centre console. His hands curling around the backs of my thighs, he settled my knees on either side of him and slid the hem of my skirt up. As he reached around to grip my backside, a sudden stab of pain ripped over my skin and I gasped.
‘Whoa, sweetheart.’ He dropped his hands in an instant and lifted them to my face instead. ‘What’s up?’
‘Tattoo,’ I said through gritted teeth as the pain ebbed. The wound from the ink gun was clean and protected under a dressing and it was only the residual sensitivity of the spot that had set me off.
‘Shit, I’m sorry,’ he hissed sympathetically, massaging the back of my head in soothing circles. ‘It’s on your thigh?’
