Throttled: Dirty Air (Book 1)(78)

My dick slides easily in and out of her, her arousal coating me. I increase the pressure and pace. Hurried thrusts match my limited sense of control, becoming more rushed with each push. My heart beats rapidly in my chest. I detonate inside of her with a roar of pleasure, my spine tingling at my release. Lazy pumps until I have nothing left to give.

My body relaxes and I lie on top of her, both of us catching our breath.

“I think you shave off a year of my life every single week,” her voice croaks.

“What a year well spent.”

Her chest shakes under me, and I smile into her neck.

We both take care of ourselves. I help smooth out her hair while she fixes my bow tie. We’re quite the pair, she and I.

“I have one last request.” I grab her hand. She glances up at me, her curiosity apparent. “Will you dance with me?”

She nods her head enthusiastically while shooting me a radiant smile.

I pull up the music-streaming app on my phone before placing it down on one of the tables. Thomas Rhett’s “Die a Happy Man” croons through the tiny speakers, loud enough for us to hear. My hand grabs hers as I pull her toward an empty area. With one hand on the small of her back and the other wrapped around her hand, I sway us to the music.

This is the best I can get for now since we can’t dance together in public yet. The moment feels fitting after the sex we shared, her head lying against my chest as we move around in a small circle. I kiss the top of her head before I spin her around.

She unabashedly throws her head back and lets out a sultry laugh. I make it a goal to make her laugh like that every single day of the rest of my life. She turns me into a sappy motherfucker who can’t help it around her, endlessly searching for ways to make her happy and satisfied.

I gather up courage as the song continues because I want to let her know. Because I never want another day to go by without her hearing it.

“I love you.” My voice rasps over the music.

Maya always looks beautiful to me. But the moment I admit I love her? She gives me what is hands down the most gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen, one meant only for me.

I keep saying that. But I’ll never forget this one.

“I love you, too.” Her voice carries over the sweet melody.

I pull her in close after she says the three words I’ve wanted to hear for weeks, committing the moment to memory.





33





Maya


Brazil. Home of Noah’s beloved Adriana Lima.

I’m joking. No more bitter feelings about that comment since Tequila Talks was a few weeks ago. I’m more mature than that. Plus, Noah loves me. Back in the ballroom, he caught me off guard, looking excited to say those three words. Now he never goes a day without saying them.

Lying to my brother about my current whereabouts fills me with dread. I let him know this morning that I was flying to Brazil earlier than expected with Sophie, telling him we want to explore Rio de Janeiro together before the next Grand Prix. My lie isn’t too far off from the truth. See, I am in Rio de Janeiro…but I’m actually here with Noah.

Shocker. I know.

But we have a week off between the last race and the Brazilian Grand Prix. We came to the country early, enjoying the trip he planned. He shows me how he cares, doing sweet things that make me appreciate him even more. Like buying me one of every candy bar when I got my period and sex was off the table. Or how he made sangria when I felt homesick, which led to us getting drunk and playing another round of two truths and a lie.

I carry my camera around while we wander through Brazil’s streets, filming private moments of us. Nothing like the hustle and bustle of a big city. Noah shows an interest in my camera, asking people to take photos of us, claiming he wants memories of our first trip together. He hates every camera except my own. I can’t imagine being famous, not being able to enjoy fundamental privacy.

We both dress up, currently incognito because avoiding fans has become our new day job. I don’t want pictures of us out there on the internet. At least not identifiable ones, so I put myself in charge of the outfits.

“Is the fake mustache really necessary? It’s kind of itchy.” Noah scratches his face for the fourth time today. I hate to say it, but mustaches don’t suit him, especially not the handlebar kind.

“Stop your complaining. I’m the one wearing an Albrecht team shirt. They’re like the worst in the whole F1 circuit so I got the short end of the stick.”

His throaty laugh makes me chuckle along with him.

Noah taps the brim of my hat. “I told you to wear the wig instead. You refused.”

“It’s hot outside and wigs get scratchy.” I don’t even know why I bought that atrocity. It makes me look like a porn star, and not exactly the well-paid kind.

“We’ll have to save it for another day.”

Noah’s heated smile sends a shiver down my spine. He kisses my neck at the bottom of the Christ the Redeemer steps, people pushing past us, grumbling in Portuguese.

“You have lots of kinks. I’m not sure I would’ve agreed to this relationship if I had known all this beforehand.” I step away from him and give him a one-armed shrug. His sexual appetite alone leaves me sore for days because once is never enough with this man.

He smacks my ass while we climb to visit the statue. By the time we reach the top, my lungs ache and my legs wobble.