#im sobbing

“If you keep humming while you organize those folders, I’m going to lose my mind,” Oscar groaned, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.

You didn't stop, the low vibration of the tune buzzing in your chest as you carefully slid the telemetry reports into their tabs, mindful of the three-foot perimeter you’d established since his ‘abstinence protocol' began.

You paused, glancing over your shoulder at him slumped in the ergonomic chair, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the desk.

“I’m just tidying, Oscar; I’m respecting the rule,” you countered, though you deliberately leaned back, letting the silk of your slip slide an inch lower on your shoulder.

He let out a sharp, jagged exhale, his gaze tracking the movement of your collarbone with a hunger that felt almost predatory. “The rule was to avoid temptation, not to exist in a state of constant, low-grade torture,” he muttered, his pupils blown wide, darkening the hazel of his eyes.

You shifted your weight, the subtle friction of your thighs rubbing together creating a soft, rhythmic shhh that seemed to echo in the silence of the motorhome.

“I haven't touched you,” you reminded him, your voice dropping an octave, the air between you thickening until it felt heavy, humid, and charged with a static that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up.

He stood up slowly, the movement fluid and deliberate, as if he were fighting a physical current.

The scent of him—expensive cologne mixed with the metallic tang of the garage and a hint of salt—hit you before he even reached you, a sensory wave that made your stomach flip.

When he finally stepped into your space, he didn’t touch you, but the heat radiating off his body was a physical pressure, a wall of warmth that seeped through your clothes and settled deep in your marrow.

You could see the pulse hammering in the hollow of his throat, a frantic, rhythmic thrum that mirrored the sudden, frantic drumming of your own heart against your ribs.

His hand hovered inches from your waist, not quite closing the gap, the hesitation causing a shimmering tension that felt more intimate than a kiss.

You could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple, smelling of peppermint and desperation, sending a sharp, electric shiver cascading down your spine.

The silence stretched, taut as a guitar string about to snap, while the distant roar of the engines on the track faded into a blurred hum, leaving only the sound of your synchronized, shallow breathing.

You tilted your head back, exposing the line of your neck, and watched as his gaze dropped to the pulse point jumping in your throat.

A low, guttural sound escaped him—half-sigh, half-growl—and the sheer intensity of his focus felt like a physical touch, a slow burn that started at the base of your skull and pooled, heavy and molten, in the pit of your belly.

He leaned in closer, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, the warmth of his skin promising a collapse of every boundary you had carefully maintained.

“Tell me you don't want this,” he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin, sending a jolt of electricity that made your toes curl against the cold linoleum. “Tell me you aren't thinking about the exact moment the rule breaks.”

You let out a breathy, jagged laugh, the sound catching in your throat as you felt the heat of his thighs brush against yours, a momentary, accidental friction that sent a surge of white-hot longing through your nerves.

“The rule doesn't exist if the witness is the one who breaks it,” you whispered back, your voice sounding foreign and strained, the air between you now so saturated with hunger that it felt thick enough to swallow.

His hand finally closed the distance, not with a gentle touch, but with a firm, possessive grip that anchored you to him, his fingers digging into the soft curve of your hip.

The contact was a catalyst, a sudden release of tension that left you breathless, your chest heaving as you leaned into him, the rough texture of his team polo scratching against your skin.

You could feel the erratic thrum of his heart through his chest, a frantic, driving rhythm that matched the sudden, insistent ache blooming between your thighs.

Oscar didn't kiss you immediately; instead, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling sharply as if trying to memorize your scent through the haze of his frustration.

The stubble of his jaw grazed your sensitive skin, a friction that felt raw and electric, sending a cascade of shimmering heat radiating toward your extremities.

You felt the heavy, solid weight of him pressing you back against the desk, the cold edge of the mahogany biting into your lower back, creating a stark, grounding contrast to the molten warmth of his body.

A soft, involuntary whimper escaped you when his other hand slid upward, the palm of his hand skimming the silk of your slip with a slow, deliberate pressure that made your skin prickle.

He found the small of your back and arched you closer, eliminating every single millimeter of air, until you could feel the hard, demanding line of his desire pressing against your stomach.

The sensation was a blunt force, a physical reminder of the weeks of restraint, and the suddenness of it made your head swim, your thoughts dissolving into a blur of sensory input and urgent, primal need.

He shifted his grip, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear and tugging just enough to create a tension that felt like a promise.

The air in the motorhome felt thick, saturated with the scent of salt and longing, while the distant, muffled scream of a tire hitting a curb on the track echoed like a fading memory.

