Emmie

"Stop staring at your phone like it's going to resurrect your ex," Lando said, plucking the device from your hands mid-swipe through yet another doomed conversation thread.

The garage hummed around you—hydraulics hissing, engineers murmuring—but his grin was the loudest thing in the room.

"I’ve got a better distraction." He jerked his chin toward the far end of the paddock, where Oscar stood silhouetted against the floodlights, his race suit peeled down to the waist, the fabric clinging to the sweat-slicked dip of his spine as he stretched.

You didn’t mean to lick your lips. Didn’t mean to notice how his shoulders flexed when he reached back to knot his hair, how the dark ink curling over his ribs shifted with each breath.

But Lando caught you looking anyway, his elbow nudging your ribs. "Told you," he sing-songed, low enough that the mechanics wouldn’t hear. "Bet he bites, though. You into that?"

Heat prickled up your neck—not just from embarrassment, but from the way Oscar’s gaze flicked over like he’d sensed the weight of yours.

His eyes weren’t kind, weren’t gentle; they were the sharp, assessing stare of a man who knew exactly how much trouble he could cause. And when his mouth quirked, slow and knowing, your stomach did something stupid and syrupy, like it had forgotten how to be sad.

"You’re staring," Lando murmured, gleeful, but you barely heard him over the rush of blood in your ears. Oscar peeled off his gloves one finger at a time, the motion deliberate, almost obscene, and you hated how your pulse kicked against your ribs.

He shouldn’t be allowed to look like that—all coiled tension and salt-stung skin, like he’d just stepped out of someone’s very specific fantasy.

You forced your gaze away, back to the telemetry screens flashing with cold, clinical data. Numbers didn’t smirk. Numbers didn’t make your throat dry.

But the ghost of his attention still prickled across your skin, lingering like the scent of gasoline and hot asphalt—inescapable, intoxicating.

Lando’s grin widened. "He’s not even your type," he lied, because everyone knew Oscar was exactly your type, which was the whole problem. Too sharp, too reckless, too good at making you forget why you were supposed to hate him.

You crossed your arms. "He’s an arrogant prick who thinks he’s God’s gift to racing," you muttered, conveniently ignoring how his arrogance was backed up by lap times that made engineers weep.

Lando snorted. "Yeah, and you’re a saint." He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Admit it. You’d let him ruin your life for five minutes in a Monaco hotel bathroom."

Your nails dug into your palms. That was the worst part—Oscar wasn’t even pretending to look at you anymore, his attention already snapped back to his engineer, his posture all business.

Like you were just another variable in his race strategy, something to be optimized and discarded.

Your teeth sank into your lower lip hard enough to sting. Focus. The car needed adjustments before qualifying. The data didn’t care about the way his sweat-damp hair curled against his neck, or how his hands—broad, deft—could dismantle an engine faster than most people could order coffee.

The car was real. The car wouldn’t look at you like you were a problem he hadn’t solved yet.

Then he ruined it by walking past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm. Static prickled up your skin like tiny needles, and you caught the scent of him—salt, motor oil, something citrus-bitter that shouldn’t have been appealing. You clenched your jaw. He didn’t even glance your way. Asshole.

“You’re scowling at the tire pressure readings,” Lando said, leaning against the workstation. “Unless Pirelli personally betrayed you, I think we both know what—or who—you’re actually pissed at.”

You stabbed at the tablet screen harder than necessary. “Lando. Can you stop. I don’t want a boyfriend right now,” you hissed, but your traitorous eyes flicked to where Oscar was shrugging off his race suit, the fabric catching on his biceps before sliding down his torso.

The strip of skin exposed between his waistband and the hem of his undershirt was unfairly defined, glistening with sweat that caught the garage lights like a dare.

Lando followed your gaze and smirked. “Liar.” He flicked your earlobe, making you flinch. “You don’t want a boyfriend—you just want him to pin you against the nearest flat surface and—”

A wrench clattered to the ground behind you, loud enough to cut him off. Oscar didn’t turn around, but his shoulders tensed, the muscles along his spine flexing like he’d heard every word.

The air between you thickened, charged with something hotter than the asphalt outside. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in places that had no business reacting to the way his hands gripped the workbench, knuckles whitening like he was holding back.

Lando exhaled, slow and delighted. “Oh,” he murmured. “So that’s how it is.”

You stood up and left—too fast, too sharp, the metal stool screeching against concrete like a protest. The garage air tasted of burnt rubber and something acrid, your throat tight as you shoved through the side door into the humid Monaco evening.

The sea breeze slapped your cheeks, salt and exhaust fumes tangling in your lungs, but it didn’t erase the phantom pressure of Oscar’s sleeve brushing your arm, the way your skin still prickled with the memory of his heat.

Oscar watched you go, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He waited until the door swung shut behind you before turning toward Lando, his grip rough as he hauled his teammate into the shadow of a spare tire rack.

