Page 78 of Spin Control

My heart stutters in my chest at the idea that this woman—this strong, capable, incredible woman who always has a plan—wouldn’t know what to do if something happened to me on the track.

“You would’ve managed the crisis,” I say. “And then you would’ve marched into the hospital and told me in no uncertain terms that I had no choice but to recover.”

Elizabeth’s eyes meet mine, and the smile she gives me is so radiant it makes my breath catch. “Maybe so, Grant.”

“Please tell me I can kiss you.” She nods, and the excitement that bursts through me makes me feel like a teenager. I shift so I’m fully facing her and lift my hands to cup her face. Her skin is impossibly soft as I brush my thumbs over it. I lean in, giving myself the time to savor her perfect autumn scent before closing the distance between us.

The kiss is achingly sweet as we linger in those first tentative moments. But then she, of course, presses more firmly against me, moving her lips against mine, nudging me to give her more.

And God, do I.

I gently nip at her bottom lip before running my tongue along the seam of her mouth. When she opens for me, I don’t hesitate. We kiss and we kiss and we kiss, and then she shifts so that she’s in my lap, straddling me. I groan into her mouth and she captures my bottom lip in between her teeth. A sharp burst of gorgeous pain shoots through me and I dig my fingers into her hips, making her gasp.

“We should stop for tonight,” I say. If we continue, there’s no way I’ll keep my promise about just sleeping. “We should head upstairs. Go to bed.”

Elizabeth pulls back and looks at me, her gaze heated but thoughtful. “Okay, Wes. Let’s go to bed.”

Once we’re upstairs, she whistles low at the king-size mattress. I rummage through drawers and find an old Orion T-shirt for her to sleep in, which she happily accepts before heading into the bathroom to get ready for bed. When she emerges in just my old shirt, her long hair down and her face scrubbed bare, my breath catches. She’s so fucking perfect.

“Should I turn off the light?” she asks, and I nearly say no so that I can continue looking at her. But then I realize that that would be insane, so I nod. In the dark, the two of us nestle into bed, taking our time to get comfortable. I want her to feel safe with me, even when—especially when—she’s asleep.

I’m about to close my eyes when I suddenly remember something. “Jacobs?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did Stas call you?”

“Oh, that,” she says. “He wanted to make sure I cared about you.”

“What?” I ask, incredulous.

“It’s true. But he also wanted me to know that Elio isn’t to be underestimated.”

I think of the time Elio walked into a meeting with a sponsor who was ready to cancel their multi-million dollar contract, then walked back out with a smile on his face. “He’s not wrong about that.”

“I know,” she says, her voice quieter now. I feel her shuffle closer to me, her hand brushing my knee before she turns on her side to be the little spoon. I lightly place my arm around her and then lean forward to press a kiss to the back of her neck. “Good night, Elizabeth.”

“Good night, Wes.”

I never would have thought I’d end this horrible day with a smile on my face.

But that’s exactly what I’m doing when I close my eyes and drift away.

31

The first thing I know as I blink into consciousness is that I feel extraordinarily well-rested.

The second is that I am extraordinarily turned on.

I guess that’s to be expected when you wake up next to Wesley Fitzwilliam Grant.

At some point in the night, I shifted in his arms to face him. Soft, painterly light drifts through the windows, playing over his cheekbone, dancing across the dark hair dusting his chest, accentuating the shadow where the duvet has dipped low on his hip, highlighting how much of a masterpiece this man is.

I don’t move—I barely even breathe—but Wes’s arm tightens around my waist, drawing me closer. He makes a low sound and if I weren’t already completely turned on, I have no doubt that alone would have gotten me there.

His fingers trail down my back until he hits skin, and then he’s reaching under the soft material of the shirt, splaying his palm across the center of my back before applying a soft pressure that brings my chest flush with his.

I wait for the panic to hit. For my brain to sound the alarm that I’m trapped and need to find an escape now now now. But it never comes. Though every cell in my body is on high alert, it’s not out of panic.