Racer
I tug restlessly on the bow tie at my neck, and I hear Henley say, “You look fine, dude.”
“Thanks,” I growl, impatient, my gaze glued to the church doors.
We’re tying the knot before the start of the season next March. I couldn’t wait, and Lana didn’t want to either. But somehow these past ten minutes waiting for her up at the altar have felt about as long as waiting my whole damn life for her.
The benches are cluttered with our family and friends, and outside, we even needed to field off some reporters, interested in my wedding since I was crowned Formula One champion.
I could’ve swept my girl up to Vegas and got this circus over with, but I wanted to give her something she deserved—something good, and fucking memorable. Like her.
I also selfishly wanted to watch her walk up the aisle, and so here I am. Best driver in the world, sometimes selfish motherfucker, future husband and father, chomping at the bit for his bride to tie the knot with him. Yeah, I’m definitely not used to wearing suits, and I’m simmering underneath with the urge to give her my name and call her Mrs. Tate. So every minute feels like a penance for some small or large sins I’ve done since I was kid.
When we told my parents I’d proposed, Dad pulled me aside and told me, “I’m just going to have to ask you once because I’m your father and I care: are you certain about this?”
“Dead certain.”
He’d smiled, patted my shoulder and said, “Good. I can tell she deserves you, and I know sure as fuck you deserve her.”
“Don’t blow smoke up my ass; you don’t know her well yet.”
“I saw you two at the hospital—I didn’t need to see more.”
The music starts ratcheting up, and when the doors of the church open and I spot Lana on her dad’s arm, I blink my eyes and open them back up. I had fantasies. Watching this girl walk up to me in a white dress, her eyes screaming that she loved me.
Nothing fucking compares to the reality.
Because fuck me, I never thought something so perfect, so lovely, and so damned sweet could ever be mine. Could ever love me like she does, accept me as I am, want me back.
I run my hand over the front of my tux and hold her gaze, my insides roiling with hunger, lust, love, everything I fucking feel for this girl. Her veil is attached to the top of her head and falling down her back. She made sure not to wear it over her face; I wanted to see her face as she walked towards me, and I see her now and feel like someone just slammed the back of my knees.
My bride’s smile is like the brightest sun on any possible galaxy out there. In her eyes is everything I need to know. Has always been there, no matter how scared, how reluctant, how much I took her by surprise.
Our families look happy about the wedding. Maybe they’d never expected us to find each other. Hell, maybe we didn’t either. But we did. Now I’m not letting this girl go.
I mean to watch her sweet, lovely body swell up with my kids. Have them walk up to her, call her their mother.
I want to step out of the race track, sweaty and dehydrated, and have her always standing there to get my kiss.
And on our off days, I want to hop into my car, ignite the engine, pull us into the road with the wind in her hair, my hand on her, a song on the stereo. The road before us, our fucking love as real as the wind, sometimes soft or slow, sometimes wet and wild, always there.
She can crash my party at any time.
My smile as wide as I’ve ever felt it, I step off the platform and open my hand for hers. As her father hands her over to me, he gives me a steady, admiring look. “You love her hard, boy, and know that I have never seen my daughter as happy as she is with you or as in love as she is now.”
I nod respectfully back at him, my hand still open as Lana’s fingers slip into mine, and I grip her as tight as I can without hurting her—as tight as I plan to hold on to her, my whole damn life. We’re smiling at each other as I pull her up to my side. My wife.
“You’re so screwed,” I rasp in her ear, a teasing tone in my voice. “I’m going to ruin you for everyone else your whole life.”
“I’m counting on it,” she breathes as those green eyes of hers happily caress my face.
She never once hesitates when she says her vows to me, but I notice her tear up with emotion when I say, loud and damn clear, that I, Racer Tate, take her as my wife, to have and to hold, till death do us part.
Because I mean it, and Lana knows me well enough by now to know.
We’re impatient to strip when we arrive at my apartment in St. Pete. It’s 3 a.m. We danced to our song—Favorite Record (Lana declared it ours and I fucking approve)—and then we mingled with our guests and are now ready to continue feasting in private by feasting on each other.
My girl reaches behind her to try to unzip her dress when I take her by the shoulders and gently turn her around.
On my nightstand behind me is a box with the keys to her new ride. A wedding present from me, purchased with a small part of my F1 winnings. A white Mercedes with beige interior and carbon fiber dashboard. Wheels like artwork. I want her to have the best always. But I’m not giving it to her yet. That comes later. Tomorrow. Now I need my fucking hands on her. My tongue on her. My damn smell.