You reached up, your nails digging into the nape of his neck, pulling him down until his lips finally collided with yours in a kiss that tasted of desperation and a total, reckless abandonment of the rules.

The impact was visceral, a sudden collision of teeth and tongue that felt less like a greeting and more like a reclamation.

You could feel the vibration of a low groan humming in his chest, a sound that resonated through your own ribs as he backed you further into the mahogany desk, scattering the telemetry reports with a sudden, chaotic flutter.

The cold surface of the desk bit into your shoulder blades, but the sensation was drowned out by the searing heat of his palms sliding up your thighs, the friction of his calloused skin against your inner thigh creating a sparking, electric current.

He broke the kiss to trail a line of wet, searing heat down your jaw, his breath hitching as he found the sensitive spot just below your ear.

You arched your back, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps that hitched in your throat whenever his thumb grazed the swelling center of your heat through the thin barrier of silk.

The pressure was precise, a slow, agonizingly deliberate movement that made your vision blur and your muscles coil with a sudden, urgent necessity. You felt the heavy thrum of your own pulse drumming in your fingertips, matching the erratic, frantic pace of his heart against your chest.

His hand slid lower, his fingers hooking the hem of the slip and lifting it with a slow, deliberate grace that felt like a countdown.

As the cool air of the room hit your skin for a fleeting second, the contrast made you shiver, a sharp ripple of anticipation that tightened every nerve ending in your body.

Then, his warmth returned—his palm cupping you, the warmth of his skin molding to yours with a possessive weight that felt grounding and destabilizing all at once.

You let out a shaky, broken sound, your hips instinctively tilting upward, searching for the friction that would quell the insistent, throbbing ache radiating from your core.

Oscar’s breath hitched, a ragged sound that vibrated against the sensitive skin of your collarbone.

He didn't rush; instead, he began a rhythmic, agonizingly slow exploration, his fingers tracing the delicate seam of your underwear with a precision that spoke of a man who lived and breathed in the margins of millimeters.

Every slight shift of his hand sent a new wave of liquid heat crashing through you, pooling in the small of your back and making your thighs tremble.

The scent of him—that intoxicating blend of adrenaline and salt—seemed to thicken, filling your lungs until you were lightheaded, intoxicated by the sheer proximity of a man who had been starved of you for too long.

You shifted your grip, your fingers tangling in the short hairs at the base of his skull and pulling him back toward your lips. When he responded, the kiss was no longer a collision but a slow, deep exploration, his tongue sweeping against yours with a hunger that felt predatory yet tender.

You could feel the tension in his biceps, the muscles coiled like springs, fighting the urge to simply devour you right there amidst the scattered papers.

The friction of his trousers against your bare legs was a rough, grounding texture, a reminder of the physical divide that was rapidly disappearing as he pressed you deeper into the mahogany, the wood creaking under the sudden, shifting weight of your combined bodies.

Just as you felt you might shatter from the anticipation, he shifted his weight, one knee sliding between your thighs to anchor you firmly against the desk.

The sudden, blunt pressure of him—solid, demanding, and pulsing—sent a jolt of white-hot electricity straight to your center, causing a soft, guttural moan to escape your lips.

He paused for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes dark and blown wide with a desperate kind of clarity.

His thumb found the exact center of your longing, applying a sudden, firm pressure that made your vision blur and your breath hitch in a jagged, uneven rhythm, the world narrowing down to the singular, electric point where his skin met yours.

His hand moved with a sudden, focused urgency, sliding beneath the lace to find you already slick and welcoming.

The first touch was a revelation—a searing, sliding contact that made your hips jerk upward instinctively, searching for more of that grounding friction.

You felt the heavy, rhythmic thrum of your own blood hammering in your ears, drowning out everything but the sound of his ragged breathing and the wet, sliding sound of his fingers discovering how much you had missed him.

It wasn't a gentle exploration; it was a reclamation, each movement precise and possessive, designed to map every shivering inch of your reaction.

A sharp, sudden gasp escaped you when he shifted his grip, his fingers curling to create a rhythmic, insistent pressure that sent waves of liquid heat crashing through your abdomen.

You felt the muscles in your thighs coil and tighten, your toes curling against the linoleum as a shimmering tension began to build, tightening like a spring wound too far.

The scent of the motorhome—stale air and engine grease—was completely eclipsed by the musk of his skin and the heady, sweet aroma of your own arousal, creating a sensory cocoon that felt claustrophobic and intoxicating all at once.

