It annoyed me—because I couldn't fucking shake it. My season was well on its way to being fucked with how distracted by this…thingbetween us burning hotter with every passing race.
WatchingAuréliesnatchP4while I limped my overheating car intoP5inJeddahhad been humbling, sure. But it wasn't the loss that lingered—that was part of the sport—it washer.
I'd been inF1long enough to know when a rivalry was being engineered. The media, the fans, they loved a good spectacle.
But this? This wasn't fake. This wasn't scripted or exaggerated for the cameras. It was personal, and it was ruining me.
“Fraser!” Marco's voice snapped through the noise, yanking me back like a pit limiter. “Tessa's got a surprise for you, mate.”
I groaned, already sensing where this was going. “Let me guess—something to do withDubois?”
“Bingo. Joint media event. You andAurélie, taking out some vintageF1cars for the fans, followed by an interview and some social media stuff. They're leaning hard into the ‘rivalry.'” Marco looked so goddamn smug as he put a little extra swagger in his step. I wanted to throttle him for it.
“Fuck,” I muttered, shaking my head. “And I don't have a choice?”
“Nope,” Marco said, clapping me on the back. “But look on the bright side. At least she's easy on the eyes.”
I flipped him off, but he just laughed, walking off toward the Vanguard garage.
Back in my suite later that night, I knew I was being a complete idiot. I should have put my phone down. Gone to sleep. Instead, I was back on Instagram like the masochist I was. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for. Another edit. I knew I was about to spiral the second the sultry pop track kicked in.
Clips of her flashed across the screen—her car darting past mine, her victorious grin, and a slo-mo shot of her stalking the paddock in thatgoddamn fitted polo and tennis skirt that barely covered the tops of her thighs.
Fuck.Fuck.FUCK.
The caption?Rivalry or foreplay?Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
My whole body locked up. I should've kept scrolling—Iknewbetter than to do this.
But her smirk flashed across the screen again, her hair sticking to her temples, her fire suit tied around her waist. Her stomach flexed as she pulled it up with one hand, the other adjusting the waistband. It was so quick—blink and you'd miss it.
I didn't miss a single fucking second.
My blood burned. My skin was too tight. My cock was already hard—so fucking hard I couldn't think straight.
I watched it again. And then again.
She walked past the camera like she didn't know she owned the whole fucking world. Like she didn't know she wasdestroying me.
I shifted in my seat, groaning under my breath. Then I did it.
I shoved my joggers down andfistedmy cock without pretense. Hissed through my teeth, grip tightening at the base.
“Fuck,” I muttered, my voice wrecked, my palm sliding up the length, already slick withpre-cumat the tip.
My other hand held the phone steady, thumb dragging the video back to the beginning. That little movement—her pulling the suit up, the brief flex of her abs, the glint of sweat on her skin—thatwas what did it. That and that fucking skirt brushing her thighs. It cracked me wide open.
It may as well have been porn for what it was doing to me.
I stroked faster, jaw clenched, every muscle tense.
She wasn't evendoinganything. Wasn't even trying. And I was already about to fucking come. I imagined her in front of me, bare, biting her lip, daring me to lose control. I imagined her knees spread wide on my hotel bed, her voice low and breathy, golden hair in wild, post-race waves as she said my name—mocking me, tempting me, daring me.
“Tell me you're close,” I imagined her whispering, her voice in my fucking skull. “Tell me how bad you need to come,Callum.”
My hips jerked off the couch, cock throbbing in my grip. I swiped my thumb over the tip, the Prince Albert piercing cold, and nearly lost it right then and there. My thighs trembled. My abs clenched. My balls drew tight.
Another scroll. Another fucking clip.