"Cut the shit," he growled, his thumb digging into Lando’s collarbone—not enough to hurt, but enough to make him listen. "You think this is funny? Pushing her like that?"

The words came out jagged, his pulse hammering under his skin like a misfiring engine.

Lando grinned, unfazed, his fingers tapping against Oscar’s wrist. "You’re the one who keeps looking at her like you want to eat her alive," he whispered, slow and deliberate. "And she’s looking back, mate. So either stop pretending you don’t care, or—"

His knee nudged Oscar’s thigh, suggestive. "—let me lock you two in a storage closet already."

Oscar’s fingers twitched, his breath hitching at the mental image—your back against cold metal shelves, your nails scraping down his spine as he crowded you into the dark. The fantasy hit him like a G-force, sudden and visceral, the kind of reckless impulse he usually throttled before it could take root.

But the memory of your bitten lip, the way your throat moved when you swallowed—it lingered, sticky-sweet and dangerous, like fuel fumes in an enclosed space. He shoved Lando away with a curse, the taste of want sharp on his tongue.

Lando wiped imaginary dust off his shoulder, still grinning. "You’re so fucked," he murmured, watching Oscar’s fingers flex like he was throttling an invisible steering wheel.

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, the scent of hot metal and Lando’s cologne thick in his throat. His pulse thundered in his fingertips—not from anger, but from the way your hips had swayed when you stormed out, the way your hair caught the garage lights like a challenge.

He could still taste the salt of your bitten-off frustration in the air, metallic and electric.

Lando’s grin softened into something almost sympathetic. "She’s gonna hate herself for wanting you," he said, quieter now. "But not as much as you hate yourself for wanting her back." His knuckles brushed Oscar’s ribs, feather-light. "Go fix it before you both combust."

Oscar didn’t move—couldn’t—his pulse hammering like a misfiring engine, the phantom weight of your gaze still pressed against his skin. He flexed his fingers, half-expecting sparks to fly from his clenched fists.

"I don’t want her," he muttered, turning sharply toward the paddock exit—the opposite direction you’d stormed off in—as if distance could erase the memory of your bitten lip, the way your pulse had fluttered under his sleeve’s accidental brush like a trapped bird.

The Monaco night swallowed him whole, the neon-lit streets pressing in too close, the scent of salt and spilled champagne clinging to his throat. He strode faster, as though speed could outrun the ache in his teeth—that primal, possessive urge to turn around, to—

A burst of laughter from an open-air bar snapped him back. He blinked. Stared at his own reflection in a rain-slicked shop window: hair wild, mouth set in a grimace, shoulders taut as suspension cables.

His hands shook. Christ. He raked them through his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose. The air smelled of damp pavement and your phantom perfume—something floral and sharp, like orange blossoms dipped in gasoline.

Lando was right. He was fucked.

Oscar had spent the past three days calculating fuel loads and gear ratios with mechanical precision, but his brain kept short-circuiting—every time you leaned over a telemetry screen, the loose neckline of your team shirt gaping just enough to reveal the delicate dip of your collarbone, his fingers twitched around his stylus.

Every time you laughed at one of Lando’s stupid jokes, the sound bright and throaty, his stomach dropped like he’d missed an apex.

And every time he caught you staring at him—just for a second, just long enough for his pulse to spike—you’d immediately pivot toward the nearest colleague, your voice too cheerful, your smile too tight.

It was driving him insane.

The worst part was the way you’d started touching everyone except him—a hand on Carlos’s shoulder as you explained tire degradation, your knee bumping against Lando’s under the strategy table, even that time you’d tucked a loose strand of hair behind Rebecca’s ear like it was nothing.

But when Oscar "accidentally" brushed past you in the garage, his knuckles grazing your waist, you’d flinched like he’d burned you, your breath hitching in a way that made his jeans suddenly too tight.

Now, as he watched you from across the hospitality suite—your fingers drumming against your champagne flute, your hips swaying slightly to the muffled bass of the club downstairs—he realized with dawning horror that he wanted to ruin you.

Not in the way Lando had joked about, not some quick, dirty fuck against a storage locker, but properly: the way your pupils would dilate when he finally got his hands on you, the way your breath would catch when he dragged his teeth over that spot under your ear, the way you’d whimper when he—

"Mate." Lando’s voice cut through the fantasy, low and knowing. "If you keep looking at her like that, someone’s gonna call the police."

Oscar drained his drink, the champagne sour on his tongue. "Fuck off."

Lando just grinned, nodding toward where you were now laughing at something Charles had said, your head thrown back, the line of your throat exposed.

"She’s doing it on purpose, you know. Wind you up." His knee nudged Oscar’s under the table. "And it’s working."

