They stayed locked—sweaty, breathless—foreheads touching, hearts slamming in time.
Long minutes later he eased out, kissing her softly now—tender, almost careful. He lifted her gently, carried her to the sofa. They collapsed there—her curled into his chest, his arms wrapping tight like he couldn’t bear space between them.
Neither spoke at first. Just breathing, skin cooling, the fight drained away.
Finally he murmured into her hair, voice quieter. “I hated today. Seeing him near you.”
She pressed her lips to the scar on his collarbone. “I hated her touching you.”
A beat. Then, softer, almost to himself: “I don’t want anyone else touching you like that. Ever.”
She didn’t answer with words—just shifted closer, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him down for a slow, lingering kiss. It lingered longer than necessary, soft and unhurried, like she was answering the only way she could right then.
The sun dipped lower, painting the room in warm oranges and pinks. They stayed tangled, quiet—the unspoken hanging between them like promise rather than pressure.
The summer wasn’t over.
And neither were they.
???
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Lucas
The summer break ended like it had never happened—except it had, in every aching muscle, every stolen memory, every late-night message that still made his phone light up with heat even now. They returned to the circuit separately, professionally distant in the paddock, but the secret between them had grown roots. It lived in quick glances across garages, in the way his hand brushed hers when no one was looking, in the texts that arrived at 2 a.m. when neither could sleep.
The season roared back to life.
He was on fire.
Singapore: P1. Brazil: P1 again. Austin: P4. The championship fight narrowed—he was third equal now, breathing down the leader’s neck with two races left.
Las Vegas delivered everything it promised: neon-drenched spectacle, high-stakes drama, and a win that felt like destiny. He started P2, held his nerve, seized the lead on lap 28 during a perfectly timed safety car, and held it to the chequered flag—his fifth victory of the season. Second overall now, with only Abu Dhabi left. The fireworks over the Strip exploded as he stood on the top step, black race suit unzipped to the waist, champagne soaking him, eyes searching the paddock for her.
* * *
The post-race party was at a rooftop club high above the Strip—private, exclusive, all mirrored walls, pulsing bass, and champagne towers. He arrived late, out of his race suit and into a tailored black suit—crisp white shirt open at the collar,no tie. He looked every inch the champion: sharp, dangerous, untouchable.
Mia was already there—a black silk slip dress gliding over her silhouette with quiet elegance, hair loose in waves, sparkling water in hand.
Across the room, he saw her talking to someone at the bar. The man leaned in too close, grin wide, accent carrying over the music. Lucas recognised him instantly—the Italian photographer from the Nice shoot last summer. The same one who’d complimented her framing, brushed her elbow, looked at her like she was part of the shot.
Jealousy flared hot and immediate in Lucas’s chest—sharp, possessive. He watched the photographer offer her a flute of champagne, saw her step back, saw the way the man kept pressing, laughing too loud, not taking the hint. Mia’s smile stayed polite, but her shoulders tensed, her body language shifting—uncomfortable, cornered.
Lucas set his untouched drink down. Excused himself from the cluster of models mid-sentence. Made his way through the crowd, pulse hammering.
He reached them just as Mia was glancing around, looking for an exit.
“Lucas,” she said, relief flickering in her eyes as he stepped up beside her. “You remember Marco from the shoot over the summer.”
Marco turned, grin widening when he saw Lucas— “Ah, the star himself!”
Mia kept her voice light, professional. “He was just letting me know what a great campaign it’s shaping up to be.”
Marco’s eyes slid back to her, lingering too long. “And I’m trying to convince this beautiful lady to share a glass of champagne with me. Don’t you think she should be celebrating when she looks so sexy?” He leaned in closer to her, voice dropping sleazily. “Anything can happen in Vegas, no? One drink, bella. Loosen up a little.”
Lucas felt the jealousy snap into something colder, sharper.
