Fast Lane: A Turbocharged Romance Read online

  The dance was in a week and I knew it would change me forever.

  ****

  Lane

  “Ma…Ma…Marrr…Marrrk….”

  I awake with a start as Celia’s troubled calls filled the room. Rushing to her, I put my hand on her forehead and shake her shoulder gently with the other. She wakes with a gasp and sobs into my shoulder, gripping me tightly.

  “Celia…shhh…shhh…I’m here. I’m right here.” She is sobbing uncontrollably, and her body is heaving. I want to take away her pain, but I don’t know how.

  “It’s okay…shhhh…you’re all right.” My heart hurts for her.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She breathes in deeply and attempts to regain her composure.

  “Just hol…hold me.” I shift and settle in behind her, guiding her back down to the pillow. Using the sheet to wipe her swollen eyes, I begin to stroke her hair, gently with my free hand while keeping my cheek close to her shoulder.

  It feels odd to think it, but I have never seen her in such a beautiful light. Celia is at her most vulnerable and she let me be there for her. There is no place I would rather be, and no person I would rather be with.

  Eventually, the crying stops, her breathing slows and she drifts off to sleep. My thoughts trouble me. Who is Mark and why was she crying over him?

  Chapter 38

  MR. ASTOR

  "Yvonne. Get me the files on Collins right away.” She moves quickly as people do when I order them to do something. She is back in under thirty seconds and places it on the desk in front of me. I dismiss her promptly and get to work.

  Collins. I will beat him this time.

  The Astor and Collins families go way back. Then there was the rivalry. It all started when Teddy Collins challenged Whitaker Astor to a horse race back in 1896. Astor, not in a position to refuse and defending his honor, shook hands with Whitaker and the deal was set. They would circle Miller’s cornfield as fast as they could and the loser would streak naked through the town commons during Sunday morning mass.

  The stakes were high and word quickly spread through whispers in dark corners and along the street that the race was on. It was a cool early autumn evening when Collins showed up on his chestnut horse named Jitterbug and Astor trotted in on a silver mare named Caleb.

  They lined up at the starting line, hearts beating fast, the adrenaline flowing, and family reputations on the line. Suzy Perkins stood between the two contestants about five yards out in front, and untied the white ribbon that was holding up her dark-as-night black hair. It fell to her shoulders as she held her hand out in front of her ready to drop the ribbon signaling the start of the race.

  Both young men waited anxiously, muscles tensed, ready to spur their horses into a full gallop. Collins was on the inside through luck of the draw, and Astor would have to get a good start to get the advantage.

  Lanterns were spaced apart on iron posts every one-eighth of a mile to light the way in the waning light. The track was roughly one-mile around, and both men had made a practice run to get a feel for the lay of the track.

  Suzy’s hand released the ribbon signaling the start of the race, and they were off. Astor got the better start, leaving Collins behind. The adjacent hillside was filled with young men and women cheering for their favorite.

  As they approached the first turn, Astor had taken the inside and his left elbow struck the tops of the cornstalks, not leaving any room for Collins to take the advantage.

  The horses were out of the public’s view now, and to the spectators, it looked like two men bouncing up and down from behind the cornstalks.

  The riders approached the next turn, and Collins was slowly gaining. Astor closed the door by regaining the inside just before Collins could scoot through, forcing him to slow down and lose momentum.

  Now, halfway through the race, it looked like Collins had a tough race ahead. There was one major obstacle both men were fully aware of. A 10-yard-long mud puddle had formed after recent rains. It was on a low part of the wagon road worn down from years of constant travel.

  Astor entered the area first and his horse Caleb lost some footing. Whitaker, seeing Astor’s predicament, rode around to the right, mostly avoiding the slop altogether. Astor quickly recovered and started closing the gap as they rounded the last turn.

  They quickly evened at neck and neck, and it looked like Astor would overtake Whitaker. What happened next is up for debate. Astor supporters would swear they saw Whitaker whip Astor and not his own horse.

