“YOU LET ME WIN,” she shrieked into my neck.
I laughed, holding her tight, still dizzy from everything, my entire world feeling off-kilter. “You earned every fucking inch.”
“You could’ve fought harder.”
“Ididn’t want to.”
She kissed me. I kissed her harder. Then I growledfuck itagainst her lips and slipped my tongue into her mouth. The whole world screamed, but I didn’t stop.
After a moment, Auri pulled back and murmured, voice shaking with emotion, “I didn’t want it to end.”
“It’s not ending,” I murmured back. “It’s justchanging.”
We stood there in the floodlights, hearts pounding, surrounded by history, clinging to each other.
She won the final battle. I got everything I ever wanted.
Her. Us. Forever.
She sighed and lowered her legs until her feet touched the ground. Her hands threaded into my hair, tugging—that tug—and I groaned, drinking from her lips once more, drowning in the moment, the love, the history.
I pulled back just slightly, brushing my nose against hers, breathless still. She smiled so big my heart hurt.
“You did it,” she whispered.
I pressed my forehead against hers.
“We did it.”
Her fingers traced along my jaw, gentle, reverent, memorizing me like she knew this was the last time she’d see me like this—Callum Fraser, Formula 1 driver.
I swallowed, voice hoarse. “In this life.”
Her gaze softened. “And the next.”
The room wasquiet except for the rustling of fabric, the occasional click of a makeup compact snapping shut, and the distant hum of the city beyond our hotel suite.
I lay sprawled on the bed, my bowtie loose around my neck, the top buttons of my dress shirt undone. My jacket hung over the chair in the corner, forgotten, and my legs were crossed at the ankle as I scrolled through my phone, waiting.
Waiting for her.
“Can I admit something?” Auri called from the bathroom, her voice carrying over the soft music playing from her phone.
I smirked, locking my screen and resting my forearm against my stomach. “That depends. Am I about to be set up?”
She peeked out from behind the doorframe, lips curving. “You know your media crossover event with MotoGP?”
I tilted my head. “Yeah?”
She stepped fully into view, her weight propped against the doorframe. Her hair was wrapped in rollers, and she looked so domestic, so soft, so… ugh,wifey. “That’s my Roman Empire.”
I blinked. Then smirked. “Oh?”
My wife disappeared for a second before returning, phone in hand. “I have been thinking about you on a motorcycle ever since. But I haven’t stopped thinking about you for a long time.”
She tossed it onto the bed beside me, and I raised a brow before picking it up. My eyes flickered over the screen. I leaned closer, snatching it off the comforter to make sure I was seeing it right. Edits. Hundreds of them.
Not just from myactualmotorsport crossover, but thirst traps. Legendary edits. Montages of me over the years, set to filthy audio. Slow-motion shots of me adjusting my gloves, taking off my helmet, licking my lips before a post-race interview. Edits spanning my entire career. My interviews. My wins. My occasional tantrums.
