“Good,” I said. “I’m a lot to put up with.”
“Not to me,” he said. He was still flushed from the win, hair damp, shirt clinging to his chest, eyes brighter than I’d ever seen them. God, he was beautiful. Mine, at least for tonight.
“You were brilliant,” I said. My throat caught on the words.
“Good enough to make my father proud,” he answered, though there was something sad under his smile.
I kissed him before either of us could ruin it with talk. His mouth tasted of beer and sweat, his tongue demanding against mine. He pressed me back into the mattress, his thigh sliding between mine, grinding until I was hard and aching.
I shoved his shirt open and ran my hands over his chest, still slick with the heat of the night. He groaned into my mouth, fumbling with my jeans, and suddenly his hand was wrapped around me, stroking with a sure rhythm that had me gasping into his shoulder. I clutched at him, desperate, pulling his belt loose until I could get my hand on his cock. Thick, hot, pulsing in my palm.
I dropped to my knees and took him deep into my mouth. His taste hit me immediately, sharp and salty, his hips jerking as I swallowed him down. His fingers tangled in my hair, not pushing, just holding on, moaning my name like he was afraid it might be the last time.
He tugged me up after a minute, kissing me hard, his taste still on my tongue. Then he shoved me back against the headboard, dropped to his knees, and returned the favor. The heat of his mouth around my cock made me see stars. He sucked me deep, humming low in his throat, his tongue flicking the head in just the way that made my legs shake.
“Fuck, Jonathan, don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He worked me until I spilled down his throat with a shout, and he swallowed me like he wanted every drop. My whole body trembled as he stood and kissed me again, messy and hot, and then I had him in my hand, stroking him hard and fast. His forehead dropped to mine, sweat dripping between us as he groaned into my mouth.
He came with a shudder, pulsing over my fist, his whole body going rigid before he slumped against me, panting. I licked my hand clean while he watched, eyes dark and hungry even in the aftermath.
We collapsed onto the bed together, tangled and sticky. He brushed my cheek with his fingers, smiling that small, private smile that undid me every time.
“Victory fades fast,” he murmured. “But you, this, I’ll keep with me.”
I kissed the inside of his wrist, his pulse racing against my lips. “Then win again. So we’ll have another night.”
Somewhere between one breath and the next, he slipped under. I lay awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling’s blank geometry and letting hope be uncomplicated. He’d won on his own terms. We’d found a door back to each other while it was still warm.
New pressure waited with the morning. The grind of expectation, the eyes that come when you finally look like what they want you to be. But we’d named a thing and left it between us where we could reach it. Not a solution. A handle.
I closed my eyes and let his breathing count us both down.
When sleep took me, it felt like the right kind, a checkered flag that wasn’t an ending, just a line you cross together before the next lap begins.
30
KEMMEL STRAIGHT
Thea was determinedto keep me busy and out of trouble, so she assigned me an article about the aftermath of a race. I stayed in Budapest after the F1 circus left, staying in a budget hotel, interviewing locals and writing in a co-working space. I flew to Brussels on Thursday morning and drove to the circuit in a rented Peugeot.
Spa-Francorchamps had a way of stripping things down to fundamentals. Power. Commitment. Fear. The Ardennes forest didn’t care about momentum or narratives or last week’s win, it cared about whether your car could survive the Kemmel Straight without being humiliated.
We kept our distance in public, professional nods across the media room, nothing that cameras could mistake for familiarity, but later, in the quiet of Meridian hospitality, he didn’t bother pretending.
It wasn’t until early evening, long after the interviews were over and most journalists had drifted back to their hotels, that my phone buzzed.
JONATHAN:Second floor. Driver room. No cameras.
I screenshot the message and forwarded it to Thea:Disclosure - Spa Monday 6:47 PM. Meeting J. Hirsch in team hospitality. Will provide details in morning report.
Her response came back immediately:Received. Keep it appropriate.
The Meridian hospitality unit wasn’t a motorhome at all, but a temporary two-story building the team assembled at every Grand Prix, glass panels, metal staircases and modular rooms that unfolded from trucks into something resembling a sleek portable headquarters.
By the time I got there, the sun was sinking behind the fir trees lining the circuit, turning the paddock gold. Air hung heavy with the scent of hot brakes cooling in the garages and damp pine from the Ardennes forest.
I scanned my media pass; the security guard nodded me through. Inside, the hospitality area was mostly stripped down, catering staff clearing coffee cups, a few engineers murmuring over laptops. I climbed a narrow set of metal stairs to the upper level where the driver rooms were.
