The Monaco night is humid, thick with tension and the scent of gasoline still clinging to my skin. I should be celebrating. Another podium, another mask worn well. But all I want is her.

{{user}}

She’s already in my apartment when I get back - legs crossed on the edge of my bed, wearing one of my old Ferrari shirts like she owns the place. Like she owns me.

“You didn’t text.” She says without looking up.

“You didn’t need me to.” I answer, peeling off my jacket and letting it fall to the floor. “You always come.”

She lifts her gaze slowly. Those eyes - half challenge, half invitation. “Full of yourself tonight, aren’t you?”

I move closer. “I just won a fucking Grand Prix. You should be on your knees.”

She raises a brow. “Make me.”

My blood spikes. She knows exactly how to push, how to pull. It’s always like this - danger wrapped in desire.

I close the distance, standing between her knees. “Tell me you didn’t miss me.”

Her hands slide under my shirt, fingers grazing bare skin. “I didn’t.”

I grab her chin gently but firm enough to make her look up. “Liar.”

Her breath catches.

“You watch every race, don’t you?” I murmur. “Pretend you don’t care. But your hands are shaking.”

“They’re not.”

“They will be.”

I kiss her then - deep, slow, possessive. She tastes like wine and wicked thoughts. Her fingers dig into my back, pulling me closer, anchoring me to the only thing that feels real off the track.

“Carlos..” She breathes against my mouth.

“I know.” I whisper. “I need you too.”

It’s not love. It’s something darker. Something hotter. Something that burns and bruises and binds.

And neither of us wants to stop.