“I don’t like it enough. Not like he does.” He shakes his head, eyeing me. “It’s just a hobby to me. A way to blow off steam.”

“Are your parents together?”

“Almost thirty years together. My dad’s in his early fifties. Never looked at another woman after he met my mom.”

I can tell he cares about his family, and it makes me yearn for my parents to still be together, for me to still have a home—with a mother in it, a father, and love to go around.

“And you, Lana?” He lowers his arm and shifts forward, his expression focused.

“My mom left us about … five years ago. It was the worst year of my life. A few months after she left, David …” I exhale, shaking my head. “My dad was very sad for some time. When he decided to move to Europe and start a Formula One team, I don’t think either my brothers or I blinked twice. To me it felt like I had nothing left in Ohio.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Me too.” I glance at my drink, and suddenly feel the need to toss it back.

“Do you think it will be like that for you?” I ask as I set it down. “A marriage like your parents have?”

“I didn’t used to believe that was possible.” A waiter brings me a new glass of tequila, and Racer waits until he leaves before he continues—running his knuckles down my jaw. “Now I just wonder if it’ll be the same for her like it was for my mom.”

“What do you mean?”

“My mom loves my dad. She’s crazy about him actually. She gets every part of him. Even the shit no one else would get or love about him. That’s pretty rare.”

“You don’t think that someone could feel like this for you?”

“I used to think there was no way that would happen for me, so why try?” He smirks and lifts his drink as if toasting to that, then takes a long gulp, looks at me, and sets his glass back down. “Now I know when it feels this right for you, you better be sure you make her see it’s just as right for her.”

“Why do you think no one could feel like that for you!” I’m nearly affronted by the mere idea.

“Because loving me is a curse?”

“What? Why would loving you be a curse?”

He’s silent, looking at me with that mischievous smile dancing on his lips. “You’re the one who should be most concerned, crasher. Trust me, I’m better from afar.” He shakes his head, that mischievous gleam still in his eyes. “No one can break your heart as hard as I’ll be able to break it. No one could possibly ruin your life the way I can.” His voice is a warning, but there is tenderness there, almost amusement—as if even when he’s issuing a warning, he knows that I won’t listen.

“No, you’re not. You’re better from up close,” I contradict, and his eyes flash when he hears the conviction in my voice, then he grabs my face and leans down, his eyes blazing into me.

“You’re so fucking adorable. I want you in my pocket, so you go everywhere with me and nothing can harm you.” He curls his hand around my nape, smiling into me as he presses his forehead to mine.

“That would be so very wrong,” I part groan, part laugh.

“I’m never wrong, Lana. Ever.” He shakes his head playfully. “Not about anything. And not about you.”

I laugh, feeling giddy and maybe like one shot of tequila plus a little bit of Racer is already enough to take me to the stratosphere, but I reach for my drink and I push it back.

I want to tip my face up and kiss him. I want him to kiss me. I don’t want anything else in the world but this right now. But he seems incredibly agitated. Fiercely intense.

Something about his protectiveness, his blatant possessiveness, turns me on.

He takes a strand of my hair, pushes it behind my ear, and leans forward. He offers me his glass of whiskey, and I take it, downing a long gulp. He laughs when I do that, then scowls and takes it away. “Be careful,” he warns.

I lick my lips as he draws his glass away, then I lean over, pressing my lips to him. “Racer,” I groan.

I hold my breath as I ease back, and his gaze holds mine in a deadlock.

His nose is flaring, his eyes brilliant as he watches me.

He slides an arm around me and reels me in a little closer. He reaches out, and electricity runs down my spine so hard that I almost arch up against him. He smiles, setting his hands on my waist. They’re so wide and big that I feel a little bit smaller, a little bit like the whole world just reduced to one person. Him.

I lick my lips, unable to take my eyes off him as he starts moving me—moving with me. He lowers his head and I feel his nose sort of nuzzling the top part of my ear. A tremor begins from that sensitive place where his lips are, down my neck, my spine, my legs, to my very toes.

He draws back with this wicked smile, and in his eyes, I can see the blatant heat. It’s as if he wants me to know it. That he’s a man and he’s hungry and he’s not one bit concerned about the fact that he might just be hungry for … me.

Might have been talking … about me.

Everything inside me throbs.

I sort of swallow back any protest because I’m sort of going willingly, my eyes holding his as I crash into him, my lips sort of falling on his dimple.

He groans, turning his head to press a peck to my lips, his tongue sliding out to lick the seam of my lips.

I shiver, licking him back.

“You don’t drink at all?” I breathe.

“I’ve got other vices. Like cars. And you.”