We recently discovered the incredible phenomenon of NASCAR-themed romance fiction, stories filled with passion and grease and beautiful people being driven swiftly to ecstasy and Victory Lane alike. What follows is a brief selection from one such tale.
From Slow Burn, by Pamela Britton:
He met her gaze, but only for a split second because he was busy keeping his focus ahead of him, or behind them, or to the left and right of them. She noticed then that his pupils were constricted, adrenaline reducing the black irises to twin pencil points. He was on a natural high, his body stretched taut, hands no longer clutching the steering wheel carelessly.
Like a warrior in battle.
"I'm going to have to slow down pretty soon."
"Slow down? Why?" she asked. "Don't slow down."
Did you just tell this guy not to slow down?
Yes, she admitted. To her complete and utter shock she realized she'd begun to enjoy this. Or maybe it was just that out in front seemed safer.
"You sure you want me to keep going?"
She blinked. "I, ah... Yeah, I guess so."
He released the steering wheel and, for a split second, rested his hand on her leg. "That's the spirit."
Then she received her second shock of the day. When he touched her she felt... She looked out the window, trying to put a name to it.
Be sure to tune in for the next steamy installment of Tailpipe — your smutty NASCAR romance story hour!