A long beat passed. Then, quieter:
“You know… the first time I saw you—when you crashed into me and dumped half a coffee down your front,—you were the sexiest woman I’d ever laid eyes on. Sharp. Pissed off. Unbreakable. Not broken. Never broken.”
She huffed a small laugh, eyes stinging. “You thought I was sexy while I was covered in coffee?”
“Completely.” He leaned in, kissed the corner of her mouth. “Still do.”
She curled back into his chest, listening to the steady thump under her ear. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer. The sunlight kept moving across the bed; the room stayed quiet except for their breathing, slowing together.
???
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mia
The air between them felt different now — lighter, but more solid at the same time. The words they’d shared hadn’t disappeared; they’d simply settled into something softer, warmer, like a hand resting over a bruise that no longer hurt quite as much. She felt the shift in her chest: the ache of old shame easing into something steadier, safer, held by him. They were closer than they’d been before — not just bodies, but something quieter, deeper. From that place the days unfolded, easy and unhurried.
Afternoons by the infinity pool—him pinning her against the edge, water lapping at their bodies while he moved deep and steady until she came trembling against his chest, biting his shoulder to muffle her cries. But afterward they’d float together, her back to his front, his arms around her waist, her head on his shoulder.
He told her about the first time he drove a real F1 car—Monza, seventeen, shaking so hard he could barely grip the wheel. “Dad was in the garage. Didn’t say a word when I came in. Just handed me a water bottle and said, ‘You looked like your grandfather out there.’ First time he ever said it without sounding like a challenge.”
She turned in his arms, water rippling around them. “And what did you feel?”
“Proud,” he said quietly. “And terrified I’d never be that good again.”
She kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re better.”
* **
Evenings on the terrace blurred into fire—wine left untouched as he drew her against the railing, bodies aligning under the vast, star-strewn sky. He moved behind her, deep and unhurried, every slow roll of his hips pulling soft, helpless sounds from her throat that the warm sea breeze carried away. The night air kissed her flushed skin while he held her steady, one hand splayed low on her stomach, the other tangled in her hair, tipping her head back so he could kiss the curve of her throat as she came apart beneath the stars—shuddering, gasping his name into the darkness.
Afterward they stayed like that for long minutes—his chest pressed to her back, arms wrapped around her, both of them breathing hard, hearts hammering in tandem. He didn’t pull away immediately. Instead he eased out slowly, turned her in his arms, and kissed her—deep, lingering, tasting the salt of sweat and sea air on her lips.
They sank onto the outdoor sofa, still naked, skin warm against the cooling night. He pulled a soft blanket over them; she curled into his side, head on his chest, one leg draped over his. His fingers traced idle patterns along her spine—slow, soothing circles that made her hum contentedly.
For a while they just existed—listening to the distant waves, the cicadas, the occasional rustle of palm fronds. No words. Just the quiet rhythm of breathing, slowing together.
Eventually she tilted her head, resting her chin on his sternum so she could look up at him.
“Do you ever get scared?” she asked softly. “Not of crashing. Of… not being enough. For the team. For your dad. For the name you carry.”
His hand stilled on her back. He looked down at her, eyes dark and unguarded in the low light.
“All the time,” he admitted, voice low. “Every time I sit in the car, there’s this voice in my head—Dad’s, mostly. ‘Don’t disgrace the name.’ ‘Finish what my father started.’ I was the only one who ever showed promise. My brothers tried karting for a season or two—Tom hated it, James was decent but bored. Theattention shifted to me almost overnight. Coaches, sponsors, journalists. Suddenly I wasn’t just Lucas. I was the Moreau heir. The one who had to prove the bloodline still had fire.”
He exhaled slowly, fingers resuming their gentle path along her spine.
“Some nights I lie awake wondering if I’m racing for me or for a ghost. And if I fail—if I never win the title—whether that means I’ve let everyone down. Including you.”
She shifted, propping herself on one elbow so she could see his face fully.
“You haven’t let me down,” she said quietly. “Not once. And you’re not racing for a ghost. You’re racing for the kid who loved the wheel before anyone told him what it meant. That kid’s still in there.”
He reached up, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, thumb lingering on her jaw.
“You make me remember him,” he said. “The one who just wanted to go fast. Not prove anything. Just feel the car respond.”
She leaned down, kissed him softly—once, twice—then settled back against his chest.
