Her, stepping out of the car.
Her, yanking off her helmet.
Golden braids whipping over her shoulder, mouth parted, breathless, grinning like she'd just won the whole goddamn thing instead of placing fourth.
And I couldn't fucking stop looking at her lips.
She'd congratulated me after the race, standing just close enough that I could smell the heat of her skin, something sweet andfloral, the sweat, the raw electricity still crackling in the air between us. She'd bitten her lip before she'd said it—just a quick thing, a thoughtless movement.
It had etched itself into my fucking brain.
And now I could only think about how it would feel to be the one biting her. To fit my teeth against that plush lower lip, to mark her skin, to pin her down and fuck all this adrenaline out of my system until there was nothing left.
I dragged a hand over my face. This was a problem.
Especially when all my brain could think about was how she probably liked it fast and filthy, maybe loved having her hair pulled. Maybe she liked it rough enough to leave bruises. Or perhaps she liked the kind of sex that left her voice wrecked for days, just a little hoarse when she spoke. Did she like to ride, nails leaving red marks behind, completely in control?
Or… maybe she needed someone who could handle her.
I groaned, forcing my attention back on my phone, on anything but how hard I was, how tight my race suit felt, how much I wanted her.
Which really didn't help, seeing as her name was fucking everywhere. The internet had lost its mind. My name and hers, locked together in trending hashtags, in headlines, in edited clips that were already making the rounds.
Fraser vs. Dubois: A Rivalry in the Making. F1’s Next Great Battle Begins.
Battle.Right. Because that's what this was.
Except it wasn't.
It was an obsession.
I stared at the scuff marks on the ceiling like they could tell me what the fuck to do with myself. This wasn't normal. It wasn't just adrenaline.
I shut off my phone and tossed it onto the couch, willing my body to calm the fuck down. It didn't. This wasn't going away.
So I did what I always did after a race when my pulse was still riding the edge of something sharp. I got in the shower. Stood under the scalding water, bracing my hands against the walls, forcing myself to breathe through the tension coiling in my body. I should be exhausted. Iwasexhausted. But not in the way I needed to be.
Because even as the steam curled around me, even as I shut my eyes, all I could fucking see was her.
Aurélie.
That fucking grin. Those fucking lips. I clenched my jaw, pressing my forehead to the tile, gripping the base of my cock before I could even think about it.
I should feel guilty. Should feel wrong about this. But I didn't. I needed this more than I'd ever needed anything in my life. The moment I wrapped my fingers around myself, my mind already knew where it was going.
She'd bite her lip when she was teasing me. Playful. A little cocky. Her hair wrapped around my fist as I tugged her head back, exposing her throat. Her body pinned beneath me, her nails scraping down my back, her breathy little sounds wrecking me in ways I hadn't felt since my first win.
I sucked in a breath, exhaled through gritted teeth, and let the fantasy take over.
She'd be loud. Unapologetically loud.
She'd ride me until my fingers bruised her hips, until my name was the only thing coming out of that obscene, perfect mouth, until she wasdripping all over me, grinding her clit on me to reach the finish line faster.
She'd take it just as rough, just as fast, just as filthy as I wanted to give it to her.
Fuck.Fuck.
I cursed under my breath, bracing harder against the tile as I worked myself faster, the piercing on the tip making it all more sensitive as I chased my release. Because I couldn't handle this fucking ache anymore. Because I needed it gone. Because I needed her out of my head.
