I kissed him anyway.
It was different from the tentative kisses in Monaco. This was certain, decisive, the kiss of two adults who’d decided to stop overthinking and start feeling. He tasted like the Spanish wine we’d shared at dinner and something that was purely Jonathan, familiar and new at the same time.
When we broke apart, I was breathless.
“Your hotel or mine?” he asked, voice rough with want.
“Mine,” I said without hesitation. “Yours probably has teammates in the next room.”
Jonathan laughed. “You’re learning the logistics of Formula 1 romance.”
“Is that what this is?”
He stood, offering me his hand. “Let’s find out.”
As we walked, I caught sight of my press badge reflected in a shop window, the lanyard tucked into my jacket like a secret. I thought of the press box, the careful neutrality I wore there like armor, and how easily it could crack.
I didn’t stop.
I’d been in many modest hotel rooms, but none had never felt smaller. Jonathan filled the space with his presence. The moment the door closed behind us, he was kissing me again, backing me against the wall with the kind of intensity that made rational thought impossible.
“I’ve been thinking about this since Monaco,” he said against my neck, his hands finding the hem of my shirt. “Since I saw you in the paddock, actually.”
“That’s very unprofessional of you,” I managed, even as I was pulling his shirt over his head.
“Extremely unprofessional,” he agreed, lifting me easily and carrying me the few steps to the narrow hotel bed.
Making love with Jonathan again was like remembering a language I’d once been fluent in but hadn’t spoken in years. What followed was fierce and overwhelming, ten years of hunger and hurt boiled down into desperate kisses and rough, clinging touches.
We moved together with the raw urgency of men who had waited far too long, yet beneath the frenzy was the familiar cadence of bodies that had once known every secret of each other’s pleasure. His mouth tasted like wine and memory, his skin slick with sweat as my hands mapped out the planes I used to know by heart.
Jonathan shoved me back onto the bed and stripped me with shaking hands, his mouth never leaving mine for long. When hefinally pulled back, his eyes were wild. “God, Waldo…I thought I’d forgotten. But I didn’t. Not one fucking thing.”
“Show me,” I whispered, already hard and aching.
He slid down and took me into his mouth in one long swallow that made me cry out. The shock of heat, the pull of his throat, it was exactly as I remembered, only hungrier, dirtier. I tangled my hands in his hair and bucked up, shameless. He gagged, then laughed against me, eyes glittering as he let me go with a wet pop.
“Still so easy to make you beg,” he teased, stroking me slick with his fist.
“Then stop teasing,” I gasped, yanking him up for another kiss.
Clothes scattered fast after that. His cock slapped heavy against my thigh, leaking already, and the sight alone made my stomach clench. I rolled him onto his back and slid down to return the favor, licking and sucking him until he was moaning, fists knotted in the sheets. The taste of him hit the back of my throat, bitter-salt and familiar, and the sound he made when I swallowed had my own cock throbbing against the mattress.
“Condoms,” he panted.
My hands shook as I tore one open, rolling it down over him, slicking him with lube. He kissed me hard, breathless, and then turned me under him, his body heavy and solid against mine.
“You sure?” he whispered, forehead pressed to mine.
“Ten years sure,” I said, and pushed back into him as he slid inside.
The stretch burned and thrilled all at once, my body clenching around him, dragging a guttural groan from his chest. He moved slowly at first, shallow thrusts that made me squirm and beg, until the rhythm took over, deep, hard, relentless, driving us both to the edge. The slap of skin, the creak of the bed,his teeth on my neck, it was raw and consuming, like reclaiming something we’d both lost and never thought we’d find again.
When I came, it was sudden and brutal, spurting between us with a cry that was half relief, half surrender. Jonathan followed me down seconds later, burying himself deep and shuddering hard, muffling his moans against my shoulder.
For a long moment we just clung there, sweaty and shaking, trying to breathe. Then he kissed me again, slow this time, reverent. “Never again,” he whispered. “I’m not losing you again.”
Afterward, we lay tangled together in the too-narrow bed, Barcelona’s distant traffic humming through the thin windows.