Oscar’s fingers clenched around his empty glass. He knew you were playing him. Knew it the way he knew the exact RPM his engine could handle before redlining—instinctual, visceral.

But knowledge didn’t stop the heat pooling low in his gut, didn’t stop the possessive snarl building in his chest every time another driver leaned into your space.

Across the room, your gaze flicked to his—just for a second—and the corner of your mouth curled, slow and deliberate, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

His pulse roared in his ears.

Game on.

The champagne bottle popped like a gunshot, spraying golden foam across the McLaren garage in reckless arcs. Someone had slapped a paper crown on Oscar’s head—crooked, ridiculous—and he was laughing, actually laughing, his teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights as Lando poured another shot down his throat.

You watched from the periphery, the plastic cup in your hand sweating as much as your palms. Celebration buzzed through the air like static, thick with sweat and triumph, but all you could focus on was the way Oscar’s throat worked when he swallowed, the way his pulse jumped under the damp collar of his team shirt.

Then he caught you looking. His grin faded, replaced by something darker, hungrier—the same expression he wore mid-overtake, right before he devoured the competition.

Your breath hitched. The room tilted. And suddenly, he was striding toward you, his steps deliberate, his fingers closing around your wrist before you could bolt.

“You’re avoiding me,” he murmured, his thumb skating over your racing pulse. The scent of him—champagne and burnt rubber—clogged your throat. “Why?”

Your brain short-circuited. His grip tightened, just shy of painful, and you realized with dizzying clarity that you wanted him to push. Wanted him to crowd you against the nearest flat surface, wanted him to—

“I’m not,” you lied, your voice cracking. The garage noise faded to white static, drowned out by the roar of blood in your ears.

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his free hand rising to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the shell of your ear with deliberate slowness, and you shuddered.

“Liar,” he whispered, his breath hot against your temple. Then, lower: “You taste like trouble.”

You barely had time to process the words before he was gone, disappearing into the crowd like a hallucination. Your knees trembled. Your lips tingled. And when you finally lifted your cup to your mouth, the champagne tasted like gasoline—sweet, flammable, and dangerous.

Lando materialized beside you, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Told you," he murmured, pressing a fresh drink into your shaking hands.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when Oscar was now leaning against the pit wall, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension, his gaze locked on you like you were the only variable he hadn’t calculated.

The way his fingers flexed around his own glass—slow, deliberate—sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.

The crowd surged around you, voices rising in a drunken chorus, but the noise faded to a distant hum. All you could hear was the hitch of your own breath, the phantom drag of Oscar’s thumb across your pulse point. Your skin burned where he’d touched you, the sensation lingering like a brand.

Lando shoved another drink into your hands—something neon and sticky-sweet—and you tossed it back without tasting it.

The alcohol hit your bloodstream like spilled fuel, igniting a reckless heat that had nothing to do with the humid Monaco night and everything to do with the way Oscar was still watching you—dark-eyed, predatory—from across the garage.

His lips were wet with champagne, his collar rumpled where someone had tugged it loose.

You should’ve looked away. Should’ve walked off, found a quiet corner to sober up. Instead, your fingers tightened around the empty cup, crushing it until the plastic bit into your palm. The sting grounded you—barely—as you grabbed another drink from a passing tray.

The vodka burned going down, sharp and medicinal, but it couldn’t drown out the memory of his breath against your temple, the way his voice had dropped to a rough whisper: You taste like trouble.

Lando’s grin widened as he leaned in, his words slurring against your ear. “Keep drinking like that, love, and you’re gonna do something stupid.” His thumb brushed your cheek, sticky with spilled liquor. “Or someone.”

You shoved him away, stumbling toward the bathroom—somewhere quiet, somewhere cold—but the corridor tilted under your feet, the walls breathing like they were alive.

The phone in your pocket buzzed, insistent, and you fumbled for it, thumb smearing across the screen. Your ex’s name flashed up, a relic from another life: Miss you. Let’s talk.

Your stomach lurched. A month ago, you’d have crumpled. A week ago, you’d have replied. But now? Now all you could think about was Oscar’s grip on your wrist, the way his pulse had hammered under your fingertips like a rev limiter.

You deleted the message without reading the rest, your fingers trembling—not from sadness, but from the phantom pressure of Oscar’s breath against your neck, the way he’d looked at you like you were a corner he couldn’t wait to cut.

The hallway air smelled of spilled gin and sweat. You leaned against the wall, the plaster cool against your flushed cheek, and tried to steady your breathing. It didn’t work.

The memory of Oscar’s thumb tracing your pulse point lingered, sticky as the humidity clinging to your skin. You pushed off the wall—too fast, too sharp—and the floor tilted again.

Then the celebration room door slammed open. Oscar stumbled out, his hair disheveled, his shirt half-untucked. His gaze locked onto you instantly—wild, unfiltered—and your stomach dropped like a missed gear shift. He looked wrecked, his lips bitten red, his pupils blown wide with something darker than champagne.

