So young, so strong, and in that dark tux and crisp white shirt, still so him …

His dimple keeps deepening as his smile keeps widening as I approach, and a part of me even wonders why I need to say the words when I’m already his.

Racer

I tug restlessly on the bow tie at my neck, and I hear Henley say, “You look fine, dude.”

“Thanks,” I growl, impatient, my gaze glued to the church doors.

We’re tying the knot before the start of the season next March. I couldn’t wait, and Lana didn’t want to either. But somehow these past ten minutes waiting for her up at the altar have felt about as long as waiting my whole damn life for her.

The benches are cluttered with our family and friends, and outside, we even needed to field off some reporters, interested in my wedding since I was crowned Formula One champion.

I could’ve swept my girl up to Vegas and got this circus over with, but I wanted to give her something she deserved—something good, and fucking memorable. Like her.

I also selfishly wanted to watch her walk up the aisle, and so here I am. Best driver in the world, sometimes selfish motherfucker, future husband and father, chomping at the bit for his bride to tie the knot with him. Yeah, I’m definitely not used to wearing suits, and I’m simmering underneath with the urge to give her my name and call her Mrs. Tate. So every minute feels like a penance for some small or large sins I’ve done since I was kid.

When we told my parents I’d proposed, Dad pulled me aside and told me, “I’m just going to have to ask you once because I’m your father and I care: are you certain about this?”

“Dead certain.”

He’d smiled, patted my shoulder and said, “Good. I can tell she deserves you, and I know sure as fuck you deserve her.”

“Don’t blow smoke up my ass; you don’t know her well yet.”

“I saw you two at the hospital—I didn’t need to see more.”

The music starts ratcheting up, and when the doors of the church open and I spot Lana on her dad’s arm, I blink my eyes and open them back up. I had fantasies. Watching this girl walk up to me in a white dress, her eyes screaming that she loved me.

Nothing fucking compares to the reality.

Because fuck me, I never thought something so perfect, so lovely, and so damned sweet could ever be mine. Could ever love me like she does, accept me as I am, want me back.

I run my hand over the front of my tux and hold her gaze, my insides roiling with hunger, lust, love, everything I fucking feel for this girl. Her veil is attached to the top of her head and falling down her back. She made sure not to wear it over her face; I wanted to see her face as she walked towards me, and I see her now and feel like someone just slammed the back of my knees.

My bride’s smile is like the brightest sun on any possible galaxy out there. In her eyes is everything I need to know. Has always been there, no matter how scared, how reluctant, how much I took her by surprise.

Our families look happy about the wedding. Maybe they’d never expected us to find each other. Hell, maybe we didn’t either. But we did. Now I’m not letting this girl go.

I mean to watch her sweet, lovely body swell up with my kids. Have them walk up to her, call her their mother.

I want to step out of the race track, sweaty and dehydrated, and have her always standing there to get my kiss.

And on our off days, I want to hop into my car, ignite the engine, pull us into the road with the wind in her hair, my hand on her, a song on the stereo. The road before us, our fucking love as real as the wind, sometimes soft or slow, sometimes wet and wild, always there.

She can crash my party at any time.

My smile as wide as I’ve ever felt it, I step off the platform and open my hand for hers. As her father hands her over to me, he gives me a steady, admiring look. “You love her hard, boy, and know that I have never seen my daughter as happy as she is with you or as in love as she is now.”

I nod respectfully back at him, my hand still open as Lana’s fingers slip into mine, and I grip her as tight as I can without hurting her—as tight as I plan to hold on to her, my whole damn life. We’re smiling at each other as I pull her up to my side. My wife.

“You’re so screwed,” I rasp in her ear, a teasing tone in my voice. “I’m going to ruin you for everyone else your whole life.”

“I’m counting on it,” she breathes as those green eyes of hers happily caress my face.

She never once hesitates when she says her vows to me, but I notice her tear up with emotion when I say, loud and damn clear, that I, Racer Tate, take her as my wife, to have and to hold, till death do us part.

Because I mean it, and Lana knows me well enough by now to know.

We’re impatient to strip when we arrive at my apartment in St. Pete. It’s 3 a.m. We danced to our song—Favorite Record (Lana declared it ours and I fucking approve)—and then we mingled with our guests and are now ready to continue feasting in private by feasting on each other.

My girl reaches behind her to try to unzip her dress when I take her by the shoulders and gently turn her around.

On my nightstand behind me is a box with the keys to her new ride. A wedding present from me, purchased with a small part of my F1 winnings. A white Mercedes with beige interior and carbon fiber dashboard. Wheels like artwork. I want her to have the best always. But I’m not giving it to her yet. That comes later. Tomorrow. Now I need my fucking hands on her. My tongue on her. My damn smell.

“Allow your husband,” I say, relishing calling myself that name for the first time as I devilishly tug the zipper down her back and place a long, wet kiss on the back of her neck, the skin exposed because her hair is still up.