Page 83 of Racing Hearts

“That you’re extraordinary.”

My heart thumps, misses a beat, then resumes its steady pattern.

Extraordinary.

It’s not a word I’ve ever used for myself.

Hardworking, yes. Strong, sure. Obsessive, definitely.

I am all these things and more to make up for everything I’m not. I don’t have an aptitude for my sport like so many elite athletes do, either in some perfect combination of genetics or effortlessly flawless technique. It’s taken me a decade of hard work to overcome that fact.

And yet. Sometimes when I see myself reflected in Adrian’s eyes, I feel this prick of awareness. It’s like I’m expanding, escaping the boundaries of what usually makes me myself. Today, still sprawled out in the sand, muscles softening, the coarse edge of triumph humming along my skin…

Today, just maybe.

Even though it’s not something I can put into words, maybe I can still feel it to be true.

“Kath,” Adrian says, eyes glued to my lips. “Tell me you know how strong you are. Tell me you know how special you are.”

Wind shivers across my face. Adrian’s hair caresses his forehead, and all I can think about is him. How strong and extraordinary he is. The warm press of his fingers to my chin and the way he tips my face toward his. The heat that’s spinning out from my chest. The coarse sand that’s clinging to our muscles.

When I drop my eyes, all I can see is that Adrian is hard.

Slowly, almost experimentally, I slide my fingers up the hem of his Lycra. He releases himself toward me, and our mouths fuse together. Adrian’s tongue moves against mine and his hands slide against my damp unisuit. I can feel every one of his movements through the glossy material: across my back, along my hips. And I can feel him, too, the cords of his biceps, the ridges of his abs, only partially covered. But I know too well what’s under that thin material—and even still it’s too much.

I yank at his shoulder straps and he shrugs out of his kit, peeling it off the length of his torso. He kisses my neck as his hand curves around my spine and his fingers pull down each of the straps on my shoulders in two smooth motions. My skin shivers as it’s exposed to cool air.

I’m not someone who usually engages in public displays of affection, let alone whatever this is about to become. I probably should care that we’re on a beach, but given the rocks, we’re not visible except from the water, and I don’t see any other boats nearby. Besides, I’m too feverish, too drunk on my own strength and the intoxicating power of Adrian’s touch. Too safe in the warmth of his arms to feel anything but comfort.

So, when Adrian works the fabric off my chest, I reach into the spandex still covering his thighs, and pull him free of the fabric. He groans out my name as I pump my hand. His breaths are sharp by my throat and I’m heady with this feeling, too—the electrifying power of making him unravel. Adrian’s hands climb into my hair as his forehead drops to my collarbone. His lips tremble, and, god, he’s even more beautiful like this. Like seeing him this vulnerable and malleable just reminds me how fucking strong he is.

“You’re brilliant,” I say as his head tilts back.

He murmurs my name as I move my hand faster, overcome by the ways this man has showed me how to trust my own power. On an erg, when he gently touches my shoulder to correct my catch. On a dock, when he squats next to my boat and tips my chin toward his. On the water, when he screams out my name.

And right now, his breath coming in groans as his legs twitch. His tight fist pressing to his forehead when he tells me he’s close. I move faster still, and Adrian bucks into my hand as he mumbles some swear words intermixed with my name.

And he comes undone.

After, Adrian lies back in the sand, bringing me with him. With one hand, he cups his head and with the other, he traces the calluses along my palm.

“You still haven’t said it,” he reminds me.

I tip my chin toward his face. “And I don’t think I’m going to.”

Adrian’s fingers, which are still working circles over my palm, inch up my forearm to the crook of my elbow. He tugs gently and I tip until we’re facing each other. His hand coaxes lower to the dip and rise of my waist, made more prominent by this angle.

“There’s a chance,” he says as his fingers move along the bunched material of my half-removed unisuit, “that it makes you even more attractive.”

“What does?”

He tugs me closer and I follow the glide path easily, zippering into the pocket of his chest. His breath is warm and sweet on my cheek and his scent is so intoxicatingly familiar that I ache with it.

“That you don’t know how special you are.”

I tip my head so I can look at him from slightly hooded eyes. “Because of some cliché about womanhood and innocence?”

A laugh snaps out of him. “No. Because it means I get to be the one to convince you.”