“Allow your husband,” I say, relishing calling myself that name for the first time as I devilishly tug the zipper down her back and place a long, wet kiss on the back of her neck, the skin exposed because her hair is still up.
As her dress starts coming down, I slide my hands down her bare arms. She shivers, and my gut coils tight with need and desire. “Racer, I’m so happy right now.”
She’s whispering.
“I know.”
And I’m whispering too. I don’t know why, as we’re alone. But this moment feels fucking holy, and words are almost too superfluous for a moment like this. I turn Lana back around to face me.
She’s already breathing hard, and her heart is beating rapidly in that little pulse point at her throat. I drink her in, slowly, wanting to memorize this moment for as long as I live.
My wife in a flimsy strapless bra and an even flimsier white lace thong, in garters, hose that reach up to mid-thigh, and heels that she’s able to step out of as she takes a step closer to me.
Ivory skin, freckled nose, her hair still up with that veil, my gut coils back like a spring.
I want this girl like crazy. Not only with every atom, pore, and cell of my body. I want this girl heart and soul. I stare into those wide green eyes, flooded with love for me, and I watch them carefully as I start to work her lovely white lace bra open to reveal her gorgeous breasts.
I look at her, eye contact holding as I lean down, holding as I bring my tongue out to lick one puckered nipple, and my dick throbs mercilessly in my pants as her eyes flare wide and her pupils dilate even more.
I turn my head and torture the other nipple, slow and easy, making it stand up and quiver when I breathe on it.
“They’re always up when I’m with you,” she whispers as she leans her head to nuzzle my ear, and I raise my brows and straighten, my wife’s gaze mischievous and still shy. I don’t know why she continues to feel shy with me sometimes, but I like it. I like everything about her to the point she’s got me all jacked up just standing here with her wedding dress pooled at her feet and that fucking lace garter looking sexy as shit on her slim legs.
There’s a blue rose pin attached to her garter, and I finger it as I trail my eyes over her body. “What’s this?”
“Reese gave it to me.” Like a greedy siren who won’t wait for more, Lana’s unknotting my tie and pushing my jacket off my shoulders. “Something borrowed and something blue.”
I ease my arms out of my jacket and toss it into the air, then slide my fingers up the inside of her thigh as she undoes the buttons of my shirt.
“How about something hot and wet for the groom,” I murmur, easing my fingers into her white lace panties.
She groans on contact, and a more animalistic sound comes from me at the same time, and Lana presses a kiss to my neck, then starts slowly kissing the skin of my chest as she unbuttons down my shirt and pushes it off my chest.
“Girl, I love you so much,” I rasp, taking her mouth beneath mine, suddenly growing a little rougher and more desperate.
Lana’s tongue comes out to play with mine, and we stumble our way into the bedroom of my pad, where we’ll be living for the summer months before taking off again for next year’s F1 season.
My gut is churning from my need of her. My slacks are near bursting from the length and width of my damned greedy dick, and when Lana caresses it with that magic hand of hers, I growl and roll her to her back, the kiss turning more desperate.
Her panties are so flimsy I grab them to pull them down her legs and, instead, end up tearing them off her. Something I’ve started to do lately. My bride gasps in delight and I smile and look down at her, all bare for me except for that garter.
I like it.
Licking my teeth, I run my hands down her body, watching her pant, her breasts rising and falling, her pupils dilating.
“Racer, I need you,” she breathes.
I shake my head no, smirking, as I continue exploring her very slowly, and she sits up on the bed and suddenly straddles me.
I don’t complain when she drops her pussy to my hard dick and rubs against it, the only thing separating us the slacks of my tux, which I’m still wearing.
She looks at me, and I look at her, and I’m hot enough to explode as I grab her face in one hand, and tease my tongue along her lips again. “What do you want, wife?” I croon, licking her slowly, side to side, then I tease the tip of my tongue inside.
“Give me you,” she breathes, reaching between our bodies to stroke my hard dick.
She turns me on like a brand-new radio when she gets greedy for me like that.
“All of me,” I growl, as if that’s the only condition of her getting a piece of me: it’s all or nothing and that’s the way it is. She’s humming with anticipation as I lower her back down and then step back to remove my slacks.
