Page 118 of Red Flagged
On the flight from Belgium to here, I’d made an offhand comment about how we were “basically living together,” and hehadn’t even blinked. Just nodded and said,“Countryside house and penthouse. Sounds like a good rotation to me.”Somewhere along the way, his bed had become my bed. My kitchen, his kitchen. Our closets blended, our toothbrushes shared a glass.
It wasn’t a big discussion. It didn’t need to be. We just… shifted. And then stayed. His place, my place, our places. Our life. And that knowing—of him, of us, of myself behind the wheel—made me dangerous again.
I launched clean off the line, angling my nose to defend against the Red Bull in P4. Turn 1 was insanity, as always, with all twenty cars jostling for position. P2 tried to divebomb the inside. I held my line. Turn 2, I cut tight and forced him wide. By Turn 4, I’d settled into P3 with a margin behind me, and I defended the hell out of it for the next 38 laps with quick instincts and good team strategy.
Every time someone tried to close the gap, I gave them a reason to back off. Braked late, held corners, stuck to the apexes with masterclass precision. Sector 2 was mine. Sector 3, I turned into choreography.
It wasn’t about hunting down the lead. Not today. It was about holding the position I earned. About reminding every single person on that grid that I belonged on the podium. Not because of luck, not because of legacy, but because I was good. I was championship material. The proof lived in my climb to third in the WDC, even in a sabotaged car.
And now, with the right setup in place, I felt unstoppable.
And when I crossed that finish line P3—seconds behind Marco and Callum, and Kimi behind me—I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just smiled, proud of all my boys and the family we made here on the grid.
When I pulled into parc fermé, I didn’t even get my helmet off before I was surrounded—team radio blaring, mechanicsswarming, the kind of adrenaline high that only came with a clean, hard-fought race.
And then I saw him. Helmet tucked under one arm, suit unzipped to his waist, victory in his grin. He crossed to me like the whole world had emptied out except for us in this moment.
“That defense in Turn 9,” Callum remarked, dimple out and eyes gleaming with excitement and pride. “Fuckingtextbook, baby. Proud of you.”
I grinned, heart still pounding from the race. “I committed to my line. Turns out that’s what I’ve needed all along.”
He froze for half a second, then his eyes darkened, slow and wicked. He grabbed the back of my neck and dragged me in for a kiss.
“You keep talking like that,” he murmured, voice low and full of heat, “and I’m gonna commit tomyline later. Right between your thighs.”
I bit back a laugh, cheeks hot under the sweat and adrenaline. “Better keep up, then, mon champion.” I raked my eyes over him, taking in the sight of him in his race suit. “Can’t wait to get you out of this slutty little outfit.”
“Did you just call me slutty?”
“I did. And I stand by it. You’re a whore for adrenaline and praise and me.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth. “Say one more filthy thing and I’m going to finger you in the fucking motorhome.”
A moan slipped out before I could stop it, my thighs pressing together on instinct. “You can’t threaten me like this in public.”
“You called me a slut first.” He leaned in closer. “And now I can’t wait to take you to Greece and spend the next three weeks worshipping your body, making you come on every surface possible, and reminding you exactly who you belong to.”
I sighed dreamily. “Like I could ever forget.”
Because after everything… I was still here. Still fast. Still feminine. Still fighting.
I wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was Callum.
The private hangarsmelled like jet fuel and money. Looked like it, too, as I pulled my Alpine in and parked, climbing out and handing my keys to whoever Callum was paying to handle things while we were away for the next few weeks.
Callum was already there, standing at the foot of the stairs to his private jet. He was talking on the phone, eyes trailing me as I spoke to his staff, indicating my bags were in the trunk.
But my attention was on Callum, who looked insufferably casual. His sunglasses were pushed up into his messy, freshly trimmed hair, his ivory linen shirt was unbuttoned just enough to be distracting—and the linen trousers he wore made his ass look fantastic.
I stood there gawking at him, totally eye-fucking him until he turned at the sound of me closing my car door.
He held a to-go cup in one hand, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Yeah, he totally caught me.
Whatever. I had come prepared.
He probably expected travel clothes. A hoodie and leggings. Something easy and comfortable for the flight.
But no. I was going to Greece, so I was going to dress like it. I flounced in wearing a little sundress. It was white, with thin straps and a flowy little skirt that moved when I walked.
