Sloane’s hips lifted instinctively, seeking friction and finding none. “Reese …”
Reese slid one hand down Sloane’s body, over the taut fabric of the tank top, across the soft swell of her breast, thumb circling a hard nipple through the cotton until Sloane gasped. Then she focused lower. Reese dipped her fingers beneath the waistband of Sloane’s pants, finding her soaked through her underwear.
“You’re so wet,” Reese whispered, voice reverent. She pressed the heel of her palm against Sloane’s clit, rubbing slow, firm circles over the damp fabric. Sloane’s thighs parted wider on a shaky exhale.
“I’m—fuck, I’m already so close,” Sloane admitted.
Reese’s eyes darkened with satisfaction. “Then let me finish what I started.”
She shoved Sloane’s pants and underwear down just far enough, not bothering to remove them completely. Two fingers slid through her slickness, gathering wetness, then pressed inside in one smooth glide. Sloane arched hard, a low moan tearing from her throat. Reese curled her fingers immediately, stroking that same perfect spot she knew so well, thumb finding Sloane’s clit and rubbing in tight, relentless circles.
It didn’t take long.
Sloane’s hands flew to Reese’s shoulders, nails digging in. Her hips rocked up to meet every thrust, breaths coming in sharp, desperate pants. “Reese—right there—don’t stop?—”
Reese leaned down, capturing Sloane’s mouth in a kiss as she drove her fingers harder, faster. Sloane broke—body locking tight, a choked cry muffled against Reese’s lips as she came hard, walls fluttering and clenching around Reese’s fingers.
Reese kept the pressure present through the aftershocks, drawing it out until Sloane went limp beneath her, chest heaving.
When Sloane finally opened her eyes, they were glassy, soft. She reached up, cupping Reese’s face with trembling fingers.
“You’re … unfairly good at that,” she managed, a breathless laugh escaping.
Reese grinned, pressing a final, lazy kiss to Sloane’s swollen lips. “Only with you.”
They stayed tangled like that, sated with heartbeats slowing, until the demands of the world outside the room started to creep back in. But for now, it could wait.
By midmorning the next day, Reese had learned the exact weight of a Laurens team polo.
It wasn’t heavy in the hands, but it carried expectation. Or the idea of it. She tugged it straight as she stepped into the fan zone, smile already in place, as the cheers hit. She waved, she high-fived. This was all a part of it.
“Reese! Over here!”
“Can you take a photo with my daughter? She loves you!”
She signed caps, cards, and even the occasional forearm thrust eagerly over the barrier. Phones everywhere. Parents nudging kids forward. She crouched to eye level, answered questions about how hot the car got, simulator hours, and what it felt like to stand in the F1 paddock wearingthatlogo. She gave them the version of herself that they wanted, even if it zapped every ounce of her energy.
Because it was her full-time job now.
After that, a PR rep peeled her away for a quick media hit. Two questions. Three minutes.
“How does it feel being part of the Laurens race weekend?”
“Incredible,” Reese said without hesitation. She tacked on a big smile. “I’m learning constantly. Watching the data, listening in on strategy meetings. Um, it’s everything you want at this level.”
“And any chance we see you in the car today?”
The question landed lightly. Carelessly, even.
Reese smiled anyway. “Not today. But I’m ready when my number’s called.”
The answer was clean and professional, because she’d practiced it.
The pit walk came next. She moved with purpose through a corridor of noise with her headset on. Mechanics nodded. Engineers barely glanced up. She belonged there enough not to be questioned, but not enough to draw focus. And that was okay.
She stopped at the garage threshold, her gaze drawn to the car. She ignored the pit in her stomach, knowing it was still out of her reach. The ache of not knowing the next time she’d race was starting to gnaw at her. This was the order of things, though, and no amount of longing would take away the gratitude. Still … the ache persisted.
Someday.She told herself that as she watched the final checks, the choreography of a team preparing for battle without her. Four months ago, this would have felt impossible, so she could suck it up.