"Y/N," he rasped, your name cracking like gravel under race tires. His fingers dug into the doorframe, knuckles white, as if he was physically restraining himself from crossing the distance between you. The raw hunger in his stare scorched your skin, hotter than any Monaco afternoon sun.

You shouldn't have done it—shouldn't have stepped forward, shouldn't have fisted his damp shirt and crushed your mouth to his—but the taste of him exploded across your tongue, champagne and salt and something darker, smokier.

His whole body jerked like he'd been electrocuted, hands hovering inches from your waist, trembling with restraint. "Fuck," he gasped against your lips, the word vibrating through your chest like a misfiring engine.

You expected arrogance, domination—but his kiss was all sharp inhales and barely-contained desperation, his teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to sting.

When you moaned, he made a broken sound in his throat and finally—finally—hauled you flush against him, his grip bruising as he backed you into the wall. Every ridge of his body burned through your clothes, his racing heartbeat wild against your sternum.

Lando's distant laughter echoed down the hall, and Oscar froze, his breath ragged against your neck. "Christ," he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, every muscle coiled tight.

His thumb brushed your swollen lip—once, twice—before he shoved himself away with a curse, leaving you both panting in the neon-lit hallway, the air thick with the scent of spilled alcohol and reckless choices.

The space between you crackled like overheated asphalt, his restraint palpable in the way his fingers flexed at his sides instead of reaching for you again.

You could taste the war in his kiss—the way his mouth had yielded even as his hands hesitated, like he couldn't decide whether to devour you or let you walk away.

His jaw worked, a vein pulsing at his temple. "We shouldn't—" The words came out strangled, his pupils blown wide. The hallway lights caught the sweat beading along his collarbone, the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, his restraint fraying visibly with each uneven breath.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, still humming with the memory of his grip—the way his calluses had caught on your skin like friction burns. The champagne haze made everything hyperreal: the salt-sting of his sweat when you'd licked into his mouth, the way his hips had jerked against yours like he'd forgotten how to brake.

You lifted your hand, slow, deliberate, and pressed your palm flat against his sternum. His heartbeat hammered against your touch, erratic as a blown engine.

"Christ," he hissed, his hands finally—finally—clamping around your waist. His thumbs dug into the dip above your hips, possessive, as he dragged you closer. The scent of him—alcohol and adrenaline—flooded your senses, thick as the Monaco humidity.

His nose bumped yours, clumsy with intoxication, and you felt the exact moment his control snapped—his mouth slanted over yours with a groan that vibrated through your ribs.

Somewhere distant, glass shattered. The party roared on. But all you knew was the slick heat of his tongue, the way his fingers flexed against your spine like he was memorizing the shape of you.

When you nipped at his lower lip, he made a sound so raw it curled your toes, his hips pinning you to the wall with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs.

"Fuck," he panted against your cheek, his voice wrecked. "We're both so fucking drunk."

His words slurred, but his hands didn't—they mapped your ribs with terrifying precision, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your shirt. You arched into the touch, gasping when his teeth grazed your earlobe.

The hallway tilted, or maybe that was just your head spinning, but Oscar's grip tightened, anchoring you as his mouth found yours again—hotter this time, hungrier, like he was trying to drown in you.

Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked open, spilling laughter and cigarette smoke into the corridor. Oscar didn't pull away. Instead, his fingers dug into your hips, lifting you effortlessly onto the narrow ledge of a fire extinguisher cabinet.

The metal groaned under your weight, but his body between your thighs was solid, real—the hard line of his erection pressing against you through layers of fabric made your breath hitch. His palm slid up your thigh, rough with calluses from gripping steering wheels, and you shuddered, biting back a moan against his collarbone.

The air between you smelled like spilled champagne and sweat, his pulse jumping under your lips as you traced the vein in his neck with your tongue. He made a sound low in his throat—half growl, half plea—and his fingers twisted in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat.

His breath was ragged against your skin, his lips brushing your racing pulse like he was counting each beat. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice thick with want. "You're gonna ruin me."

His mouth found yours again, slow and deliberate this time, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips. His tongue slid against yours, hot and slick, the taste of him intoxicating—sharp with alcohol, sweet with something darker.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting through the damp fabric of his shirt, and he groaned, his hips pressing yours harder against the wall. The metal ledge bit into your thighs, the pain a distant echo compared to the electric current of his touch.

The hallway lights buzzed overhead, casting erratic shadows across the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when you dragged your nails down his neck.

He shuddered, his grip on your thighs tightening—calluses catching on bare skin where your dress had ridden up—and you realized with dizzying clarity that you couldn’t remember your ex’s face, only the salt-sting of Oscar’s sweat as you licked into the hollow of his throat. . . .