  Flung from his horse just prior to the finish line, he landed in the corn field with a loud thud, as Whitaker crossed the finish line first. Thankfully, he was not injured badly, but the mark that remained as a slim welt mark on his arm could easily have been inflicted by a whip.

  Of course, Whitaker denied it claiming the injury happened during the fall, but Astor never backed off from his version of events. Whitaker had purposely struck him with the whip and forced his fall.

  True to his word and as a man of honor, Astor stripped down and streaked across the square during the early Sunday morning church services that weekend. The younger folks who knew of the bet were already looking out the window. As soon as poor young Astor was spotted, they jumped from their seats and sprinted to the window.

  The adults followed, and this pretty much sealed up Astor’s complete humiliation. He had disgraced himself, but more importantly, he’d disgraced the Astor name.

  To this day, the Astor and Collins families have kept alive a family feud that has spanned over a century – and George Astor will ensure it stays alive. It was no strange coincidence that both families ended up in the same industry. The competition would always be there, and one day, an Astor would get the last laugh.

  I will bury Collins, and Lane is the key.

  Chapter 39

  CELIA

  The sound of rain hitting the metal rooftop woke me from my deep slumber. Crawling to the end of the bed so as not to wake Lane, I’m up on my feet and move quietly to the bathroom to pee. Looking in the mirror and seeing the dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep and crying, I run warm water and splash it on my face.

  I head to the kitchen where I heat some water to brew some tea, my movements dazed and automatic because of my exhaustion. Curling up on the couch and snuggling in my fluffy white robe, I sip the smooth Chamomile after taking in a few cleansing whiffs to help clear my swollen nasal passages.

  I think back to the events of last night: some drinks with a friend, laying in the dew on the grass, Lane making sweet love to me, a nightmare that left me weeping, and now a hot cup of Chamomile to soothe my troubled mind.

  I can see Lane’s midsection from here and the rise and fall of his chest. What a sexy man. He was there for me in so many ways, physically, emotionally, and sexually. The perfect man now that he’s given up his playboy ways. At least I hope he has, and I choose trust over distrust.

  Feeling the need to pull it together, I realize I can’t go down this road, not again. Too much pain with lives left shattered in pieces on the ground.

  “Good morning, angel.” I didn’t see Lane rise and come into the room. I was lost in my thoughts. I make room for him beside me in the overstuffed chair. He takes a sip of my tea and makes a comical “ahhhhh” sound as he drinks. We laugh. I needed that. Then we kiss.

  He strokes my hair, tangled and wild now. Grabbing a bit in his hand, Lane rubs it between his fingers and sniffs. “It smells better than the Chamomile.”

  “Same color though, I think.”

  Small talk is apparently over. “Do you want to talk about last night?” He’s alluding to my crying spell. I pause before speaking.

  “Thank you, Lane, for caring, I mean. You were very thoughtful last night and I appreciate your concern. I don’t…I can’t talk about it now. It’s old stuff. Buried deep. Deep enough, I thought, but I guess I was wrong.”

  He looks at me and surveys my
eyes carefully. Searching.

  “Okay, angel. I won’t force anything you’re not ready to talk about. I do want to talk about it at some point, though. When you’re ready.”

  I smile and he takes that as agreement. Wonderful man. Giving me just enough space right when I really need it.

  We lay there curled up against one another for an hour or so making small talk. I ask him what prompted him to come see me last night. He insists it was just to surprise me, but I suspect there was something more. Lane is holding something back. We are both holding things back from one another. Not good.

  At some point, we would both have to come clean. I know why I was holding back. What was he not telling me and why? We adore each other. That much is obvious, but our relationship is still young. I don’t want to screw it all up. Perhaps he feels the same.

  Relationships are built on communication and trust. At least that’s what people say. Lane and I need to be fully open with one another if we are going to make it. I can’t do that yet. The scabs have been ripped off and my wounds are still raw. Too raw to be touched.

  “Why don’t you take a shower while I cook us breakfast?”

