And I kissed her. I fucked her.
Fuck.
Why did I do that?
Now it was all I thought about. Her lips on mine. Her tongue—cherries and champagne. Her body writhing in my hands, the soft, breathy sounds she made as she arched into me. Her sweet cunt clenching around me, hot and greedy, like she was made for it—forme. I could still feel her, aching and dripping for me, shaking when I held her down. I’d never seen anyone come like that before, as if I’d cracked her open, as if she didn’t even know it could feel that good.
She was under my skin, carved into my fucking bones.
Even now, when I closed my eyes, I could still hear her voice, whispering filthy, claiming little things in French. Sweat beaded on the nape of my neck, dripping down my spine. I needed to stop thinking about that night. Needed to lock it away.
When the flag dropped, I kicked off and tore down the makeshift track, but I still felt her nails raking down my back, her moans sharp and desperate against my mouth, the way she drowned me in her heat.
Focus, you idiot.
The bike was responsive, its agility a far cry from the calculated precision of anF1car. The crowd cheered as I leaned into the turns, my body instinctively shifting with the bike as I navigated the course.
I saw her toned, tanned body, the flush that spread over her skin when she came, the marks I left behind.
Fuck.
I took the next turn too aggressively, forcing myself back into the present.
It was a show, nothing more. I knew it, and yet, for a brief moment, I let myself get lost in the rush. The feel of a powerful machine beneath me, the burn of my muscles, the blur of colors as I sped past—it was enough to quiet the noise in my head.
But only for a moment.
The final lap came too quickly, the crowd’s cheers swelling as I crossed the finish line. I pulled to a stop, dismounting the bike and removing my helmet as the event host approached with a microphone.
“CallumFraser, ladies and gentlemen!” the host announced, the crowd erupting into applause. “How does it feel to trade four wheels for two?”
I forced a grin, raising the helmet in a mock salute. “Different, but exhilarating. I might have to make this a regular thing.”
The host laughed, clearly eating up the crowd’s reaction. “You hear that, folks? Maybe we’ll see Fraser inMotoGPnext!”
The cheers grew louder, but my smile felt like a mask. My head was elsewhere. Still consumed with thoughts of her.
As the host moved on to interview other participants, I stepped away, the adrenaline fading as quickly as it had come. Marco was waiting for me, a bottle of water in hand.
“You were great out there,” Marco said, clapping me on the back. “The fans loved it.”
I nodded, taking a long drink. “Glad someone’s enjoying themselves.”
Marco’s expression softened, his usual teasing replaced with something closer to concern. “You’ve got to let it go, mate.Whatever’seating at you, it’s going to drag you down if you let it.”
Marco didn’t know how deep this ran. Hell, I wasn't even certain thatIknew.
A week later,the low hum of the sim filled the room, punctuated by the whir of the steering wheel as I forced the sim car through yet another lap.Imolaunfolded before me in precise turns and straights, the details so vivid I could almost feel the tires gripping the tarmac.
Except my focus wasn’t on the track—it was on the rhythm, the motion, the desperate need to lose myself in something I could control. Except I was making too many mistakes.
I was pushing the car too hard, taking corners at speeds that would have put me into a fucking wall in real life. I wasn’t driving—I was fighting, and I was about to crash.
It wasn’t the track I was thinking about.
It was her, always her.
Her voice, soft and breathless, whispering, “I just want you.”
