Page 93 of Full Throttle

Damn him.

Juliette waited until Dominic stilled. He was breathing hard, and there was color in his cheeks. She wiped at her mouth. Something heavy settled in her chest; not embarrassment, exactly, but something closer to dread. What had she been thinking? After Paris—after everything he’d said to her…And then there was the seat to think about. A dull weight settled in her chest.

Dominic might kiss her like she was the only person in the world, but that was where practice got you. She wasn’t special. He’d made that clear enough in Paris.

Dominic cleared his throat. “What I said before—”

“Don’t worry.” Juliette rose. “You said it in the heat of the moment. I won’t take it to heart.”

Dominic’s gaze was weighted. “I see.”

Juliette adjusted her fallen bra strap. Moonlight filtered into the flat, settling on Dominic’s dark curls like a crown of stars. There was something noble about his face, something haughty about the high cheekbones and jawline. The Prince of Racing. How right the newspapers were.

“Anyway,” Juliette said, “this was just a one-time thing.” She pulled the shirt farther down her naked thighs. “That’s what we agreed.”

Dominic’s jaw tightened. “Right.”

“We don’t even like each other.”

“No,” Dominic said coolly. “I suppose we don’t.”

Silence descended. A breeze ruffled the curtains. Juliette placed a hand on the counter; the marble was cold under her hot palm.

She forced herself to say the words. “What you did to me in that art gallery…I can never forgive you for that. This”—she gestured between them—“means nothing. It’s just physical. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Oh, I understand.” Dominic’s smile was hard. “You want to use my body, but you find my personality abhorrent. I’ve got it. Loud and clear.”

It took a great deal of effort not to flinch. “You’re doing exactly the same thing.”

“No,” Dominic said in a low voice. “See, the difference is, Marchmont, that I don’t actually hate you. I want to hate you.” An odd light burned in his eyes. “But mostly I just despise myself for wanting you.”

Juliette felt the words like a physical blow. Ranya’s words came back to her: Nobody is worth giving up the trophy for. Nobody. And looking at Dominic now, his eyes like chipped black gems…Her heart tightened into a fist. God, she wanted to believe him, but he’d done this once before. And what if this was a tactic just to distract her from the championship?

Her phone buzzed in the bowl of rice. Juliette glanced down.

“That’s Cap. He’s in a cab outside.”

Dominic’s expression was unreadable. “I see.”

Juliette grabbed her handbag. “I should go.”

“Well,” Dominic said, leaning against the counter, “you know where to find the door.” He gave her a lazy smile. “You can keep the shirt if you like. Consider it a consolation prize for when I win the championship.”

The amused glint in Dominic’s eyes was the flash of steel. Something wedged under Juliette’s rib cage like a hot coal, and she had the oddest urge to throttle him, to kiss him, to do something—anything—to wipe that terrible look off his face.

Instead, Juliette turned for the door. “I’ll see you in Monza.”

Chapter 30

Crossing the Line

“I’m only going to ask this once,” Juliette said dryly. “Do I want to know what that sign says?”

Baz shot her an amused look. Duro Stallion fans packed the Monza stands, a blur of red face paint and waving flags. Someone was holding a sign that read, Mi fai sciogliere come il gelato al sole—mangia la mia panna, Cap! She didn’t speak Italian, but the little hearts around her brother’s face suggested that the sign wasn’t actually about ice cream. Or racing. There were times when she envied Baz’s ability to speak four languages, but she sensed this wouldn’t be one of them.

Baz ran a hand over his chin. “Depends. How vivid is your imagination?”

“Very.”