She watches me—eyes running over my muscled chest, my hard abs, then down my happy trail, taking in my fully elongated dick, and my hard legs and thighs. Her breathing quickens, and she eyes me like I’m fucking perfection when the only perfect thing in this room is looking at me.
“All of me,” I repeat as I crawl over her.
She licks her lips in anticipation, then raises her head and kisses me on the mouth and drops her head, smiling up at me.
I raise my brows. The look she’s giving me is a full on, love-me-fuck-me look. Hell, I’m so game my adrenaline is pumping, my body straining for the release I can only find in her.
My cock continues throbbing as I grab the base and tease the head up and down her folds. I lean forward and whisper something naughty in her ear, that I’m going to fill her with my cum, and she laughs and takes a bite out of my chin and rocks her hips up to my dick to lure me.
I nearly lose control.
I crush her mouth beneath mine, holding her face tenderly in my hand as we taste each other. I can barely keep my head straight as I run my hands down her sides, cupping her lovely breasts, her smooth skin, her abdomen.
I caress my hands along her sides and squeeze her ass, my tongue and hers mating like mad, her nipples brushing against my chest, heaving up and down ‘cause she’s worked up so bad by what I’m doing to her. Her whispers that she loves me only make my cock throb harder and I can barely see straight. My eyes lock with hers, and hers look heavy lidded and watchful.
Growling softly, I lick my way up her throat, to her mouth, kissing her everywhere as I start to drive inside her.
It’s as if the world stops and doesn’t start moving again until I’m fucking embedded, balls deep, inside her. Inside my wife.
For the first time with no condom. Nothing between us. Just her.
She feels so damn perfect I’m straining every muscle in my body to make this moment last.
I move, deliberately deep. “Every piece of me,” I thickly murmur down at her, moving and moving, wanting to flood her, to fucking fill her with me until there’s nothing else.
She’s tight, hot and wet for me, and I’m driving harder and harder in the danger zone, her heart beating with mine. I never want to pull out, to come out of here—out of her. Fucking her. I cup her cheek and ease back to glance down at her stomach.
“I want your belly growing, Lana. I want your body swelled up because of me, and a baby you and I are going to make right there, inside you. A baby that I put there.” I kiss her to show her I mean it, moving faster and faster.
Lana is clawing at my back, her nails sliding down to grip my ass and dig into my tattoo. “RACER!” she’s crying out.
My fucking wife, taking me, my seed, everything I want to give her and giving me everything back.
I come inside her with a harsh growl, and Lana detonates when the spurts of my cum shoot up inside her walls. She trembles beneath me, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she arches up, clutching me as her lifeline.
She tucks her face into my neck when we’re done, and I run my nose along her hair, smelling and kissing her as I whisper that I love her.
“I love you,” she says, gripping my jaw and looking deeply into my eyes, tears glistening in hers. “Thank you for coming into my life. Thank you for being you. For showing me how to love again, and how to love like this …”
“Crasher,” I rasp, stroking my knuckles down her cheeks, “you’re the one who showed me how to love. And I’m never going to love anything or anyone the way I love you.”
It’s a vow. Like the ones we spoke in church, this one in a moment of intimacy when my wife’s sweet, malleable body is entwined with my larger one and is still gripping me inside her. Her cheeks are flushed, and I peck her lips every few minutes as we caress each other, relaxed and in fucking love.
Since Belgium, my BP seems stabilized, something I’m thankful for. Sometimes it’s like a shadow that’s with me wherever I go, there but not quite touching me. Others, it feels like it’s one that I can outrun. I’m learning to live with it, and so is she.
At some point in my life, I thought I was fucked by getting stuck with bipolar.
All I knew was that somewhere, somehow, some asshole had fucked me over in the health department. Taking something crucial for a normal man and making me less than what any normal man in the world was. I fought to be more. Better. Faster. Smarter. If only to fucking feel good enough. I managed well, thanks to the support of my family. And their acceptance. But it was her who changed my idea of this shit.
It’s easy for people to like you when you’re fine, when you’re fun, when you’re on top. But when you’re down and shit gets hard, only the true stuff remains. Who you are to the bone, not a lot of people can appreciate it, some of that shit can only be seen by someone with eyes that can really look deep. And see you. None of the other stuff.
This BP only makes me realize that the connection she and I have, the fucking love, the trust, the highs, and even the lows, what we have—isn’t for sissies. But Lana and me … What we have.
This love is real.
