Lucas
The bass throbbed through the walls of the club like a second heartbeat, relentless and heavy, the kind of sound that sank into your bones whether you wanted it to or not. Strobe lights sliced across the packed dance floor below, catching sweat-slicked skin and sequins in sharp, fleeting bursts. Up here in the VIP booth—tucked high above the chaos on a raised platform edged with velvet ropes and low black leather sofas—the noise was slightly muffled, but it still pressed in, vibrating the ice in Lucas's glass.
He leaned back against the cool leather, one arm draped along the back of the booth, the other loosely holding a half-empty tumbler of something dark and expensive. The short blondecurrently draped across his lap was all soft curves and eager hands, her dress riding high on her thighs as she shifted closer, lips brushing his ear in what she probably thought was a seductive whisper. Her perfume was sweet, cloying—vanilla and something floral that didn't quite mask the faint trace of cigarette smoke clinging to her hair.
Jax, his team mate, had left maybe twenty minutes earlier, one Eastern European beauty on each arm, both of them giggling and pressing against him like they were auditioning for something more permanent. Lucas could still picture the wink Jax had thrown over his shoulder as he disappeared down the stairs.
"If I don't show up for work Monday morning," Jax had called back, grin wide and unrepentant, "don't come looking for me. I'll be somewhere warmer."
Lucas had laughed then—short, automatic. Now the booth felt too empty without his teammate's easy chaos filling it.
The blonde—Sophie? Saffron? He hadn't caught her name over the music—ground down against him slowly, deliberately, her fingers tracing the buttons of his shirt. She was trying hard. Really hard. And under normal circumstances, he'd have appreciated the effort. Let her take the lead. Let the night blur into something simple and physical that required no thought.
But tonight his body wasn't cooperating the way it usually did.
His mind kept dragging him back to the media suite earlier that day. The cameras. The questions that had felt like traps. The way his answers had landed flat, clipped, defensive. He had seen the shift in the journalists' faces—the subtle cooling, the mental notes being made for tomorrow's headlines. He could already picture the articles. The pressure wasn't new—he'd carried it since he was old enough to understand what "Moreau" meant—but tonight it sat heavier. Formula 1 wasn't a playground anymore. He'd finally made it here, earned the seat, and the last thing he needed was to blow it by comingacross like the entitled prick half the paddock already thought he was.
He tried to focus on the girl. Forced his hand to her hip, fingers digging in just enough to pull her closer. She moaned softly against his neck, pleased, mistaking the movement for enthusiasm. Her tongue flicked out, tracing the line of his jaw.
Nothing.
No spark. No rush of heat. Just the dull, mechanical throb of arousal that refused to catch fire.
Then—uninvited—another image cut through: the girl from earlier. Coffee-drenched blouse moulded to her skin, the thin material outlining every curve, those dark, tight peaks pressing defiantly through the damp fabric. The way her eyes had flashed with real anger when she'd called him an ass. Not performative. Not calculated. Just raw.
His cock twitched sharply at the memory, thickening against the seam of his jeans in a sudden, inconvenient surge. The blonde felt it immediately—her hips rocked forward in triumph, a smug little laugh escaping her.
"There he is," she purred, voice low and pleased. "Knew you'd warm up."
She slid a hand down his chest, lower, palming him through the denim. Lucas exhaled through his teeth, the pressure good but wrong. Not enough. Not right.
She didn't wait for permission. Her fingers found his zipper, tugging it down with practiced ease. Cool air hit heated skin as she freed him, his erection springing thick and heavy into her hand. She stroked once, slow and firm, then sank to her knees between his spread thighs, the booth's low table shielding them from most of the room.
The music pounded on. Lights flashed. No one was looking.
She leaned in, lips parting, tongue flicking out to taste the bead of pre-cum already glistening at the tip.
For a second, Lucas let it happen. Closed his eyes. Told himself this was what he needed—distraction, release, the easy win.
But the moment her mouth closed around him—warm, wet, eager—his mind betrayed him again.
Not her.
The coffee girl. He didn't even know her name, but the face was burned in. The fire in her eyes. The way she'd stood there soaked and furious and somehow more alive than anyone in that sterile headquarters corridor. The way she'd looked at him like she saw straight through the polished exterior to the defensive kid underneath.
His hips jerked involuntarily, thrusting shallowly into the blonde's mouth. She hummed in approval, taking him deeper, thinking it was all for her.
But it wasn't.
The guilt hit next—sharp, unwelcome. The memory of the press room. How he had snapped at the last question. How he had walked out without smoothing it over. How he had left the room thinking he had handled it fine, only to realize later he'd looked exactly like the arrogant heir everyone expected.
His erection faltered. The heat receded as fast as it had come.
"Stop," he said, voice rougher than he intended.
She pulled away, blinking up at him in confusion, lips shiny and swollen. "What? Did I—"
"It's not you." He zipped himself back up with quick, jerky movements, the denim suddenly too tight and too constricting. "Just... not tonight."
