Throttled: Dirty Air (Book 1)(8)
I let out a sigh. Noah’s the type of guy you don’t bring home to mom; he’s the one you screw around with before you find the guy you finally take home to mom, ensuring her you’ve moved on from your wild ways. His list of past partners happens to be longer than my grocery list and to-do list combined. Gross yet oddly fascinating how women like that.
“You do understand you’re an adult, right? How on earth do I keep you in check?”
“Because I won’t say anything too nasty for my sister’s ears.” He bats his long, dark lashes at me in a ridiculous gesture that softens my heart. Damn him and his goofiness. I fall for it every single time, a victim to Santi’s boyish ways.
“Your innocent ploy is nothing short of terrible. Is that how you get laid?”
He throws a pillow straight at my face, smudging my mascara even more.
“Ugh, you’re messing up my makeup! Fine, I’ll go. But get off my bed. Now.”
He hops off my bed triumphantly because I fell for his plan. Hook, line, and sinker.
“See you later. I’ll send up someone to grab you when it’s time.” He taps away at his phone.
“The things I do for you. I’ll try not to fall asleep on the side of the panel, but no promises.”
He lets out a deep laugh. “F1 panels are juicy. You’ll enjoy it, I know it.” He leaves with a smile plastered on his face. I can’t tell if he means to be serious when he rubs his hands together like an evil genius. Shady side eye included.
I wrap up getting ready. An attendant shows me the way to the press conference area where my brother waves at me from the panel table. My grin mirrors his own. Warmth fills my heart at seeing him up there living his dream, wearing signature scarlet Bandini gear—everything he’s wanted since he was a kid.
I snap a quick picture for my Instagram story. Hate to break it to the thirsty females out there, but I’m his number-one fan. After fiddling with my phone, I glance up at the panel, my eyes meeting Noah’s blue ones—a strikingly beautiful color framed by dark lashes and brows. His plump lips turn down as he checks me out. My body heats at his appraisal, aware of the beautiful human in front of me because I’m dumb not blind. I find it impossible to calm my racing heart, thumping against my rib cage, as I take him in. Fuck me. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of a guy as gorgeous until now.
He rakes a hand through his thick, unruly strands. His hair looks like he continuously runs his fingers through the locks all day. Corded arms lay on the table, revealing tan skin and large hands, taking my mind to dirty places. Noah’s lean kind of muscular is ideal for racing. Shit, the kind of muscular perfect for fucking against a door, in a shower, or on a counter. Vivid images fly through my head of Noah in compromising positions. My body hums with excitement at the sight of Noah smirking at me, my lower half clearly not understanding the difference between danger and lust. Turns out press conferences offer more eye candy than I thought.
I lick my lips at the sight of his arms. Nothing makes a girl swoon quite like a guy dedicated to his gym regimen, but this guy is more likely to commit to his gym than to another girl. He notices my reaction and winks at me. My cheeks flush at his attention, an embarrassing display that makes my attraction noticeable. Can I be any more obvious?
Frustration rushes through me, washing away thoughts of his lips against mine and his hands in my hair. How on earth will I survive a season around someone who looks like him?
God plays cruel jokes on me. Just when I promised to be good, he wants me to fall right into the arms of the devil. Men like Noah are only built for wickedness.
I force my eyes away and try to find something interesting in the room. Oh look, a middle-aged man setting up his microphone. Riveting stuff. The same man glares at me before he grumbles something about hot chicks not being allowed in the press room.
Noah’s deep rumbling laugh sends a shiver up my spine. Since when do laughs sound sexy? My body finds it difficult to ignore him, my eyes wanting to pull back to him like a magnet. I refrain because I don’t want to lead him on. But he makes my body stand to attention, my posture never looking better.
My interest in the reporter appears short-lived once questions come from all different directions. Each journalist reeks of desperation to add their tidbit, enthusiastically raising their hands every time a round of questions wraps up.
One question makes me pause my Instagram scrolling.
“What have you two been doing to prevent another Abu Dhabi situation?”
Ugh, this again? Aren’t there juicier stories to bring up? Noah seems to share my same sentiment, his low groan permeating through the crowd and gaining my attention.
“Are we seriously bringing up a race from two years ago? That’s below you, Harold. Find fresher drama to bring up because your questions bore me.”
Turns out Harold is the same reporter I was staring at earlier. My mouth drops open, shocked Noah Slade knows these reporters by name. He has no shame calling them out.
But Harold refuses to let Noah off easily, especially after a tongue-lashing.
“One would assume the competition is back in full force. How does it feel to be working closely with someone you publicly announced as a rival on the track?” Harold licks his lips at his own line of questioning. Must be proud.
Noah’s jaw ticks, accentuating razor-sharp cheekbones. His icy gaze makes my blood run cold. “Seeing as we’re teammates now, his performance is contingent on my own, and vice versa. I wish Santi the best of luck; this year will be competitive between everyone.”