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After being dumped, Isla Morris makes a pact with her ex's biggest competition, F1 driver Matthew Carr, to get inside Lucas's head.
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Isla Morris is dating the world's best F1 racer - at least, she w...
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His mouth was on her spine.
Isla's eyes fluttered closed. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck, the scratch of his stubble against her skin. His large hand swallowed her own, their fingers interlaced on the wall. He smelled of mint and lemon soap, spice and heat. A uniquely Matthew smell.
"Look at me." Matthew's voice was rough in her ear. "Look at me, Red."
Isla was pressed against something cool — a window? — and he was at her back, a solid, heavy weight. She could feel his heartbeat slamming through them.
"Fuck," Matthew breathed. "The things you do to me, Isla." He sounded pained. "You have no idea what it's like in my head right now."
Delicious heat swept through her. His hand drifted lower, trailing sparks across her skin. A throbbing ache built in her, pulsing through her body, and Matthew pressed her harder against the window, his hand—
Isla woke up with a gasp.
She yanked the throw blanket up to her chest. Blinding sunlight spilled through the living room window, illuminating a stack of romance novels and Tiff's beaten-up trainers. A half-cup coffee sat on the table, long gone cold.
Isla pressed a hand to her galloping heart and forced herself to breathe.
Christ.
That was the third dream this week.
Isla flopped back against the couch. Even naps were no longer safe; Matthew Carr haunted her thoughts, an irritating, blond ghost. She couldn't stop reliving that night at the aquarium, couldn't unhear the things he said to her, his voice rough and determined. Yes, I want you, Isla. I want you more than I've ever wanted anything.
It was bloody inconvenient.
Isla swung her legs off the couch. Thank God the clinic had been a madhouse this week; it was exactly the sort of distraction she needed. The only downside was the lack of sleep. Isla yawned, stretching her arms as she wandered towards the kitchen. She was a bit peckish, but there was no sense in eating. Not when she was meeting her parents for—
Isla froze.
Bollocks.
She yanked out her phone. 4:05. She'd been due to meet her parents at Lady Audley's for tea exactly five minutes ago.
"Shit," she muttered.
Isla threw on proper clothes — jeans, a white turtleneck, an umbrella — and then raced the four blocks to Lady Audley's. London was a watercolour painting today, the butter yellow lampposts bleeding onto the damp pavement. Umbrellas popped up in camera flashes of black and silver.
She shoved open the door to the restaurant.
Ian and Julie Morris were sitting near the back, instantly recognizable by their martini-glass builds. Ian was drinking a gin-and-tonic; Julie, a glass of Prosecco. Miniature cakes and scones littered the table in front of them.