  Lane agrees, and he strips as he’s walking to the bathroom, looking back over his shoulder to make sure I am watching. I pretend I don’t see him, but I’m sneakily looking out of the corner of my eye.

  I whip up some banana pancakes: two eggs, a banana, half of a cup of blended oats, a quarter cup of apple sauce, a teaspoon of vanilla, and half of a teaspoon of cinnamon. It’s a family recipe passed down from my grandmother, and I know it by heart. I hear the shower turn on as I switch on the electric skillet. I think of my perfect man with his insanely fit body. Does he work out? He has to. I picture him lifting weights, his pecs flexing as he grunts to get up the weight. Yummy. I regret not showering with him, but I'm so hungry that my stomach protests by growling back at me. Lane must be starving, too. He hasn’t eaten since he arrived, as far as I know.

  A warm, wet hand cups my shoulder and I feel moist lips on the back of my neck that sends a tingle down my spine. “Later, Tiger, we don’t want to burn the pancakes.” I twist around to see his magnificent body in nearly all of its glory, but for a small towel that barely covers his member. A bulge is slowly building, tenting the towel, and he needs to cage the dragon before breakfast is ruined.

  “Why don’t you slip into something comfortable and join me for some delicious pancakes? They’re coming right up.”

  He takes my cue, but not before pulling me into him and nibbling on my ear. It tickles and feels damn good at the same time. Lane returns wearing just his underwear since he hasn’t brought anything to change into. “That’s your ‘something more comfortable?’” I say in playful tone.

  “No one told me there was a dress code,” he teases. “Now, about those pancakes you’ve been raving about….” He peers over my shoulder at the pancakes fresh off the skillet, stacked on a plate ready to be served.

  They taste every bit as good as I advertised. He never stops for a breath before wolfing down a half-dozen of them and gulping down a large glass of orange juice. A body like that takes a lot of fuel.

  “Those were the most delicious pancakes I’ve ever had. What’s your secret?”

  “Two things. The main ingredient is love, and then I use very large bananas.”

  “We’ll get back to the large bananas in a second, as I think there’s some sexual innuendo hidden there, but what’s that you said about love?”

  “I said they were made with love. That’s what my grandmother always told me. Anyone can make pancakes, but it’s the love that makes them delicious.”

  “Did you make them with love…for me, I mean?” Lane looks serious now.

  “You know I did, Lane.” I thought about winking, but remember the bug in the eye thing. “Now, speaking of large bananas….”

  I stand up from my chair and slowly move around to him. When I reach him, I coyly tug at the top of his underwear, take a quick peek inside, then slowly work it down his thighs toward his knees. While I am down there, I give his cock a kiss and it immediately springs to life.

  So many things feel out of my control right now and I need to wrest back control even if it is sexually. I can tell by the look on his face that my actions are something he’s not used to. This heightens my desire even more.

  Reaching for a clean kitchen towel, I brush my tongue along his inner thigh. He responds by shifting on the kitchen stool. I climb on his lap to straddle him, placing the butterfly towel over his eyes and tying it around the back of his head.

  I slide down, deliberately stopping over his steel-hard wood and I can sense him shifting in his seat eagerly anticipating my next move. With another towel, this one with a daisies pattern, I grip his arms from behind. I lock them between my thighs as I bind them together. A quick double-knot later, I make my way over to the fridge. Pulling out the large jar of apple sauce as I formulate my evil plan, I dip a large spoon into the jar and jingle it around a bit to pique his curiosity.

  “What are you doing?” He can’t see me and his voice sounds nervous, yet excited.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know? Feeling a little helpless?” My voice is seductive.

  I know he is turned on and we haven’t even started yet.

  Spooning a bit from the jar, I slowly move it to the tip of his rock-hard penis. I tilt the spoon, letting it drip slowly off and onto him. He shudders as it drips down his reddish head and meanders along his long shaft.

