I feel reckless. It’s the same feeling I get when I’m on the track, zooming down a straightaway, the car ahead of me in my sights.
Maybe it’s the booze. Maybe it’s the way Ben looks all spiffed up, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back and his tux molded to his beefy frame like a sexy second skin. Maybe it’s the fact that, for the first time all week, we’re not in a garage, discussing aerodynamics and oversteer and torque.
But dammit, I want him. I’m fixated on the fantasy of him on his knees in that damn tuxedo with his mouth wrapped around my cock.
And I know he wants me, too. He must suck at poker because his face is an open book. And right now, it says, “Take me, I’m yours.”
I look around the crowded club. There are way too many people here for what I have in mind. “Shouldn’t we be heading out soon? We don’t want to miss the boat.”
The yacht party should be a little more subdued. Just the drivers, team principals, sponsors, and a handful of high-level engineers like Ben. And yachts have multiple decks with lots of nooks and crannies. Plenty of out-of-the-way places we can sneak off to without anyone noticing.
Assuming I can convince Ben to change his one-kiss-and-done policy.
He pushes back his cuff to glance at his watch. It’s stainless steel, with a light blue dial studded with diamond chips. Not as high-end as some of the drivers wear, but nice nonetheless. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I usually am.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Oh, it’s going to my head, all right. Just not the one he’s talking about.
We finish our drinks and deposit our empty glasses on the tray of a passing waiter. A short cab ride later and we’re walking up the gangplank of one of the many mega yachts in Monaco for race weekend. As the son of an F1 driver, I’m used to wealth, but this thing is obscenely large. There’s a goddamn helicopter on the fore deck, for fuck’s sake.
The sun is just disappearing below the horizon, and a light summer breeze ruffles our hair and the bottoms of our jackets. It’s the kind of night that would be romantic if we were alone. And Ben wasn’t my race engineer. And fourteen years older than me. And he didn’t insist on pretending that I don’t make him as hard as he makes me.
None of which should bother me. All I’m supposed to want from him is sex. I’m not supposed to want romance. So why do I feel disappointed?
We’re greeted almost immediately by Elodie, who gives us a quick wave of acknowledgement and goes back to arguing with Maxine Ackerman, the team principal of SC Racing, about a grid penalty assessed against Raj in Austria for blocking René during qualifying. I’m not surprised. Team rivalries and F1 are like tacos and tequila. You can’t have one without the other. At least I can’t.
We grab more drinks—champagne from yet another passing server—and make our way to the ballroom, where we run into Jacques.
“Ben. Grady. Nice to see you two getting along so well.”
I don’t know how much his daughter has told him about our little arrangement, so I just smile and nod. Ben does the same, and Jacques puts a hand on his forearm, his expression morphing from relaxed to concerned.
“I understand Stefan is in town. Have you seen him?”
Stefan? As in Stefan Meyer, the guy whose accident made Ben walk away from F1?
Ben nods again, this time more slowly and solemnly. “He was at the fashion show.”
I thought something was off with Ben at the Amber Lounge. I chalked it up to him being—what was it he said in Elodie’s office?—not the party type. If I had known Stefan was there, if I could have seen him in the audience through all those blinding lights, I would have—
I don’t know what I would have done. Hopefully been a little more sensitive to Ben’s situation instead of flirting so shamelessly with him when nobody was looking or in earshot.
Fuck. I’m such an idiot.
Jacques releases his arm. “If you need someone to talk to, I’m here. Just let me know. Or there’s always Dr. Susan.”
“I will,” Ben says, but I know damn well that he won’t. His face may be an open book, but he’s not. I’d bet he’s not the kind of guy who asks for help, whether it’s directions when he’s lost or support when he’s struggling. Which he obviously still is when it comes to Stefan’s accident. “Thanks.”
He steers me away from Jacques, clearly wanting that conversation to be over. We wind up on the top deck, away from the other partygoers, leaning against the rail watching the ship pull away from the dock.
“So,” I hedge, running my finger around the rim of my glass. It makes a high-pitched ringing sound that’s almost like a bell. “Stefan.”
“What about him?”
Ben’s words are clipped, his tone distant. It screams “leave me the fuck alone.” But I’m not giving up that easily. They don’t call me Mr. Sunshine for nothing. I’m charming as hell. And I’m going to get Ben to open up to me. He may not realize it, but the guy needs a friend. Even more, I suspect, than he needs to be fucked.
