Collided (Dirty Air, #2)

by Lauren Asher

“I’d be your best fantasy, no book needed.”

“You’re no princess. You’re a motherfucking queen. Don’t let anyone forget it, not even yourself. People think the king matters, but the queen brings down all the other pieces. Good luck in uni, and chug a beer in my honor.”

Men should be the least of his worries because, excuse my language, but I’m ready to fuck shit up.

I don’t race in F1 for the drama. No, I race for trophies, titles, and titties—except the latter now remains off the table for an unforeseeable future thanks to my recent blunders.

I mentally pat my dick. Just you and me for now, pal.

Never will I underestimate the power of alcohol again. After tonight, I will bow down to the bottle of tequila, claiming José as my master.

You’re not my type.” “So you’re not into handsome men?” She snorts. Fucking snorts. I can’t believe I find it cute. It’s unlike any other woman who hangs around me, groomed to perfection and putting on a show.

I can be a good guy when I want, and compared to Noah, I classify myself as a saint. Well, a saint who sins, but a saint, nonetheless.

“More like someone sent from the gates of heaven to tempt me,”

“Okay, I have to say this. I’m a little disappointed at how oddly normal you are,” I blurt out. “I won’t lie to you. That’s possibly the best compliment I’ve heard in a while.” I let out a laugh. “That’s kind of sad. But really, no offense, but your reputation sucks. I was a bit afraid to be your friend.” “Your level of honesty is refreshing. Please boost my ego a little more while you’re at it.” “Well, you’re nothing like the guy I expected based on what everyone says about you.”

“Do I look like a guy? Maybe a scrawny pit crew member by chance?” “Is the sky green? What type of question is that? Last time I checked, guys don’t wear scraps of material like yours for shorts,

let alone a shirt like that.” He lets out an exasperated sigh as his eyes trail down my body. My head lowers to check out my T-shirt, laughing at the I like big boats and I cannot lie saying.

“See, Sophie, I drive like I fuck. Slow, then fast, then slow again until you’re all out of gas. I treat my car like a lover, stroking her before I enter her, only offering the best kind of foreplay for my girl. I don’t recklessly race because I prefer to be attentive. I fuck like I do everything else, with precision and strength—control and care.”

“You don’t play fair.” My car speeds up along with my irritation. “No, I don’t play at all. I fuck, I own, I dominate. Playing is for boys, and I can assure you I’m all man.”

If you gave in to your desires, you’d know that. I want to learn every inch of you while I map out your body like the night sky you love so damn much. And fuck it’d be so good between us, with me showing you things you never thought possible.”

She responds by throwing a rock about five feet away from me. “You missed.” I grin at her. “Next time, I’ll aim for the head. It’s inflated enough to make for an easier target.”

Liking Sophie is kind of like jumping out of a plane. Exhilarating, addicting, and damn near impossible to forget.

Congratulations, Liam. You won the Biggest Dumbass award. Sorry, it doesn’t come with a champagne shower and a trophy, but hopefully your heart hurts like a bitch because my daughter’s sure does.”

Save fuel. Ride an F1 driver.