Rafael leans back as well, and his uninjured arm brushes against Julien’s. Warmth radiates off of the hard muscle and sinks under Julien’s skin. It’s a strange intimacy to share with a star of the sport. Makes him appear almost human.
“It’s inconvenient too,” Rafael continues. “Hate that I can’t race, of course, but there’s a lot of other shit I need two hands for. Zippers, laces, everything needs two fucking hands.”
“Are you left-handed at least?”
“No!”Rafael lifts his uninjured hand, shaking it with frustration. Julien misses the warmth of it. “How can there be such a big difference? Even brushing my teeth is ten times harder now.”
“But you can still jerk off, right?”
Oops. That’s probably not an appropriate thing to ask a coworker. Julien should really learn to think before he speaks—especially if he’s going to be in front of cameras for six races.
Luckily, Rafael laughs, but he grimaces as he grasps his shoulder, bracing it. “Honestly, I’ve had more important things to deal with. I haven’t even tried yet.”
“Well, let me know.”
Let me know?!What the fuck would Julien do about it? He’s not here to give handjobs to injured drivers—he’s here torace.
Rafael doesn’t reply, so there’s a sliver of hope he didn’t hear him. Maybe they can go back to talking shit about Julien’s driving and save everyone the embarrassment.
Julien peeks at the Brazilian, only to meet his intense stare. It’s more intimidating in person than on the billboard-sized posters. His signature dark eyes are darker now—tinted with something secretive, something alluring. He seems to be studying Julien, maybe judging how serious the suggestion was.
It wasn’t an actual offer, but hey, it could be.
Rafael is by far the most attractive driver on the grid. His thick eyelashes, plump lips, and strong jawline make heads turn even before he jumps into the car and destroys everyone on track.
Julien would do it just for the story.I touched Rafael’s cock until he came.Who wouldn’t be impressed?
But it doesn’t matter. Julien is just projecting. He isn’t anything to Rafael but his replacement. His seat warmer. His teammate’s stupid, unsuccessful little brother.
Julien swallows his disappointment, and Rafael’s eyes dart down, tracking the movement before slowly creeping back up.
Huh.
Or maybe?—
“Julien?”Thomas knocks on the door, but only after he’s already halfway inside. “Marketing wants us to—oh!” After a long, strange look at the Brazilian driver, Thomas smiles and switches to English. “Hello Rafael, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“How is your—?” Thomas points to his own collarbone instead of finishing his sentence.
“It’s fine.” Despite his teammate’s bubbly tone, Rafael sounds curt, almost dismissive. “It’s all fine.”
“I sent you a text when I found out. I do not know if you received it?”
“I got a bunch of texts. Didn’t answer anyone.”
“Well, I am sorry to hear about—” Again with the gesturing. If Thomas was going to act all weird and concerned, he should’ve at least looked up the English word for collarbone. “If there is anything—anything at all—that you need. I am here.”
Yeah, this is already fucking annoying. A whole day of it is probably insufferable.
Julien stands, sliding in between his fawning brother and Rafael. “You said Marketing is looking for us? We should probably head out.”
Thomas finally raises his eyes from the injured driver and blinks. “Ouais. They want to film some videos before the weekend starts.”
“Yeah, okay.” Julien checks his pockets, but he never took anything out of them. His hands are still sticky. Gross. “You really shouldn’t barge into the room. I could’ve been changing.”
He tries to crowd his brother back out the door, but Thomas stands his ground. “There is no part of you I have not seen.”
