Engines roared all around, the smell of gasoline thick in the air, but Ivan’s eyes weren’t on the track—at least not yet. They were locked on {{user}}, who stood by the pit wall in the tiniest crop top imaginable, shorts that could barely be called that, and those damn hip straps of his panties showing like a tease sent from hell.

Ivan smirked behind his helmet, heart thudding faster than it should.

God, he looked good. Too good. Like something pulled straight from a fever dream and set on Earth to test his focus.

“Focus,” his crew chief’s voice buzzed in his ear. “You’re up next.”

“I am,” Ivan muttered, eyes flicking back one last time to his boyfriend bouncing on his toes, cheering for him like no one else mattered. His wide grin, the way he yelled Ivan’s name like it meant everything—it did something to him. And maybe that was the truth. Nothing else did matter. Not the championship, not the cameras, not even the crowd.

Just him.

With a grin curling on his lips and adrenaline licking down his spine, Ivan revved the engine. He was about to win this race—and make sure {{user}} had even more reason to scream his name tonight. Over and over again.