Page 215 of My French Love Affair

"Good," I reply, my voice steady despite the way my heart slams against my ribs. "Rear is a little light on entry, but manageable."

"Copy. Mode push now, we need a hot lap for data."

I shift up, foot flat to the floor, engine roaring as I tear down the straight.

Everything disappears.

The pressure. The noise. The expectation.

It’s just me and the car.

I feel everything.

The bite of the brakes as I dive into the next turn.

The snap of grip as I kiss the apex.

The slingshot acceleration as I rocket out, perfectly lined up for the next corner.

I live for this.

For the risk. For the speed.

For the split-second decisions that make the difference between winning and losing.

And yet, for the first time in my life, I’m struggling not to think about something else.

Abouther.

The fucking disaster of a woman who’s somehow managed to crawl under my skin, into my mind.

The woman who’s wrecked me.

Last night, I held my phone in my hand, watching her come undone just for me.

I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

About her breathless whimpers. About the way her body shook, trembled and begged for more.

I should be focused. I should be thinking about the race, about the championship, about the thousands of fans watching, the millions of dollars riding on this weekend.

But all I can think about is her hands on my body.

Her lips against my throat.

Her voice, wrecked and breathless, whispering my fucking name.

And then, I see her.

Through the glass of the VIP lounge, just beyond the pit lane.

Her dress is white, a contrast against the deep bronze of her sun-kissed skin. Her blonde hair cascades over one shoulder, and her fingers rest on the railing as she leans forward slightly, watching the screen.

She doesn’t even see me. Doesn’t realise that I’ve spotted her.

And yet, Ifeelit.

A pull, like gravity.

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