I have always wanted her, from that first team dinner before we headed to Barcelona pre-season testing last season, even when I thought she was cold and unreachable and just wanted her to be my friend. Now I know better. Know the fire beneath the ice, the passion she keeps carefully contained. One look from her, one touch, and I'm burning, ready to risk everything just to be near her.
The coffee machine beeps insistently, shattering the moment. I pull back slightly, both of us breathing hard, swollen lips still close enough to share air. Her eyes are dark, dazed, her professional composure thoroughly dismantled as I lick her lower lip before I press another kiss. Softer. More restrained. She looks devastatingly beautiful.
"I should stop," I murmur, voice rough, "before I do unspeakable things to you right here."
She blinks, reality returning to her expression, then hops from the counter to the floor. Her hands smooth over her blazer, attempting to reclaim some semblance of dignity.
"You'd better," she says, but the breathlessness undermines her stern tone. "Or I'll have to hit you."
"Kinky," I tease, finally stepping back to retrieve my forgotten coffee. "But maybe save that for next week."
As I turn, I notice her reaching for her pastry. Without thinking, I snatch it first, taking a bite before handing it back.
Her expression of pure shock is comical. "Did you just—"
"You've had enough sugar," I say, gesturing to myself from head to toe with an exaggerated movement. "This," I continue, pointing at my chest, "is all the sweetness you need, Queen."
Her cheeks flush copper, and she clamps a hand over my mouth before I can say more. "Don't," she hisses, eyes darting to the door again. "You're impossible."
I kiss her palm before removing her hand, entranced by the reddish tinge spreading from her neck to her face. "And you're adorable when you blush," I say quietly, tracing the side of her neck with my fingertips. "I'm glad you're back. Even more glad you'll be all mine for a week."
She squirms away, shoving my coffee cup against my chest. "Go. EJ is waiting."
"Trying to get rid of me?"
"Successfully," she retorts, then bites her bottom lip. "Go to the simulator. Be useful."
I take a long sip of coffee, holding her gaze over the rim of the cup. "Yes, boss," I say finally, heading for the door. I pause on the threshold, throwing a playful look over my shoulder. "Don't miss me too much."
Her eye roll is perfectly executed, but the smile that follows it—private, genuine, just for me—sends warmth spreading through my chest. I walk down the corridor toward thesimulator room, unable to keep the grin off my face, bruised eye be damned.
6 PM can't come soon enough.
Chapter 7
We're not just any team
William
I push open the door to the simulator room, the familiar hum of machinery washing over me, lights slowly turning on. EJ is just climbing out, his movements fluid despite the hours he's clearly already put in. He pulls off his helmet, the balaclava coming with it, and I nearly laugh out loud. Again, his sandy-blond hair stands straight up like he's stuck his finger in an electrical socket—a sea of spikes defying gravity in every direction.
"Morning," I call, dropping my hoodie on a nearby chair. I've given up on the sunglasses and beanie—Violet's already seen me, so the jig is up.
EJ turns, that ever-present grin lighting up his face.
"Hey! Thought you'd never show." His gaze lands on my face, then slides past. Then it snaps back, eyes widening comically. "Holy shit! What happened to your—" He gestures vaguely at my face, mouth hanging open. "You okay?"
I unzip my gear bag, pulling out the fireproof racing suit with ease. The familiar fabric is a comfort in my hands, a second skin I've worn through thousands of laps across dozens of tracks in the simulator. I sigh, running a hand through my hair.
"Got this little souvenir at the metal show a few days ago."
EJ circles me, studying my eye like it's a rare specimen. "That looks brutal. Does it hurt?"
"Only when I laugh. Or blink. Or exist."
He snorts, dropping into a chair and wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt. "Looks like you went three rounds with a boxing pro and lost all of them."
"Thanks for the assessment, Doctor Jordan," I deadpan, but there's no heat in it. The kid's earned the right to give me shit; he's been putting in the hours, and the telemetry doesn't lie. He's got talent pouring out of his ears. "Speaking of which, what time did you get here? It's barely 7 AM, and these readings show you've been at it for hours."
