Page 43 of Formula Chance

She glances at me. “Why? Your simulator runs have been so good. You’re ready, you know.”

“I know. But I like the repetition.”

“Yeah, I know,” she murmurs fondly, her gaze back on the screens. “Want some help?”

“Don’t you need the crew of engineers to run it all?”

She shrugs. “I can give you some basic feedback.” She pulls up a stool and starts fiddling with one of the auxiliary panels. “You’re not getting real-time telemetry, but I can give you lap times, sector comparisons, maybe a little advice.”

I stare at her a long moment, my chest swelling with tenderness. She’s the Bex who was my biggest fan, always wanting me to be the best I could be because she knew it was important. “All right. Let’s do it.”

I restart the session and the car roars to life. Bex watches the monitors intently as I tackle the first sector, her voice cutting in occasionally.

“You’re wide on Turn 3. Tuck in tighter—clip the apex earlier.”

I adjust, feeling the difference immediately. “Better?”

“Much,” she replies. “Your exit speed is up by three-tenths.”

Lap after lap, we fall into a rhythm. Her voice becomes my guide, her calm, analytical tone a counterpoint to the adrenaline coursing through me. She points out my weak spots, praises my improvements, and when I nail a sector perfectly, she doesn’t hold back.

“Beautiful line through Turn 11,” she exclaims with a joyful laugh, and I can’t help but grin.

“Not bad for an insomniac, huh?”

“Not bad at all,” she agrees.

As the session wears on, I start to feel the car beneath me in a way I haven’t in years. It’s not just about the lap times—it’s about the connection, the trust. I push harder, shaving off tenths in every sector. Bex’s encouragement keeps me sharp, her belief in me a steady undercurrent.

And there’s a part of me that wants to impress her. To make her understand that no matter the setbacks, I have what it takes.

Finally, I bring the car to a stop, my body buzzing with the thrill of it. I pull off the headset and glance at Bex, who’s leaning back in her chair, looking as satisfied as I feel.

“You’re ready,” she says simply.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Thanks for this. Really.”

Her expression softens as she slides off the stool and walks my way. “You don’t have to thank me, Nash. I love helping you.”

Her words hit deeper than they should, and for a moment, I’m caught in the weight of her gaze. There’s a warmth there, a faith in me that I’m not sure I deserve. But tonight, I’ll take it.

I unhook the steering wheel, step out of the car. She tips her head back to look up at me, her hands going to my chest. Her eyes are somber, holding a message that I know she wants me to really hear. “You are ready, Nash. You have the talent and the ability to get back to the top of the podium. I wish I could tell you where you need to improve, but there’s a reason you’re one of the best in formula. Just don’t ever forget it, okay? Especially when you’re out on the track.”

Her words soften that hard shell I’m trying to keep in place around my heart. If she becomes my biggest champion again, I’ll want all of it and while I might not be afraid to hit the track at two hundred-plus miles an hour, I’m afraid of a crash-and-burn with her.

The emotion threatens to pull me in, but I need to put that distance between us again.

Not physical distance.

Just the tenderness and care for a bit.

I kiss her and there’s nothing sweet about it.

Bex immediately responds, a low moan warbling in her throat as her arms go around my neck. She jumps into my arms, legs around my waist, and I spin to the car. Bending, I lay her over the narrow hood, her back arching over it. Because the simulator sits off the ground, it’s the perfect height for me to have my way with her.

My hands work at her joggers, loosening the tie and roughly yanking them down her legs. She pushes at her shoes in a frantic rush to help me and then her lower half is naked.

Bex leans up on one elbow, face flushed, and she pushes her glasses up her nose in a move that makes her both sexy and adorable.

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