Oscar’s lips found the sensitive hollow of your throat again, his teeth grazing the skin just enough to elicit a sharp, shuddering intake of air.

The friction of his stubble felt like a thousand tiny sparks igniting across your skin, sending a current of electricity that crashed violently into the pooling heat between your legs.

He wasn't just touching you; he was claiming the space, his movements shifting from hesitant to hungry, mirroring the frantic desperation of a man who had spent weeks counting seconds.

You could feel the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his heart beating against your own breast, a frantic percussion that seemed to synchronize with the pulsing depth of your own longing.

As his fingers curved deeper, finding a rhythm that was as precise as a calibrated engine, a low, guttural sound tore from his throat—a sound of surrender and victory.

The sensation was an overwhelming flood of tactile input; the coolness of the mahogany desk against your shoulder blades clashed with the searing heat of his palm, creating a sensory dissonance that made your head swim.

You arched your back, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer as if you could merge your very skeletons. Every slide of his touch felt like a revelation, a slow-motion explosion of pleasure that radiated from your core outward to the tips of your fingertips.

He shifted his weight, the fabric of his trousers rough against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, creating a friction that felt almost bruising in its intensity.

The air in the small space grew heavy, saturated with the scent of salt and a raw, primal musk that clouded your judgment and stripped away every remaining thought of restraint.

You felt the sudden, sharp tension in his biceps as he braced himself above you, his chest heaving in time with your own jagged breaths.

The world outside the motorhome—the roar of the paddock, the ticking clocks, the looming pressure of the race—had dissolved into a blurred insignificance, leaving only the visceral reality of his skin against yours.

You let out a broken, stuttering breath as he adjusted his grip, his fingers finding a rhythm that was less about exploration and more about a precise, mechanical mastery.

There was a specific, agonizing clarity to the sensation; you didn't want the full weight of him, not yet, because the narrow, focused friction of his fingertips provided a kind of crystalline pleasure that felt more honest than anything else.

It was the concentrated intensity of it—the way he could manipulate the very center of your nerves with a slight shift in angle—that drove you toward the edge, making the simple act of his touch feel like a total surrender of your autonomy.

He noticed the shift in your breathing, the way your hips bucked not to bring him closer, but to deepen the contact of his hand. A low, knowing hum vibrated in his chest, and he leaned in, his lips ghosting over your jawline as he increased the pace.

The friction was searing now, a concentrated point of heat that radiated outward in shimmering, electric waves, turning your muscles to liquid.

You clung to the edges of the mahogany desk, your knuckles white, as the pleasure became an all-consuming fire, focused entirely on the sliding, rhythmic pressure that felt like the only truth in the room.

Just as the tension reached a breaking point, Oscar paused, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat, the sudden stillness more provocative than the movement. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and dilated, searching your face for the exact moment of collapse.

The air between you was thick and humid, tasting of salt and desperation, and for a second, the only sound was the frantic, uneven thrum of two hearts trying to beat as one.

He didn't give you time to breathe, sliding a second finger inside with a slow, deliberate depth that made your entire body arch. The sensation was a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity, a physical anchor that grounded you even as your mind began to drift into a haze of sensory overload.

You felt the rough texture of his palm pressing against your thigh, the contrast of the cold air and the searing heat of his touch creating a friction that felt almost violent in its intensity.

“Is the rule still in effect?” he whispered, his voice a jagged edge of wanting that seemed to vibrate through your very marrow.

You tilted your head back, the mahogany edge digging into your shoulder blades, and let out a breath that was more of a shudder. “Who’s counting the seconds anymore?” you gasped, your voice sounding foreign and strained.

“I am,” he murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive dip of your collarbone, “every single, agonizing second.”

The air in the motorhome felt thick, saturated with the scent of salt and the metallic tang of adrenaline.

You could feel the rhythmic thrum of his heart against your chest, a frantic, driving percussion that matched the insistent pulsing between your legs. Every slide of his fingers was a calculated precision, a slow-motion collision of skin and desire that left you feeling raw and exposed.

The sensation was a concentrated fire, blooming from a single point of contact and radiating outward in shimmering waves that turned your muscles to liquid.

He shifted his weight, the heavy, solid pressure of his thigh anchoring you to the desk, creating a grounding force against the dizzying lightness in your head.

You felt the sudden, sharp intake of his breath against your skin, a momentary pause that only heightened the anticipation.

The friction of his team polo against your chest was a coarse, grounding texture, a reminder of the physical reality of him—the hardness of his muscles, the heat of his skin—while the rest of the world dissolved into a blur of sensory static.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as a low, guttural moan escaped your throat, the sound vibrating in the small space.

