Page 62 of Flat Out
When I pressed my thumb to her clit, circling it the way I knew she needed, I felt her walls quiver around me, and my orgasm rushed up, cresting at the same time as hers. We came together, moaning and shaking, and I could only think—there would never be anything else but her, and there would never be anyone else but us.
We laid there for a while, tangled and breathless, skin slick and sticky, the scent of sex and sweat clinging to the sheets. Her head was on my chest, my arm around her shoulders. My other hand stroked her hair lazily as I stared at the ceiling, trying to come back to earth. She traced small shapes over my stomach with her fingers.
As her breathing slowed, I rolled us so I was cuddling her from behind, needing to just hold her close to me. My eyes drifted closed as every frightening thought of almost losing this crashed into me. I’d been waiting so long for her to come into my life, and then I nearly lost mine in a matter of seconds.
I dragged a hand down between her legs and cupped her tenderly, possessively, letting my cum spill over my fingers before pushing it back inside.
"This stays in you," I murmured against her temple.
She shivered, but didn’t pull away, only hummed, satisfied, and nuzzled deeper into my chest like she already knew.
Her hum settled against me, warm and low, and for a long time we just breathed in sync. Every brush of her fingers over my chest, every steady beat of my heart against her cheek reminded me that I was alive—and that she was the reason.
The silence stretched, fragile yet comfortable, until her voice broke it. Soft, barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow.”
One word. That’s all it was, but it was enough to make me feel hopeful, because it was apromise. We were in this together. Always.
My hand stilled in her hair. “The FIA.”
She nodded once against my chest. I could feel her pulse racing, a nervous little flutter that gave her away. “Morel. Takeda. Kowalski. Schrieber. All of them in one room. Marco, Kimi, us.” Her sigh warmed my skin. “It’s going to be brutal.”
“Good.” My thumb stroked the line of her hip. “Better to face them head-on than let them circle like vultures. They’ll tryto rattle you, rattle us. But they’ll see soon enough we’re not breaking.”
She tilted her head up, golden-green eyes searching mine in the dim glow. “You’ll keep your temper?”
A laugh escaped me, low and rough. “Me? I think, between the two of us, it’syourtemper we should be concerned about.”
Aurélie giggled. The sound was all feminine and carefree, and so fucking her it hurt. “Yeah, that’s the Aries in me.”
Her fingers traced idle shapes over my chest, then stilled. “You know what you are, right?”
I arched a brow. “A glutton for punishment?”
“Capricorn,” she said, ignoring me. Her lips curved, mischievous but tender as she listed them off. “Stubborn—you’ll hold a racing line even when everyone else thinks it’s impossible. Ambitious—you don’t just want podiums, you want history books. Disciplined—you’ll sacrifice comfort, sleep, your own body if it means crossing that finish line first. And secretly?” She traced small circles over my skin with her fingertips. “You’re soft as hell, Fraser. You’d let the whole world think you’re stone just so the people you love never have to see you crack.”
I didn’t interrupt. I just watched her, memorizing the way her hair spilled across my chest and her eyes glowed molten gold in the low light, like she was seeing all the parts of me I didn’t recognize in myself.
She pressed a kiss to my sternum, right over the thrum of my heartbeat. “That’s my Capricorn.”
For a long moment, all I could do was breathe her in. Then I huffed a laugh. “I make no promises about my behavior tomorrow, love. But I’ll keep my line.”
Her lips curved, the faintest smile in the dark. “Racing 101?”
I kissed her temple, my chest tight with something that felt like both devotion and steel. “Racing 101,” I echoed. “Commit to your line. And mine’s you.”
She exhaled, the weight of it sounding like relief, and pressed her forehead to mine. “Then we’ll be fine.”
She tangled against me and, even with tomorrow brewing like a storm, I believed it.
The conference roomfelt like a tribunal. A long mahogany table stretched across the front, where a panel of FIA officials sat with their papers and pens, flanked by team principals whose faces were carved into polite neutrality. But the real danger sat scattered in the rows facing us. Morel—the man who clipped Callum, who’d sent him spinning into a barrier in a fireball that still haunted my nightmares. And of course, Takeda, Kowalski, and Schrieber—the very drivers who had plotted, who had tried to end me, and who had nearly ended Callum. Their smug faces filled my vision, each one a reminder of every time I’d been dismissed, mocked, threatened.
It only added fuel to the fire.
I refused to falter. My heels clicked like gunfire across the polished floor as I stepped forward with confidence, my shoulders squared. If they expected me to shrink, to wilt under the weight of their stares, they hadn’t been paying attention towho I was. I didn’t just walk into the wolves’ den—I bared my teeth.
The door shut behind us, and the hush that followed was absolute.
And there was Morel. He looked as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, jaw square, posture immaculate, the picture of composure. As if he hadn’t almost killed the reigning world champion.
