Throttled (Dirty Air 1)

My brother moves around in his seat. “I don’t want to discuss it. The team already lost today. It’s bad for us. Do we need to harp on the logistics of how I messed up?”

Noah subtly shakes his head before his sharp eyes look straight ahead. He replaced his tight race suit with a sponsor polo shirt, his hair pressing smoothly against his scalp with not a single dark strand out of place yet. I prefer his charming wickedness over this sad state any day of the week. His arms cross against his chest, bringing my attention toward the ridges of muscle etched into them, tan skin gleaming under bright lights.

I check out reporters around the room, searching for any distractions, but my eyes drift back to the press table and roam over Noah again. Ugh. Why does he have to be my brother’s racing rival?

I shift on my feet, my sneakers scuffing against the slick tile. My attention snaps back to my brother, choosing to ignore my attraction toward Noah because I don’t want to accept those feelings. Instead, I list off all the reasons Noah’s bad news in my head.

It’s way too soon.

I barely know him.

He’s my brother’s teammate. Rival even.

He’s a manwhore with more hookups than all the Bachelor seasons combined.

He looks like he’ll screw with my head as well as he’ll screw me in bed.

Working out all of the reasons why Noah Slade is a bad idea is a useful distraction, keeping me away from the drama ensuing in front of me.

I tune in again when the reporters decide to move their attention to Noah.

“Noah, tell us your thoughts on the situation.”

These reporters decide today is the day for such open-ended inquiries.

“It’s a shitty situation that should have never happened. Santi’s apologized and we are sorry. Our racing team has to fix our mistake and we’re appreciative of their efforts to get our cars up and running for the next race. We love this sport, bad accidents aside. We’re not in it to retire early from the race and go home empty-handed. This is the worst-case example of teamwork, but we’ll work on it.”

He handles questions like a professional. Not bad.

My brother visibly relaxes in his seat, relief evident in his eyes.

My expectations for today didn’t include Noah acting like such a pro. He pushes aside his earlier bad mood in front of the cameras, p

resenting himself as the ultimate teammate. I can see why Bandini keeps him around besides his talent behind the wheel. His appearance makes it obvious why women gravitate toward him, with him being such a smooth talker, willing to put on a show.

The rest of the conference is dull. I sneak glances at Noah because what is a girl to do during the rest of a boring meeting. He catches me staring at him, making my cheeks flush.

And that wicked smile he sends me when the cameras stop rolling? The one promising more? Yup. I see it.

Oh man, I’m in trouble.

10

Noah

Maya totally tries to hide how she checks me out. I no longer think its mild curiosity, chalking up her initial reactions as her way of sizing up her brother’s new teammate. But we’ve danced around each other for a month—ever since the season started, glancing at each other and avoiding physical contact. She fills me with a different excitement—because of her and the reactions she thinks go unnoticed.

My new relationship with Santi is already off to a bad start. No need to fuck it up more with a quick hookup, no matter how hot his sister is. And I mean she is a drop-dead gorgeous woman. Thoughts plague me about ways I would defile her like wrapping her ponytail around my arm while her lush lips wrap around my cock, pump after pump until I finish. I’m a dirty bastard, but I can’t do that to my teammate—no matter how much I want to. So I lock up my fantasies for another time with another girl.

I don’t shit where I sleep. Period. End of story.

My dick retaliates against my brain though because I peek glances at her across the Bandini garage. I could lie to myself and say its sheer curiosity. Based on the way my cock hardens around her, it’s more than that, and frustration runs through me at denying myself.

I’m ashamed to admit I jerk off in the bathroom sometimes after seeing Maya. No use denying my terrible habit. It happens mainly after races, with all the pent-up adrenaline begging for release. But she always hangs around, so lately I’ve been taking a lot of cold showers, trying to rid the images of her from my head. She wears these tight shorts that show off her tan legs, plus she looks fucking fantastic in Bandini shirts. It brings out a possessive side of me, happy to see her in my team’s colors, bobbing around the pit garage with her camera.

Can I ask the chief to ban attire like hers altogether from Bandini’s motorhome? May solve half of my problems.

She bends over the cockpit of Santi’s car, checking out the inside with one of the engine mechanics.