Throttled (Dirty Air 1)

I remove my hand from hers and place it on her exposed back as I lead us toward the entrance of the hotel. Our physical connection is an exciting development, one worth exploring further at another time. She sucks in a breath when I stroke my hand down the ridges of her spine. I tend to be a cheeky bastard. Her skin feels warm and soft beneath my palm, her shallow breaths matching the rhythm of our feet.

Maybe I’ll enjoy having Santiago around after all because it seems like her hanging with us will stimulate me. I want to see what other responses she has to me. Or under me. Or on top of me.

I need to get myself under control.

We exit the hotel to find her brother leaning against a town car near the entrance.

“Maya, let’s go! The driver’s been waiting.” Santiago’s voice booms off the walls.

Maya. I like the name.

She jumps a foot away from me, breaking our contact. Her eyes glare at me before she says a rushed goodbye and walks away. I shake my head, trying to rid my naughty thoughts, a gesture worth chuckling at. Her perky ass stands out, the tight black material of her dress hugging her curves. Damn. I definitely will like seeing her around.

Her brother helps her into the car before he turns back toward me. His stare speaks a silent warning I choose to ignore, instead deciding to shoot him a cocky grin and a chin tip. He disregards me and enters the car.

5

Maya

The air in the car is thick with tension, and not the good kind. Bright lights reflect off the car’s window as we pass through the city. Santiago hired a driver to take us to the gala, reminding me how I’m in over my head. A poser surrounded by the rich and famous.

“Why were you walking out of the hotel with him?” Santi seethes.

“He actually came to apologize for what he said at the press event. We chatted and then I came outside. It’s not a big deal, no need to get annoyed.”

Placating Santi has been my job for years. He tends to be a situational hothead, much like other F1 racers. High-stress situations usually call for it.

“You should stay away from him. Hell, stay away from most of the F1 drivers. They’re not here for happily-ever-afters, white picket fences, a dog, and two kids. They fuck around. A lot.” His hands clench in front of him.

“You are aware I lost my virginity like four years ago, right? No need to protect me anymore when my virtue is no longer intact.”

If looks could kill, Santi would have murdered me twice already in this car alone. Wrong joke at the wrong time. Message received.

“I don’t want to be aware. No. Keep that shit to yourself. These guys are different from boys yo

u dated in college. They’re the ultimate fuckboys. Liquor, ladies, maybe even drugs. Who the hell knows. I haven’t hung around them much since I kept to myself with Kulikov.”

“I’ll be careful. But Noah is part of your team now. We’re all stuck around one another and I don’t want things to be awkward with us. At least not more than they have to be.”

No use denying my physical attraction toward Noah, but I can sure do my best for Santi. I owe him that much.

I give him a sweet smile while I pat his hand, hoping to calm him. His lips tip down. He must be concerned because none of my usual tactics are working on him.

“You’re my little sister so it’s my job to protect you. Be careful, okay? I can’t keep an eye on you all the time. Especially with someone like Noah. His bedroom has a revolving door and a waiting list.”

My body tenses. Thanks for the reminder. Nothing like a classic manwhore, one so stuck in his ways he can’t see straight. Good thing those types of relationships aren’t on my radar.

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m up to only good, remember?” I shoot him a goofy smile.

He grins at my cute stupidity and tugs me in for a hug, constricting my air supply.

“I love you. You know that, right?” His chest vibrates while he speaks.

I return his hug with a squeeze. “Of course. I love you too. Now let’s go party!”

The swanky event, in fact, surpasses my original idea of a sponsor party. I picture old men rubbing elbows and chatting about their stocks. But it’s all so much more. We walk into a ballroom decorated to the nines with crystals and flowers hanging from the ceiling, waiters walking around with food, and dripping champagne towers on several tables. I grab a couple of fancy-looking appetizers while I walk around the room.

Lots of bigwigs visit to shake hands with the elite of racing. But the scene includes unlimited alcohol, a decent DJ, and silk dancers spiraling from the ceiling. It resembles more of an overdone wedding than a gala for race car drivers. F1 is pretty hip, not going to lie.