Page 136 of Racing for Redemption
“Breathing’s overrated,” I murmur, trailing kisses down her neck.
“You need air to drive the next races,” she counters, but she’s already working at the zipper of my still-damp race suit.
“I’ll manage.” I capture her mouth again, pulling her body flush against mine. “Can feel my suit getting tighter already.”
She laughs against my lips. “That’s not the suit.”
She slips a hand inside my fireproofs, and coherent thought becomes impossible. We’re not gentle. Not patient. This is release after weeks of not being together, of tension, of watching each other from across garages and paddocks, with professional smiles masking deeper hunger. Being with her is so intense, and not because we’re two people crazy about each other—I like to think we are—but due to our circumstances. We’re together for short periods of time, then we’re consistently away from each other for equal periods of time. The emotional whiplash makesus crave each other more than the average… couple.Wait…Are we even a couple?
I roughly pull her trousers down her thighs. She digs her fingers into my shoulders. The desk creaks precariously beneath us.
“Anyone could walk in,” she gasps, even as she helps me shed the top half of my race suit.
“Let them.” I don’t mean it, but I can barely think beyond the feel of her skin under my palms.
We move together with practiced urgency, the kind that comes from knowing exactly what the other needs. It’s fast, almost desperate, both of us still riding the emotional high of the race, and its implications. When she comes, she muffles her cry against my shoulder, teeth grazing my skin. I follow moments later, her name a prayer on my lips.
For several heartbeats, we stay locked together, my forehead pressed against hers, our breathing gradually slowing. Outside, the rain continues falling, drumming against the motorhome roof. Thank god for that as the pouring rain muffles some of the noise in this office, at least to outsiders.
“Come home with me,” I say quietly. “Celebrate properly. No interruptions, no team members, no media. Just us, Violet.”
She hesitates for only a moment before nodding. “Give me some time to wrap things up here.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in my car, navigating the wet roads away from Silverstone. Violet makes a few essential calls—confirming tomorrow’s schedule, delegating final responsibilities to Blake. I drive in comfortable silence, occasionallyglancing at her profile illuminated by passing headlights. She wears the aftermath of joy on her face like a subtle perfume—noticeable only to someone paying close attention.
By the time we reach my place, the rain has intensified into a proper deluge. We make a mad dash from the car to the front door, but it’s futile. We’re both soaked again by the time I fumble the key into the lock. And fumble I did.God fucking dammit, I need to install a light above the door.I can’t see anything.
Inside, I dim the lights and turn to her, water dripping from both of us onto the hardwood floor. She looks beautiful even like this—rain-dampened and slightly disheveled, her makeup smudged around her eyes.
“Here,” I say, grabbing a clean towel from the linen closet. “You should shower first. Warm up before you catch a cold.”
She takes the towel gratefully. “Is that your professional medical opinion, Mr. Foster?”
“Absolutely. I’m practically a doctor, you know. Expert in colds, and all that.”
Her laughter follows her into the bathroom. The shower starts as I move through the house, turning on the heating to combat the damp chill. In my bedroom, I pull out a pair of sweatpants, and an oversized sweatshirt—clothes that will swallow her narrower yet curvy frame, but should be comfortable.
I leave them outside the bathroom door with a soft knock. “Clothes. Unless you prefer walking around naked, which I fully support.”
“Very funny,” comes her muffled reply, but the smile in her voice is clear.
While she changes into the clothes, I check the refrigerator. Empty, except for some questionable milk, and half a jar of pickles. Not exactly celebration fare. I grab my phone and order sushi from the place in town that stays open late—salmon rolls, tuna nigiri, and the spicy dragon roll I found out both of us love.
I sink onto the sofa, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. The adrenaline that carried me through the race and its aftermath is fading, leaving behind bone-deep fatigue. I close my eyes, just for a moment, listening to rain against the windows.
A gentle touch on my arm startles me awake. Violet stands beside the sofa, wearing my clothes, her damp hair curling around her face. The sweatshirt fits her body well, though it's a bit baggy, the sleeves rolled up several times to free her hands. She looks younger, softer, stripped of her Team Principal armor. And I can’t get enough of this disarmed look of hers.
“Sorry,” I mumble, blinking sleep from my eyes. “Nodded off.”
“You’re exhausted,” she says. “Ninety minutes of concentration in those conditions will do that.”
The doorbell rings, saving me from admitting how right she is. “Food,” I explain, pushing myself up from the couch. “Give me five minutes to shower, then we eat.”
I take the fastest shower in history, scrubbing away the rest of the dried champagne and sweat that I didn’t remove with the quick shower at our motorhome, letting the hot water ease mytired muscles. When I emerge in clean sweats, toweling my hair, Violet is examining the takeout containers on the coffee table.
“Don’t open them yet,” I warn, padding barefoot across the living room. “I want to see your face when you realize what it is.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You ordered food at”—she checks her watch,mywatch, actually, that she still wears hidden under her suit cuffs—“almost midnight on a Sunday in rural England. I’m guessing it’s either pizza, or curry.”