  With the lightest touch possible, the tip of my tongue meets the tip of his cock. It jumps backwards against his body at the first sign of stimulation. His abs are flexing now, rippling from the strain of trying to maintain control. Keeping my hands to my sides and using only my tongue, I lick down the side of his head, down his shaft, and lap up every bit of sauce.

  “Mmmm.” My eyes teasingly follow along the curves of his fit body up until they meet his eyes. This time, I drip the sweet apple sauce onto his succulent balls. I suck each smooth nut into my mouth, being sure to roll my tongue around each one before releasing them. They are pulsating with pleasure as he softly moans with delight. He must shave himself here. I like it.

  Back to the fridge now, and as quietly as possible, I grab an ice cube and then pad softly back to him. With the ice cube in my mouth now, I slowly run it up from his knees to the inside of his left thigh, leaving a thin trail of melted water on his smooth, yet tough skin.

  To his cock now, I draw the ice cube inside with my tongue and lower my mouth – ice cube and all – down onto his immense, throbbing manhood. I move slowly and deeply up and down, absorbing the thrill of how his whole body reacts. He gasps, and the pleasure and instant coldness on his cock is almost too much for him to take. He squirms a bit, and I know what he’s feeling as he’s put me in this same position before. It’s give and take, lover.

  I swirl the cube around with my tongue, bathing every inch of his erection with its moist coldness. Continuing until the ice cube is fully melted from the heat building between us, I consider what’s next.

  I’ve never seen him so turned on, his powerful arms flexing as he tests the expert knot behind his back. I tied it good, and I know he isn’t going anywhere unless I allow it. Sailing lessons at camp so many years ago taught me many things, including how to tie knots so they couldn’t come undone. He was coming undone. I was in control now, and I wasn’t finished yet.

  The familiar wetness begins forming between my legs. Pleasuring my man is a turn-on for me, too, and when the time is right, I will be sure my needs are satisfied. The rain is pouring down in torrents now as I look up to see it battering against the kitchen skylight. It’s the sweet sound of nature, and a slightly open window in the bathroom let in the pungent smell of fresh earth to fill my lungs. I breathe deeply now, taking it all in. I will take my time with him, making every second count. He will go crazy with pleasure and it will bring us that much closer.

 
Honey time.

  The same honey that flavored my tea will now flavor my lover. I pour directly from the bottle right onto his erect nipples. Guys are sensitive there, and I test my theory while licking off the sticky essence with just the tip of my tongue, letting the rest of the honey flow down the center of his rock-hard abs to the base of his cock. I note the color matches his stunning eyes, which are hidden to me now.

  I permit my tongue to trace up and down his abs between his chest and his cock, lapping up every sweet-tasting drop in sight. I take the sweetness in my mouth and let my lips touch his, slightly at first, and then deeply. He accepts me willingly, and the fact that he can’t touch me is unhinging him.

  Lane clenches and pulls at the knot with his fingers, but to no avail, as I watch his strong forearms flex veins, eagerly trying to escape. I take one of my breasts, using my thumb and pointer finger to squeeze and massage my now erect nipples and tease his mouth with them. Just as he arches his neck forward, I pull away at the last moment.

  “That’s a naughty boy.” My voice is low and alluring. Every so often, I let him get a taste, but not enough to satisfy his unrestrained lust for me. He is panting hard now, and I can see he is struggling.

  “Oh, fuck, Celia…untie me.”

  I whisper ever so softly in his ear, “Not yet, lover.” I nibble the edge of his lobe on the way out, and I can see his Adams Apple bulging in and out of his neck as he swallows hard.

  His cock is throbbing as blood fills his prominent vein along the side.

  I calmly stride to the bedroom to grab a condom out of the top drawer of my nightstand. While there, I notice my small silver vibrator off to the side. A tool that has served me well, The Magic Bullet and I are intimate friends.

  Grabbing both, I make my way back to the kitchen, slowly remove the blindfold and notice his eyes are bugging out of his head as they adjust to the light. And there, standing in front of him, is the sight of me naked, massaging both of my breasts for good effect, pinching each nipple as a final blow to his helplessness.