Oooh, I did not need to be thinking about his dick right now. My panties were wet enough.

I was still so uncomfortably turned on from that blow job. I didn’t know why Lucas tried so damn hard to pretend he didn’t enjoy anything. It made me want to rattle that hard-ass exterior and get into his head. Maybe my discovery of his little kink would enable me to do that.

Who would have thought that big bad Lucas wanted to be called a good boy? The thought filled me with wicked glee.

“Some of the guys are about to do a few practice runs,” Jason said, grasping my outstretched leg. I was wearing denim shorts today so my skin was bare, and he turned his head to kiss my ankle, keeping his sharp blue eyes on me as he did. “Want to watch?”

Unsure of what exactly I was about to see, I nodded. He walked with me to the front of the Bronco and helped me climb up, sitting beside me on the hood with our feet resting on the bumper. A chain-link fence and a low embankment separated the pit from the track beyond. It was a wide, vaguely oval-shaped expanse of asphalt, marked with white paint and orange traffic cones. On the side closest to us, a curved road led out of the pit and onto the track, leading toward a starting line. A pole with a series of yellow, green, and red lights was affixed into the ground just beside the line.

An older, deep gray BMW pulled up to the starting line, and Jason leaned closer to me as he explained, “The drivers will be judged on three things: line, angle, and style. The line has to do with how the car is positioned. See those squares and diagonal lines on the track? Those are inside clips and fill zones. We’re required to get our front or back bumpers into those zones as we move through the track.”

He pointed them out, white squares and lines positioned either on the inside of tight turns or around the edges of the wide one. Suddenly, with a massive roar that made me clap my hands over my ears, the old BMW flew from the starting line and onto the course. Clouds of thick white smoke poured from its tires as it slid into the first turn, its back bumper gliding through the painted zone that curved along the first wall.

“We’re judged on angle,” Jason shouted over the engine’s blaring scream. “See when he turns, how smooth it looks? His car isn’t wobbling around, he isn’t overcorrecting his steering. Last is style. The judges will look at how you initiate going into the first turn, and how well you transition through the course.”