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“Confirmed,” Zach replies. “You can go straight out. The track is clear.”
Then Mason is off, hitting the circuit for the first time this weekend. Zach keeps talking to him as he drives. “Cross control and recharge on, please, and cool the tyres,” he instructs.
“Understood.”
“How’s the balance?”
“A little bit of understeer,” Mason reports.
Zach continues to ask specific questions. This is what the whole process of practice is about. Every session is about fine-tuning the car, getting a feel for how it performs on this particular track, all leading up to the big qualifying session tomorrow. Zach is looking at all this data, taking information from Mason, and keeping an eye on other drivers.
“You’re going to have Vittorio on a push lap in three point five seconds,” he says.
To be honest, I don’t know how Zach does it.
The cars come in and out of the garage, tweaks being made, tyres being swapped out. I still live for these sessions. I never get tired of hearing the sound of cars hitting the track, watching them fly around the circuit, whizzing past the tall trees and the spectators. It’s a privilege being here, in an F1 garage, a part of the top racing sport in the world.
Finally, the session ends. There’s a break now between practice runs. I turn off Mason’s radio, put my AirPods back into my bag, and move next to the cubicles for the driver’s gear. Before long, both cars are being pushed back into the garage.
Mason is the first one out of the car. He removes his helmet, followed by the balaclava, then his Drivers Comms. He comes back over to his cubicle and doesn’t look at me as he stuffs his things inside.
“Good practice?” I ask nonchalantly.
“Yep. Hey, I changed my mind. Can you please come to my driver’s room straightaway? For just a sec?”
“Like now?” I ask, creasing my brow as Caleb walks up.
“Yeah, I need just a second. Please?”
Butterflies take off in my stomach. “Okay.”
He nods and disappears to the back of the garage.
“What does he want?” I hear Caleb ask me from behind.
“I don’t know.” I turn and smile at my brother. “But don’t worry. I’ll be right back to remind you of all the things you do not want to do today from now until the end of FP2.”
Caleb scowls. I laugh.
I follow the path Mason just took, excitement building with each step. I follow the familiar corridors until I’m outside of a simple room that says “MASON CLARK.” It’s not like the super-nice one located upstairs, but a compact room closest to the garage for them to get ready for the race in. I know from being inside Caleb’s that it’s very small, with a sink, a fold-out bed, and a rack with racing suits on it. I quickly rap on the door, acting all business, when inside I’m anything but.
“It’s Catherine,” I say.
The door flies open. Mason puts his hand on my wrist, jerks me inside, and I gasp as he immediately shuts the door behind me with one hand. He’s still in his racing suit, and as usual, it’s unzipped and hanging off his hips. His hair is a mess, pushed up and sweaty. He grabs me and pulls me into his body. He’s hot, his undershirt is damp, and I have never been so turned on in my life than by the way he’s looking at me right now. Mason is holding me to him, one hand spanning my back, the other hand tangling in the hair at the back of my head, and his eyes burn with pure heat.
“It’s been,” he says, his voice practically a growl, “more than twenty-four hours since I’ve kissed you.” He dips his head, his lips hovering right above mine. “And I need to kiss you. Can you give me what I need, Catherine?”
OH MY GOD.
I move my hands up to his face, feeling more of his stubble and sweat. The smell of his delicious cologne mixes with the masculine scent on his skin. His excited breath rushes over my lips, and I instinctively lick them in response.
“Yes,” I whisper excitedly.
His tongue dances along the seam of my lips, then he draws my lower lip in between his teeth, sinking into it and causing a moan to escape me.
His tongue demands more of me, which I eagerly give him. Our tongues begin a heated session of giving and taking, demanding control and ceding it. My hands move between his face and his hair. I end up gripping his hair as Mason spins me around and I crash into his sink, sending some of his toiletries falling to the floor, but neither of us care.
His hands are in my hair. Down my back. Up and down my rib cage. I’m burning up with pure heat. He slides them underneath my polo shirt to hold my waist, and I shudder when I feel those rough hands on my bare skin. The kiss is frantic. Desperate. I pull on his hair, and he groans. Finally, Mason rips his mouth away, and we both take a moment to catch our breath.