He responded by deepening the pressure, his movements shifting from exploration to a demanding, rhythmic urgency.

The feeling was an overwhelming flood of tactile input; the coldness of the desk and the searing warmth of his hand created a dissonance that made your vision blur, narrowing the entire universe down to the sliding, electric point where his touch met your heat.

As he leaned in, his lips finally capturing yours again, the kiss tasted of desperation and a total, reckless abandonment.

You could feel the tension in his biceps, coiled and tight, as he fought to maintain a shred of control that had already long since evaporated.

The air was heavy with the musk of arousal and the scent of engine grease, a heady cocktail that clouded your judgment and stripped away every remaining boundary.

Each movement was a reclamation, a slow-burn descent into a shared fever that left you breathless and aching for the inevitable collapse.

But as the weight of him pressed you deeper into the mahogany, a sudden flash of the track—the precise, unforgiving line of the circuit and the crushing G-forces of tomorrow's qualifying lap—surfaced in your mind.

You felt the rhythmic thrum of his heart, too fast and too frantic, and a sharp prick of anxiety pierced through the haze of pleasure.

With a jagged gasp, you planted your palms against his chest, creating a sliver of space between your bodies. "Oscar, stop," you whispered, your voice trembling with the effort of the restraint. "Tomorrow. You have the race tomorrow."

He paused, his chest heaving, eyes dark and clouded with a hunger that seemed to devour everything in sight.

For a moment, he didn't move, his muscles locked in a state of excruciating suspension, the heat of his skin still searing through your fingertips.

The silence in the motorhome became heavy, charged with a different kind of tension—the conflict between a primal need and the disciplined precision of an athlete. You could see the conflict warring in his gaze, the struggle to reconcile the man who lived for the podium with the man who was currently starving for the touch of your skin.

He let out a low, guttural sound, half-groan and half-sigh, and leaned his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged and uneven.

The friction of his skin against yours, now a slow, simmering heat, felt like a promise deferred, a coiled spring waiting for the signal to release. His hand lingered on your hip, the grip possessive and firm, grounding you both in the suffocating stillness of the room.

The air between you remained electric, saturated with the scent of salt and longing, as the distant, muffled sound of a mechanic's wrench hitting the floor echoed like a countdown.

You could feel the erratic thrum of his heart beneath your palms, a frantic rhythm that betrayed the composure he usually wore like armor on the track. His eyes, dark and dilated, searched yours, tracing the flutter of your eyelashes and the way your lips were still swollen from his kiss.

There was a raw, unvarnished hunger there, a craving that went beyond the physical, rooted in the weeks of forced distance and the crushing weight of expectation.

The silence stretched, taut and precarious, as he fought the instinct to pull you back into the heat, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint.

Slowly, he began to pull away, the movement agonizingly deliberate, each millimeter of separation feeling like a physical loss.

The cool air of the motorhome rushed back in to fill the void, chilling the dampened skin of your chest and leaving a lingering tingle where his touch had been. You felt a sudden, sharp ache of emptiness, a hollow thrumming in your lower belly that pulsed in time with the fading heat.

The sudden lack of his weight made you feel adrift, the mahogany desk beneath you now feeling cold and indifferent, a stark contrast to the molten intensity of the last few minutes.

He didn't speak, but the way he looked at you—a mixture of sheer frustration and an intensity that felt almost predatory—said everything. He reached out, his thumb grazing your lower lip one last time, a lingering, ghost of a touch that sent a final, shimmering spark of electricity through your nerves.

With a sharp, decisive exhale, he stepped back, the distance between you now a vast, yawning chasm of anticipation.

The tension didn't dissipate; it simply transformed, shifting from an urgent fire into a slow-burning fuse, leaving you both shivering in the wake of a desire that refused to be extinguished.

"You're a cruel woman," he finally murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in the very air between you.

"I'm just following the protocol, Oscar," you countered, your voice still breathy, the words catching in your throat as you watched the muscle in his jaw tighten.

"The protocol is a lie," he spat, a small, dangerous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he began to backtrack toward the door, his eyes never leaving yours. "And tomorrow, when I cross that finish line, the first thing I'm doing is breaking every single rule we've ever made."

He stepped out of the motorhome, the door clicking shut with a finality that echoed through the silence, leaving you leaning against the mahogany desk, your skin still humming with the ghost of his touch and your body thrumming with a hunger that only the promise of tomorrow could sate. . . .