Page 62 of Redline
"Look at you," he mutters, his breath a hot, steady brand against my lips. "You can tell yourself you hate me all you want. You can call me a mistake and a disaster until you're blue in the face, and you wouldn't be wrong."
He lets out a shaky breath that scalds my skin, his face so close I can see the golden flecks of fury and want in his eyes.
"But your heart is trying to kick its way through your ribs just to get to me right now."
He doesn’t look away. His thumb drags slowly, firmly, over the center of my chest, pressing just hard enough against the fabric of my shirt to make me feel the weight of his hand.
"You’re vibrating," he rasps, his voice dropping to a gravelly low that settles right over my frantic pulse. "And we both know it’s not the heat. So tell me—are you going to keep lying? Because selfishly? I want you. Right now."
He doesn’t wait for my answer. His hand slides down from my chest, his fingers splaying wide before he grips my breast firmly over my shirt.
I hiss out a moan, the sound echoing sharply against the room as my back arches instinctively. Dominic’s eyes flare with a quiet, predatory approval.
"You don’t exactly have a glowing character reference," I manage to choke out, my fingers curling into the wood of the bench until my knuckles ache.
"I’m not asking you to believe I’m a better person than I am," he rasps, his thumb grazing over my nipple, catching the peak through the lace of my bra and the cotton of my shirt. He watches my head fall back against the wall, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating in his chest. "I’m asking if you want me anyway."
I hold his gaze, forcing my eyes open even as the charged air in the room tries to drag them shut. I look at the arrogance, theexhaustion, and the sheer, stubborn pride that makes him the nightmare he is.
"You’ve been a disaster," I tell him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "You’re arrogant. You’re exhausting. And you make everything ten times harder than it needs to be."
He nods once, his grip tightening over my skin just enough to remind me he isn't letting go. "I know."
My throat works as I swallow. I should get up. I should let the door slam behind me and go back to the pool house where it’s cool and safe. But his other hand has found the bench between my legs, his thumb beginning a slow, torturous trek along the hem of my shorts, occasionally dipping beneath the fabric to brush the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
"That doesn’t make this smart," I mutter.
"No," he agrees, his voice dropping to a gravelly silk. "It just makes it honest."
My eyes flick to his mouth and back. I’m fighting every rational thought I’ve ever had about myself and the danger of being with a Formula One driver, but the dual friction of his thumbs is winning the war.
While his hand over my breast maintains a heavy, possessive pressure, it’s the other thumb—the one tracing slow, agonizing circles against the hem of my shorts—that is currently dismantling me. It’s a rhythmic, relentless distraction, dragging my focus away from my brain and down to the ache simmering beneath my skin.
I lift my chin, trying to reclaim some shred of the analyst he hates.
"Then honestly," I say, my voice steadier than my pulse, "why did you lose the race?”
"I told you," he says, his hand finally sliding fully inside the leg of my shorts, his knuckles brushing the heat of me. "I got distracted."
"That seems to be happening a lot lately," I breathe, my eyes fluttering as his thumb begins to work slow, rhythmic circles against the dampness of my underwear.
"It's the only thing that feels real lately," he counters. He watches me, his gaze tracking the way my breathing has hitched into shallow, fractured gasps. He keeps the pace agonizingly slow, teasing the edges of what I want until I’m vibrating with a need that’s bordering on pain.
Then, just as I’m about to lean into him, he stops.
He doesn't pull his hand away, but he goes perfectly still. His fingers are still buried deep inside the leg of my shorts, his knuckles heavy against my thigh and his thumb resting right against the racking ache he’s created.
The sudden lack of motion is a shock to my system. One second I was climbing toward a peak, and the next, I’m suspended in a agonizing vacuum. I open my eyes, dazed and searching, only to find him looking at me with a terrifyingly sharp focus.
"So," he says, his voice a hard edge in the steam. "Are you willing to accept selfish? Are you willing to be just as much of a disaster as I am?"
I nod, a small, involuntary movement, but his smirk returns—dark and demanding.
"No Shortcut," he murmurs, his thumb twitching once—just enough to make me jump. "I need words."
"Yes," I snap, the word broken and desperate, all my professional armor finally stripped away. "Yes. I want selfish."
He doesn’t give me a second to breathe. The moment the "yes" leaves my lips, his hand moves with a sudden, predatory intent. He hooks his fingers into the edge of my lace and shiftsthem aside, finally finding the slick, sensitive heat he’s been weaponizing against me for the last ten minutes.
