“Sometimes I wish…” He rose to sit on the edge of the bed with his back to me. “I wish I could take care of you instead of pawning you off to every Tom, Dick, and Harry. If I were a little less gay…”
Oh, his guilt was in full force tonight. I snagged the vibrator and climbed off the bed. “You haven’t stuck your dick in me in twenty-two years, Collin. And you know why.” It was a tired discussion, but he needed the reminder. I flicked on the lamp and stood before him.
His gaze darted over my chest, my hips, and the strip of blonde hair above my clit ring. It was a cursory glance, much like the ones I received from women in the gym locker room. An appreciative look at my fit body, but not a twinge of sexual interest.
He hung his head. When we gave each other our V-cards at fifteen, his sexual orientation had been questioned but not yet explored. The reason we didn’t connect in the bedroom, then or now, was because the romantic chemistry between us simply didn’t exist. That said, he never slept with me or another woman again.
I strode toward the bathroom and said over my shoulder, “Don’t forget five minutes with me scared you away from pussy for life.”
“It was forty-five minutes, hooker.” He followed on my heels. “You made a gay man straight for almost an hour.” He caught my arm at the doorway and planted a kiss on my forehead. “No regrets.”
No regrets. It was our mantra because we were both full of them. He wanted a relationship with a man he didn’t have to hide. I wanted a relationship with a man who didn’t have to fuck me through an intermediary partner. He wanted children in vitro. I wanted to conceive, some day, in the throes of passion.
We could lament all the things we couldn’t have. Or we could focus on the one honest thing we did have. Each other.
I pinched his pouty bottom lip. “No regrets, and if we’re done with the mushy crap”—I thumped him hard enough in the stomach to make his chuckle sound like a grunt—“I need to pee.” I tossed the vibrator in the sink and perched on the toilet.
He turned on the faucet and soaped up the toy. “So you saw those new photos of your boyfriend?” He gave me a sidelong glance. “Public appearance at a grocery store?”
“Don’t call him my boyfriend.” He didn’t even know I existed. “And everyone has to eat, Collin.”
“Mm. I imagined he chewed bolts and drank motor oil.”
Rolling my eyes, I flushed the toilet and stepped to the second sink.
Collin leaned a hip against the counter, his well-bred frame wrapped in golden flesh that had been bathed and beautified by a lifetime of expensive creams. He was a portrait of sophistication, blending seamlessly with the luxurious surroundings of the bathroom’s imported marble and high-thread-counts. Yet the sight of his manicured fingers wrapped around the silicone vibrator represented the Collin few knew. The Collin who was well-versed in how to fit a dildo in a tight ass.
He dried it off and returned it to the bottom drawer. “When is the next race?”
“In one hour, according to my source.”
The venues were officiated by anonymous coordinators. The map of each race was distributed in advance via an online network, where friendships were made by referral only using a sophisticated web of private servers to hide IP addresses. It was complex, well-funded, and ever-changing, making it impossible for the Feds to monitor the communications let alone trace identities.
My inability to gain access to the network hadn’t deterred me, not when I had the best journalists in the country on my payroll.
Collin’s lips pressed into a hard line of worry. “Still got that undercover reporter risking his ass for you?”
“Hal Pinkerton, and he won’t find out it’s for me.” What I didn’t know was if he used an informant or if he’d somehow become a trusted peer in the network of motorheads and moneyed gamblers. Either way, his intel was reliable, and I personally and anonymously rewarded his efforts, wiring money for each piece of information he posted on a secure site. My PA, Jenna, retrieved the details from the encrypted server. Details that would never grace the pages of the Trenchant Times.
Too much dirty money rode on these races, enough to permanently silence anyone who forewarned the police or media of the venue locations.
“Those bikers…” Collin’s dark brows gathered over darker eyes. “They can hurt you. Badly.”
Ironically, he was the one who introduced me to the world of bikers. He took me to my first Grand Prix race when we were eighteen. I was so enthralled with the speed and power of superbikes I bought my first one shortly after.