Her stomach flipped—half nausea, half longing. The words landed like a match struck in dry grass. One race from the championship. One clean drive. She could see the headlines already:MOREAU DISTRACTED BY EX-FLAME ON EVE OF TITLE DECIDER. She could feel the weight of it crushing him, crushing them both.
“Lucas…” Her voice cracked. “You’re so close. One race from the championship. You don’t need distraction. You don’t need complication.”
Her heart was racing so fast she felt dizzy. Part of her—the part that still remembered Oxford, the part that had learned control was the only shield—screamed to walk away. To protect herself. To protect him. To keep the story clean, contained, safe.
But another part—the part that had ached for him every night in Amberley, the part that still woke up reaching for him—whispered: Just once. Just tonight. Let yourself feel somethingagain.
“It doesn’t have to be complicated.” His voice was low, earnest, vibrating against her back. “Just us. No pressure. No expectations. Just tonight.”
She closed her eyes. Her breath came in shallow bursts. She could feel the heat of him through her clothes, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumbs traced tiny, unconscious circles on her hips. Safe. Dangerous. Both.
Her mind raced—headlines, optics, the championship one race away—but his hand in hers felt like the only steady thing left. She had spent so long protecting her own narrative, keeping distance to stay whole. Tonight, though, the ache was louder than caution. She wanted to feel him again, even if only for a few hours. Even if tomorrow meant rebuilding walls.
She turned in his arms.
He looked down at her—pleading, open, the same eyes she’d fallen for years ago. The same eyes that had once looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Her hands came up to rest on his chest—feeling the rapid thud of his heart mirroring hers. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie. She should say no. She should step back. She should remember every reason she’d left in the first place.
But the ache in her chest was louder than reason.
She rose on her toes and kissed him—soft at first, tentative, testing. His lips parted on a quiet exhale; his hands tightened on her waist like he was afraid she’d vanish. The kiss deepened slowly, then all at once—months of distance collapsing in the space between them, tongues brushing, breaths mingling, a soft sound escaping her throat as his fingers slid into her hair.
When they broke apart, foreheads pressed together, she was trembling—legs unsteady, skin flushed, pulse roaring in her ears.
She searched his face—open, vulnerable, waiting.
She nodded—small, certain, terrified.
He took her hand—gentle, reverent—and led her back through the quiet corridors to his room.
The door closed behind them.
Outside, Vegas glittered on.
Inside, for the first time in too long, everything felt possible again.
And terrifyingly, heartbreakingly real.
???
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Mia
The door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the neon hum of Vegas. The room was dim—only the low glow of the bedside lamps and the city lights filtering through half-drawn curtains. Lucas didn’t rush. He let go of her hand and stepped back just enough to look at her, really look, as if memorising the way she stood there in the quiet.
Mia felt the air shift between them, thick with the time spent apart. She reached up first, fingers brushing the zipper of his hoodie, sliding it down slowly. The fabric parted with a soft rasp. Underneath, just a plain black T-shirt stretched across his chest, still carrying the faint scent of champagne and adrenaline from the podium. She pressed her palm flat over his heart—steady, strong, racing just a little faster than hers.
He caught her wrist gently, brought her hand to his lips, kissed the inside of her palm. Then her knuckles. Then the pulse point at her wrist. Each kiss deliberate, unhurried. “I’ve thought about this,” he murmured against her skin. “Every version of this. But never like it could actually happen again.”
She stepped closer, closing the last distance.
His hands found her waist, thumbs tracing slow circles over the thin fabric of her blouse. He didn’t pull her in—he waited until she rose on her toes and kissed him. Soft at first, exploratory, like rediscovering a language they used to speak fluently. Then deeper. Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugginglightly; his arms tightened, drawing her flush against him.
They moved toward the bed without breaking apart, a slow dance of steps and touches. He sat on the edge, pulled her between his knees. She stood there while he worked the buttons of her blouse, one by one, eyes never leaving hers. When the fabric fell open, he leaned forward, pressed open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin of her stomach, tracing the delicate line just below her ribs, then higher to the underside of her breasts. She shivered, hands gripping his shoulders, fingers tightening as his mouth moved with deliberate care.
“Still so sensitive here,” he whispered, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
