Ah, explains the warm smile. I shake my head at her cleverness, a smirk replacing my grin.
“And here we have Bandini’s finest, but not to me because I still think my brother is the best. It’s Noah Slade. Say hi to everyone.” She points the thing directly up at me, not asking for approval. I like how she’s the type to ask for forgiveness instead of permission. Reminds me of myself.
I don’t like interviews that aren’t mandatory. But fuck it, if it helps her get new followers, I can go along with it.
A megawatt smile breaks out across my face. I lie and tell myself I do it for the fans, but my dick and I both know what’s up.
“A real vlogger shouldn’t be biased,” I grumble.
Her soft and breathy laugh makes the tripod shake, and damn if it isn’t the best sound I’ll hear all day. What other noises can I get her to do between the two of us?
Get your head out of the pit lane, Noah.
“More on that later, everyone. So, Noah.” My stiff cock stands to attention at the way my name rolls off her tongue, sultry and lulling on the vowels. I shift my feet subtly to ease the ache.
I would love to hear her repeat my name under different circumstances. Behind closed doors, where no one can hear us, preferably without clothes on.
What a sick joke on me where I crave attention from the one girl I want but can’t have. And even worse, she remains oblivious. I want to spend more time around her and suck up her happiness like the goddamn black hole I am.
Maya resumes, unaware of my inner conflict. “Would you want to give the fans a tour of your own car?” She bats her eyelashes, laying the charm on real thick. Her brown eyes gleam up at me. Damn, who the fuck could resist looks like that?
“Sure, fuck it. Why not.”
Nice, Noah. Cursing on camera.
Her head bobs with excitement at my agreement. Knowing her, she’s resisting clapping her hands because of the camera.
We walk over to my car. Engineers take the cover off to give me easy cockpit access. My hand drags across the front of the car, giving the hood extra attention. Maya’s eyes darken as she focuses on my hands. Further evidence that she is affected by me too, proving our attraction is not one-sided. My brain logs this information for another time.
If she wasn’t Santi’s sister, I would invite her back to my hotel room and show her a good time, help her give into temptation. But since she is, I have to be respectful. Not typically my status quo.
I do it for the good of the team of course.
“Care to share with viewers what it’s like behind the wheel?” Her lips tip upward.
I nudge a pit crew attendant. “Hey, can you grab my steering wheel? Please.” He hurries away at my request.
“While we wait, I’ll give fans a tour. New watchers of the sport don’t know how we F1 drivers are practically lying down inside the car. Sometimes it’s even hard to see over our steering wheels. Makes turns more difficult if you can imagine.” I casually lean against the car.
Maya’s bright smile encourages me to keep going.
“Depending on the type of damage we sustain during the race, the pit crew may have the spare part needed to fix it. Here’s the wheel now.” Maya steps into me, angling the camera to get a good shot. I inhale the fresh floral scent of her perfume, a recognizably addicting smell.
I explain the mechanism and buttons on the wheel. Bandini likes to keep tight-lipped about our technology, so I withhold spilling any trade secrets. Maya nods along while paying attention to everything I say. Her head bobs, and small smiles make my heart clench—a new sensation that spreads through my chest, unlike any feeling from winning a race.
I wrap up my explanations. She flips the camera screen up and turns the tripod toward the two of us. Her body presses against my side as she tries to get us both in the frame, distracting me with the contact of her skin.
I shake my head at her attempt to film us together with her short arms. The camera cuts off part of my head, prompting me to grab the tripod and fix the angle to fit us in the frame. Her intoxicating scent washes over me again. The smell of her turns me on, like fucked-up pheromones drawing me in, showing how screwed I am.
“And that’s what it’s like behind a driver’s steering wheel. Next week I’ll be meeting up with the pit crew as they tackle the Russian Grand Prix.”
I smile down at her. Her enthusiasm about her vlogging rubs off on me, uncharacteristically agreeing to this segment despite my usual distaste for these kinds of things. Not to mention how I check out her Instagram daily since she approved my request. My dirty little secret.