He exhaled harshly, dragged a hand through his hair, then turned and left without another word. The door closed softly behind him.
Mia stood there, alone in the quiet room, body screaming with frustration and shame. Her nipples ached from his mouth, still tight and sensitive against the fabric of her dress. Her core throbbed—wet, swollen, aching from where his fingers had almost, almost pushed her over the edge. She pressed her thighstogether, trying to ease the relentless pulse, but it only made it worse, sent another fresh wave of heat rolling through her.
She had let him touch her like that.
He was in a relationship.
And she’d wanted more—still wanted more—wanted his mouth back on her, his fingers deeper, his body inside hers until the ache finally broke.
She grabbed her bag with shaking hands and slipped out the back exit into the Monaco night, the distant roar of celebration mocking her as it faded behind her, leaving only the echo of his mouth on her skin and the bitter taste of what she couldn’t have.
???
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mia
Weeks blurred into circuits and debriefs after Monaco. Lucas’s podium high carried him through Miami (P8 after a late safety car shuffle) and Montreal (a gritty P6, defending hard against two faster cars in the closing laps). Solid results—points most weekends, most importantly no disasters. The car was reliable, the team cohesive, and he drove with quiet precision that started to feel like his default. Mia told herself she was just doing her job when she watched him climb out after every session: noting his posture for media prep, gauging his mood for quotes. But the truth sat heavier. She was looking for something in his eyes—a flicker of the heat from that night—and hating herself for hoping to find it.
She always looked away first.
* * *
He cornered her in the Silverstone paddock, a rare quiet moment between practice runs. British summer rain drummed on the hospitality roof, muffling the world outside. She was heading for the comms office when he stepped into her path, blocking the corridor with his broad shoulders.
“Mia,” he said, voice low enough to feel private even here. “We need to talk.”
Her heart kicked hard. She forced a neutral smile—the one she’d perfected over months of keeping things professional. “About what? Post-qualifying quotes? I’ve got them ready—”
“You know what.” He stepped closer; she caught the faint cedar of his shampoo mixed with rain-damp team kit. “Monaco. Thatwasn’t nothing.”
Heat climbed her neck, sudden and traitorous. She met his gaze steadily, refusing to let him see how often she still replayed it—his mouth on hers, his hands pushing her dress up, the way her body had arched and begged. “We were celebrating. Champagne was flowing. We were… caught up.”
“I wasn’t drunk.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “One glass. Maybe two. I knew exactly what I was doing. What we were doing.”
She swallowed, eyes flicking to the rain-streaked window. “Doesn’t matter. You have a girlfriend, Lucas. Sienna. Remember her?”
The words landed sharp, like a sudden brake test—locking everything up in an instant. She hated how small they made her feel, how they dragged her back to Oxford, to being the girl who was the problem.
He rubbed the back of his neck, frustration etching lines around his eyes. “It’s complicated. We’re… I don’t know. But Mia, that wasn’t just—”
“It was a mistake.” She cut him off, voice firm but trembling at the edges. “We’re colleagues. Friends, maybe. But that’s it. Let’s keep it that way.”
He searched her face, something raw flickering in his eyes. She felt it like an ache—wanted to reach out, smooth it away—but she stepped past him instead, shoulder brushing his arm, the brief contact sending a fresh jolt through her.
“Mia—”
“Focus on the race,” she said over her shoulder, disappearing into the office before he could say anything else.
* * *
The mid-season break came like a forced exhale—four weeks off after Hungary, the car upgrades promising more pace for the second half.
She boarded the flight home to New Zealand with relief and exhaustion warring in her chest. Winter gripped the South Island: crisp air, frosted fields, the Southern Alps dusted in snow.Amberley felt like a balm—her parents’ cozy kitchen, endless cups of tea by the fire, walks along the beach where the wind whipped the waves into froth. No engines. No cameras. No Lucas.
One evening she curled up on the couch, scrolling idly through her phone. A headline popped up in her F1 news feed: “LUCAS MOREAU AND SIENNA VALE CALL IT QUITS: ‘AMICABLE SPLIT’ AFTER WHIRLWIND ROMANCE.”
Her heart stuttered. The article was light—mutual decision, busy schedules, still friends. Photos of them in the Alps, then that Monaco podium kiss. Mia stared at it, a confusing swirl rising: relief that tasted like guilt, hope she didn’t want to name, fear that if she let herself feel it, she’d shatter all over again.
