Sophie lifts a brow. “Isn’t it an open bar?”
Blood rushes to my dick at the sound of her husky voice, sounding like she smokes a pack of cigs a day. It’s nothing I’d expect from someone who looks innocent and cute like her, a petite little thing who smirks at me.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t order it for you. Make a man feel useful.” I pout my lip for extra points. Sophie’s eyes narrow when they land on me before darting off in another direction.
We engage in casual back and forth before Noah and Jax show up. I can’t tear my eyes away from Sophie’s pink lips sucking on the straw of her drink. My dick pulses, ready for attention, unaware of how the evening can’t go down how I want. And fuck do I want to go down on Sophie.
Reforming my ways and staying out of trouble takes a lot of work. My brain wins, running through everything that can go wrong if I hook up with someone like Sophie. She’s the daughter of a powerful team principal who wouldn’t appreciate me trying to seduce his daughter, no matter how friendly I am with Noah.
Thoughts about losing my contract and risking my career make my dick deflate because nothing kills a hard-on quite like the thought of losing everything I care about.
I look at Sophie, committing her to memory, possibly for my nefarious plans with my right hand later. Everything about her appeals to me, from the way she laughs at Maya’s jokes to how her green eyes narrow when she catches me staring too long.
Sophie happens to be a temptress with shit timing. The whole situation seems like a joke from God, my penance for being a dick to women before. Getting shafted by my team wasn’t enough punishment. There’s nothing worse than denying myself the hottest chick.
I mentally pat my dick.
Just you and me for now, pal.
Tension in the pit garage chokes me. The Chinese Grand Prix, a usually fun-as-fuck race, feels tainted by my nerves. I drink water to combat nausea and the dryness in my throat.
Jax pats me on the back with a bronzed hand, pulling me away from my negativity as he passes me my helmet. We match, wearing similar flame-retardant gear while looking distinct with customized helmets.
“Try to not let the pressure get to you. As much as I want to kick your arse into next week, I’d rather do it with your head in the race.” He runs a hand through his short curls.
I tug on the zipper of my suit. “Says the guy who spends twenty minutes in the bathroom before every race. What are you doing in there? Deep breathing exercises?”
He cracks his neck, drawing my attention to his tattoos starkly contrasting against his pristine white race suit. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“No shit. I know you don’t have a chick in there so it’s probably something weird and kinky you do by yourself.”
“Fuck you very much, arsehole. I happen to like relaxing before a race.”
“With all the partying you do on the side, I don’t blame you. I don’t know how you function half the time.”
He shoots me a mischievous grin. “Probably because I have you to clean up my messes for me. Nothing says a good night’s rest quite like you tucking me into bed.”
Through everything, we remain as tight as teammates can be, not compromising our friendship for competitiveness. Any time he needs me, I’m there for him. A random call at 2 a.m. to pick him up from some seedy side of town while he sports a new shiner? No problem. He needs me to help him get out of bed after a complete binger the night before, including removing women from his hotel room? I got it. Random last-minute request for my private jet? Let me call that in. That’s how it is between us, no questions asked.
I struggle to hide my smile. “God, you’re fifty shades of fucked up. You know that, right?”
“My issue is that I know it all too well.” He walks off toward his race car.
My gloved hand pats the hood of my race car before I slide into the cockpit, the tight space welcoming me back. The steel-gray color glistens from the sun and pit lights while the steering wheel blinks back at me in a silent hello. I take a deep breath, welcoming the scents of oil and rubber.
I pop on my helmet and flip down my visor, ready to get this shit on the road.
Honey, I’m home.
Do you know what happens when you race cars at two hundred plus miles an hour? Adrenaline. I crave a cold beer and a good fuck after a race, except I can’t do anything like that until my recent headlines blow over.
New season, new me. What an affirmation.
The adrenaline high from winning the Grand Prix makes it difficult to contain my excitement during the latest press conference. I sit with Jax and Noah as we answer F1-related questions from reporters. No use complaining about these boring parts when I get to live my dream every damn day.