“You too,” she whispered.
He tugged his hoodie off, then the tee underneath—bare chest, scar glinting in the low lamp light. Then, without breaking eye contact, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats. He eased them down slowly—just enough to free himself. Thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. The sight made her mouth go dry and her core clench. He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking once, long and firm, a low groan escaping as he did.
“Show me how you like to be touched,” he said, voice rough but earnest. “I want to know what feels good for you. What makes you lose it.”
The request hit her like a spark—raw, vulnerable, intimate in a way that made her chest ache. No one had ever asked her that. Not like this. Not with eyes that looked like they were memorizing her.
She slid her hand under the waistband of her shorts, fingers finding slick heat. She gasped softly at the first circle over her clit—slow, teasing, the way she always did when she was alone and trying not to think of him. But tonight she wasn’t alone, and the thought made her thighs tremble.
Her other hand drifted up, slipping beneath the bralette to cup one breast. She clasped it gently, the warmth of her palm grounding her, then let her thumb brush once across the nipple—light, almost accidental. The small jolt of sensation made her hips lift off the bed, a soft whimper escaping before she could stop it.
Lucas watched, transfixed, eyes locked on her movements, hisown hand moving in steady, deliberate strokes. “Like that?” he asked, voice low, almost reverent. “Slow circles… or do you need more pressure?”
She bit her lip, thumb pressing harder against her clit as her finger curled deeper inside. “More… like this.”
His hand picked up speed. “Fuck. Keep going. Show me everything.”
She slid lower, easing another finger in—curling just right, hips rocking to meet the rhythm. The stretch burned sweetly; the sight of him stroking himself, eyes fixed on her every move, sent heat coiling tighter in her belly. Her free hand stayed at her breast, palm kneading the soft weight, thumb flicking the nipple—once, twice—each spark arrowing straight down.
“Lucas…” His name slipped out, fractured.
“Look at me,” he rasped. “Eyes on me.”
She lifted her gaze, locking in. The raw hunger in his stare—him working himself in time with her movements—sharpened every sensation. Exposed. Devoured. Craved. She wanted to shrink away and spread wider all at once.
“Faster,” he growled. “I want to see you come apart.”
Breaths fractured, hips lifting off the sheets. She pinched her nipple lightly, deliberately, while her fingers plunged deeper, thumb grinding desperate circles over her clit. “I’m close—God—”
“Come for me,” he ordered, voice tight, hand a blur now. “Let me watch you shatter. Say my name when you do.”
The words snapped something inside her. She clenched hard around her fingers, back bowing, a ragged moan ripping free—“Lucas—fuck—” as the orgasm surged through her in fierce, shuddering pulses. Thighs trembling, vision spotting white, she rode the waves, fingers still moving through the aftershocks, drawing every last tremor from her body until her free hand finally fell away from her breast, oversensitive and spent.
He followed seconds later—groaning low, hips jerking as he spilled over his fist, eyes never leaving her face. “Mia… shit…”
They stilled, chests heaving, the room thick with the scent of sex and cooled pizza and shared release.
Mia laughed—shaky, breathless, a little disbelieving. “We didn’t… touch.”
“Nope.” He wiped his hand on a napkin, grinning crookedly. “Just friends. Helping each other out.”
She pulled the blanket over her legs, cheeks flushed, body still humming. “This can’t become a habit.”
He leaned back, still catching his breath. “Sure. Totally not.”
They sat in easy silence, the tension eased—for tonight. The line was still there, thin and trembling, but they’d danced right along it.
And neither wanted to step back just yet.
???
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lucas
The season surged forward like a well-tuned engine, Lucas finding his groove in ways that turned heads across the paddock. Monaco delivered a nail-biting P2—overtaking in the tunnel, holding off a late charge from the Mercedes. Canada followed with a gritty P3 in the rain, his wet-weather skills shining through the spray. Austria was another P2, the Red Bull Ring’s elevation playing to the car’s strengths, and he nipped at the heels of the leader all weekend. By mid-season, he sat comfortably third in the drivers’ standings, only a handful of points behind the championship favourites. The press dubbed it “MOREAU’S MARCH”—the Englishman who’d transformed from privileged rookie to genuine contender.
But Silverstone loomed as the emotional pinnacle. Home soil, the circuit where he’d grown up dreaming of glory. Practice sessions were electric: P1 in FP2, the crowd buzzing in the stands. Qualifying saw him snatch P2 in a tense Q3, the Union Jacks waving furiously. Race day brought classic British weather—damp track drying under patchy sun, forcing split strategies and bold calls.
