Finally, Cam started typing.
Cam: pull my shirt up. Show me your tits.
Jesus.
He should tell him to fuck off. That wasn’t—that wasn’t something Scott did for anyone. Sure, he’d sent a dick pic to his boyfriends once or twice, but he’d never sent anyone an obvious thirst trap of his tits. He was the guyotherpeople sent thirst traps to. Not vice versa.
But his hand was already moving, pushing the McLaren shirt up until his pecs were bare. His face hot, Scott fondled oneplump tit in his hand, squeezing the hard nipple Cam had been abusing—and took a selfie with the other hand.
He sent it.
Cam was online but once again didn’t reply immediately.
Cam: Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back in half an hour.
Cam: Put on the bra for me.
Fuck.
This was… this was getting out of hand.
Scott covered his face with his palms, trying to gather his thoughts. What the hell was he doing? He couldn’t—couldn’t keep doing whatever Cam told him, no matter how much he wanted to. This dynamic developing between them wasn’t normal. It was so far from normal it bordered on deranged.
This wasn’t him. Scott Palmer wasn’t this sweet, obedient, and pliant. If he didn’t put a stop to this bullshit, he’d end up crushed beneath the force of Cam’s will—and putting on a fuckingdressjust to make him happy. The fact that his cock twitched with interest at the thought was horrifying.
He needed to stop this insanity while he still could.
Scott pulled on his pants. He stuffed the rest of his clothes—including the bra—into a hotel laundry bag he’d found in the closet, then hurried out of the room.
He needed to leave before Cam returned.
He didn’t trust himself around him.
Chapter 14
By this point, Scott had been to plenty of Formula One races and had seen his fair share of VIP paddock clubs, but the atmosphere at Monza was something truly special.
The excitement was contagious, even if you weren’t a Ferrari fan. Drivers couldn’t step out of the garage without thousands of fans screaming their names, which was probably why Cam was practically hiding inside. Normally, Cam would join Scott in the hospitality suite above the team garages, but not this time.
Or maybe his absence had something to do with the fact that Scott had left his hotel room yesterday without waiting for him.
“It’s utter madness, isn’t it?”
At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, Scott turned his head and found himself looking at the prettiest guy he’d ever seen. A slim build, delicate features, curly golden hair—he was exactly Scott’s type. And judging by his flamboyant style of dress, he was likely gay.
“Hey there, beautiful,” Scott said, putting on his best flirtatious smile. For some reason, it actually required some effort. Weird. The guy was his type to a T.
The guy gave him an amused smile. “You can tone it down. You’re hot, but I’m very much taken.” He stretched out his hand for a handshake. “Luke Whitford.”
“Scott Palmer,” he said, wondering why he didn’t feel disappointed that the guy was unavailable.
“Oh, I know,” Luke said. “I’ve read about you.”
Scott’s eyebrows flew up. “Really? I’m hardly famous or anything.”
Luke chuckled. “You’re being filmed even now, mate,” he said, nodding toward the fans in the grandstand opposite the VIP balcony.
Scott frowned. “Me? Why would the fans film me?”
