I swallow audibly.
What the fuck am I doing?
Seriously, what the actual fuck?
‘Um…’ he says, still not breaking eye contact.
I cannot pursue this. I shouldn’t even want to. A week ago I was crying my eyes out over Jackson and now I’m lusting over my race engineer? What the hell’s wrong with me?
He shifts in his seat as though he needs to adjust himself. My eyes flick down to his sweatpants. They’re pretty loose, but I’m sure I see the telltale signs of a growing erection.
Fuck.
I know I have to put a stop to this before we’re both too hard and horny to do anything but make a massive mistake. Because it would be a mistake. Sure, it was a problem to be fucking the future principal of a rival team, but at least I don’t have to see him every single day or hear his voice in my ear while I make split-second decisions that could deliver me everlasting glory, or a painful death in a blistering fireball.
I tear my gaze away– with considerable effort– and leap up from the barstool. I start clearing away plates and dishes, clattering crockery and clinking cutlery so there’s no need to make conversation. I load the dishwasher and put the leftovers into plastic, food-storage containers and stack them in the fridge– all without looking at Caleb once.
I’m a coward, but it’s for the best.
By the time I’m wiping down the counter, I feel ready to look up, but Caleb has gone.
* * *
We settle into an uneasy routine after that. We put in long days at the factory, attending different meetings and studiously ignoring each other. I spend a lot of time with Nils, recording different soundbites and clips, working in the stimulators, and doing strength training. I try not to notice what Caleb does.
But every evening we meet in the foyer and drive home together, then I cook dinner whilst he works on his thesis.
The second night, I feed him pork schnitzel using my mum’s best recipe and the way he devours it has me hard for the rest of the evening. He clears up and sorts the dishes, like it’s the least he can do to show his appreciation. Little does he know that the visual of him wolfing down the meal I cooked him– and licking his lips afterwards– is worth more to me than any effort to pull his weight with the chores. Or that I masturbate to the memory of it when I am alone in my room later that night.
On night three, I whip up the freshest of pasta salads using my favourite cold-cut meats and homemade pesto. I send a silent thank-you to my housekeeper for keeping my basil plant alive. And as I crush the garlic and herbs in a pestle and mortar, I try not to think of what I want to do to Caleb, or how I want to see that blush creep down his back, his thighs or his cock. I’m breathless when I finish grinding the pesto and my eyeballs are burning in their sockets from trying not to imagine Caleb’s ears turning pink if I were to suck him off right here in the kitchen. While we eat, we talk about our families, life on the road, our goals and ambitions. Sometimes we laugh and joke, and sometimes it’s more serious, but always, always, there is an unspoken undercurrent of desire that no amount of self-discipline can erase.
By nights four and five– homemade pizza and then enchiladas– I’m a churning mess of desperate craving and the need to prevent myself making another mistake that could cost me even more. I don’t seem to be able to appreciate him without also wanting him the way I used to when he first started working with me. I tell myself that three years of being kept dangling by Jackson has twisted my sense of how fucking hot it is to do something dangerous and stupid, but I was doing dangerous and stupid things long before I met him. Caleb isn’t dangerous or stupid. He fits in my home like it’s always been his, too, and I enjoy seeing him working away in the cinema room, or closing his eyes when he gets a particularly good bite of food that I made him.
It feels natural to have him here. I like having him here. His presence fills me up in a way Jackson’s never did because I was always chasing more with him and he was always holding back. Caleb doesn’t hold back.
Tonight is our last night before we fly out to Belgium and our cosy flat-share is no more. I’m really going to miss it. I’m going to misshim.
He is brilliant. Watching him work hurts my brain, but he’s so smart. One night I asked him to tell me about his thesis and wow.Wow.The way he understands the aerodynamics of the car is insane. He’s wasted being stuck at the pit wall. But I also see, day-to-day in the factory, how much he has to offer to this team. I thought at first that he was shy and quiet, but he’s quick to offer his opinion when needed and he confronts problems head-on. I see how much respect he’s earned from the experienced guys on the team, how they listen when he speaks because he doesn’t fill the air with unnecessary chatter. It’s impressive.
It only makes him more attractive to me when it really, really shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be daydreaming in a strategy meeting about the braised-rib tagliatelle I’m going to make him tonight. How I’m going to spend precious time rolling out my own pasta like I’m applying to be onMasterChef, even though I have the ready-made stuff in my pantry. Maybe I’m hoping he’ll let me teach him. I could wrap my arms around him and show him how to knead the dough, then together we could gently feed it into the machine and hang it to dry on the special stand.
The fantasy turns dirty in my mind as I imagine pressing myself against his back and kissing his neck. I conjure up an image of his little, pink-tipped ears as he feels the hard length of my cock nudging his ass cheeks. Perhaps he turns around and we?—
‘Johannes?’
I’m brought suddenly back down to earth as the meeting we’re in seems to have wrapped up and everyone is standing to go.
Shit. This has got to stop.
I hope I didn’t miss anything crucial.
‘Yeah, thanks, see you tomorrow,’ I say, standing up and acknowledging the voice that broke through my sexy little daydream. I carry my file of papers in front of me to hide the evidence of my arousal as we all file out of the room. It’s been a long week and the team has been working harder than ever to make the second half of the season even better. We’re getting an impressive package of upgrades to set us apart from the Hendersohm team. We won’t win the constructor’s championship this year, but I need every millimetre and millisecond to keep myself in contention for the driver’s championship.
When we get back to my apartment, Caleb puts down his things and cracks his neck side to side, before rolling out hisshoulders.
‘What a week. I’m exhausted.’
‘Me, too,’ I say, watching his shoulders flex and roll.
