Page 117 of Over the Limit

And then, no doubt, the FIA. I did nothing wrong so I’m not worried about what they’ll find when it comes to my actions. I didn’t contravene any rules.

But . . .

Petty never looks good on anyone, and Rossi just made sure of that for the both of us.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Blair

He comes to me that night. To my place.

Other than the two texts he sent me saying “I’m all right” and “Rossi won’t say a word,” I haven’t heard from him.

He comes straight from the private jet, opens the door, and crawls into bed with me.

“Lach—”

“Shh. No talking.” He wraps his arms around me and rests his head on my chest. “I just need this. Need you. Need us. Please?”

I run my fingers through his hair and for the first time since I saw his car flying through the air, since I felt like a part of my soul was twisted like the metal of his car, I feel like I can breathe.

Sure, I saw him on the telecast. The interviews with the talking heads. Heard him recount how he felt about the accident. Heard his stoic, team-oriented response to the FIA imposing a fine against Rossi for impeding him.

But seeing him on the television and feeling him in my arms are two very different things.

This—his warm skin, the beat of his heart against mine, the sight of his crooked smile—reaffirms what I knew to be true. That he is okay.

“I’m here.” They’re the words I need to say, and I want him to hear.

Rossi went after him because of me. This is my fault.

“Take what you need from me,” I whisper as I bring each one of his fingers to my lips and kiss them.

I love you.

“I’m all yours.” I lean forward and brush my lips to his.

I think I was made to love you.

We move in the darkness. A synchronized dance we know so well by heart now. We explore each other’s flesh not because we’re figuring out what pleases each other, but rather because we know.

He kisses the spot just below my ear. My fingers dance over his lower abdomen. He cups my breasts and rolls my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. I lace kisses down the line of his jaw.

We lavish attention in the shadows much like we’ve lived this relationship. Without many words but with the reassurance of touch. With the affirmation of moans. With the press of our lips to one another’s as the only currency we need to interact.

I spread my thighs. I guide his cock to my core. He pushes into me in a motion we know so well but that feels new and different each and every time.

And this time does feel different.

I sense a solemnity to us. A gratitude that he’s here, that he’s whole and healthy and loving me. And at the same time, with some kind of quiet resignation of what happened on his part.

He moves inside of me just like he always has—attentively, sensually, generously—and yet I can’t help but feel like something is amiss. Like he’s been pushed too far with the circumstances today and it’s making him question everything.

In normal circumstances, it’s something I’d be able to understand. To process.

But right now, with me sharing every part of me and then some, it’s the most bizarre mix of seductive, confusing, and desperate.

“Look at me, Lach,” I say as he begins to use me for himself. In deep, hard thrusts that bottom out within me. With a feral greed that’s both attractive and sexy. With a possessiveness that’s heady and arousing.