Page 74 of Spin Control

“To recap: you need company and don’t want to sleep alone.”

Wes nods. “Yes. For clarity’s sake, I’ll add this: I’d like you to stay with me.”

I don’t stay the night. Ever.

But this is a man who has been there for me without judgment. He’s taken my needs in stride and has respected them. And now he’s coming to me and trusting me with what he needs.

And that, I realize, is a type of submission. It’s not the kind I’m used to. I never allow myself to get close enough to anyone to develop that kind of emotional intimacy. But it’s submission all the same.

I’ve known for weeks that I have feelings for Wes. It’s time for me to be brave. To face the truth I’ve been too afraid to confess. To be vulnerable.

“Okay, Grant,” I say. “Let’s have a slumber party.”

When he smiles—close-lipped, a little shy, a bit overwhelmed—I return it.

30

As Elizabeth steps into my personal motorhome, I suddenly understand what people mean when they say they’re having an out-of-body experience.

I didn’t think she’d say yes when I asked her to stay the night. But I had to ask. Elizabeth Jacobs was all I was thinking of as I spun out on that track—and for the first time in a car, fear gripped me so tightly I couldn’t breathe.

I’m not sure what this thing is between us. But I trust her. I feel safe with her. And the more I get to know her, the more I crave her. I want her time and attention. I want to make her laugh. I want to be the one person this tough-as-nails woman who demands control can relax with. The one she can trust and feel safe with in the rare moments it turns out she has no control. So whatever the hell all of that is, I want to figure it out.

“I don’t know what I expected, but this was not it,” Elizabeth says, looking around my luxury RV, which is decorated in creams and dove greys, as if it’s an alien planet.

“I’m aware my vibe is more wood-paneled Winnebago,” I quip. With a master suite, a spacious living area, a kitchen, and two bathrooms, I recognize that it is outrageous. But for the European races that aren’t centrally located, having a comfortable motorhome that can be parked near the track is a better use of my time than commuting to and from a hotel.

After a beat, I remember that I need to be a good host. “Would you like a drink?”

“Sure,” she says, examining the built-in shelves where I’ve stashed a few well-worn sci-fi paperbacks and some framed photos. I force myself to tear my gaze away.

“There’s still water, sparkling water, an assortment of juices, white burgundy, and Champagne,” I rattle off as I look around the fridge. “There’s also a liquor cabinet, if you’re in the mood for something harder.” If it were just me here tonight, I have a feeling I’d end up at the bottom of a bottle of whisky.

“Wine sounds amazing,” Elizabeth says, and I move as if I’m a sommelier who suspects they’re serving a Michelin inspector. After uncorking the wine, gathering glasses and a bottle coaster, and then setting them on one of the small modular tables, I feel like it’s still not enough. Food. We need something to eat. A cheese platter. That’s what you have with wine.

It isn’t until I open the refrigerator again that I remember Camden has me on a no-dairy diet—a testament to how completely frazzled my brain is right now. “I don’t have a cheese platter or anything,” I say. “But there are some mixed nuts. And a ton of fresh fruit and veggies, if you’d prefer that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, taking a seat on the couch. “I ate at the paddock.”

“Are you sure?”

“Wes,” Elizabeth says, her gaze dropping to where I’m literally wringing my hands. “Are you nervous?”

“A little.”

“Because of me?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, her high ponytail swinging to brush her shoulder. I want to reach out and play with the ends of her hair, to run my fingers down her arm, to place my thumb against her bottom lip before leaning in and kissing her there. The fact that I’ve tasted her pussy but not her mouth suddenly feels criminal.

“You do realize you’re incredibly intimidating, right?”

Her lips quirk up. “I might’ve heard that a time or two.”

I reach for the wine and pour two glasses, mostly to buy myself time to think of something to say. But when I hand her a glass, my mind is still filled with white noise. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to function simply because Elizabeth Jacobs is voluntarily in my personal space.

She holds her glass up. “To Stas Dubinsky.”

“What?” I ask, gobsmacked.

She shrugs, but doesn’t elaborate. “It’s a terrible toast, isn’t it?”