Page 89 of Close Contact
A war raged in my body. One part of me screamed to crawl back into bed, to let him devour me again, get lost in him and his hands and the way he looked at me. The other part—the rational, driven, career-focused part—knew I needed to leave. Staying would make it harder even though I was already drowning in him.
“Callum,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my chest. “If you keep touching me like that, I won’t be able to walk out that door.”
“That’s the idea.”
Fuck.
My hands slid into his hair, holding on, desperately trying to hold on to right now, to us. My forehead rested against his as I took a shaky breath, trying to steel myself.
But I was melting. Always melting for him.
Then his hand slid lower again, and I flinched. Just slightly, barely enough for him to notice, but he stilled immediately.
His brows furrowed. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” I said quickly, too quickly. I sighed, brushing a stray hair from my face. “I’m just… sore. My whole body aches. I skipped my post-race recovery protocol yesterday. Didn’t find Jules, didn’t take an ice bath, didn’t stretch. Too much adrenaline, chaos, and sex.” I gave him a pointed look, trying to be playful, but he didn’t give.
Callum’s eyes searched mine, concern darkening his features. “Sore is normal. Pain isn’t.”
I shrugged, brushing it off like it didn’t matter, even though it did. Every muscle throbbed, and my ribs ached every time I moved. It was getting worse with each race, even if I stuck to my routine. “I’ll be fine. Just need to get through this week.”
He hesitated, but finally nodded, his hand gentler now as it settled along my hip.
“I hate this,” he murmured. “Wanting you and knowing I can’t keep you here.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
He pressed a kiss to my collarbone, and I shivered when his facial hair scraped across my skin. My core ignited, and a soft moan escaped me.
God fuckingdamn it. I didn’t want to leave him yet, but I had a flight to catch and public appearances to make.
I kissed him once more—slow, lingering, final. Then I begrudgingly pulled away before I could change my mind, grabbed my bag, and walked out the door so I could fall apart on my own.
Barcelona was calling.
But my heart was still in Monaco.
If there wasa trophy for acting completely unbothered and having the best poker face, I deserved it. Especially right now, when I was sitting in a driver debrief withallthe drivers—reserves included—all eyes on the screen at the front of the room, nodding along to data I wasn’t absorbing. All while trying not to squirm in my seat.
Why? Because Callum had just texted me something way too fucking suggestive for work.
Callum
Think I’d last longer than your cooldown lap?
I drew in a slow breath through my nose, attempting to regulate my breathing, and bit the inside of my cheek. My legs crossed, as if that would do anything to quell the heat building between them.
I was fine, this was fine, everything wasfine. He just existed to fluster me, and fuck him for being able to do it so goddamn easily.
A representative from the FIA stood at the front of the room, motioning toward footage on the screen of overtaking disputes and track limit violations from Monaco. I tried to focus on what they were saying—I really did. And after a moment of steady breathing, I was able to tune in. Apparently we were getting a refresher on wheel-to-wheel etiquette before the race weekend began.
Like we weren’t the most elite drivers in the world, but whatever.
The long tables we sat at were arranged in a rectangle, so all the drivers were essentially facing each other, but we were all turned toward the screen. A quick glance at the others showed several of them zoning out. I was struggling with it too, just for different reasons.
The damn Scottish bastard that sat directly across the room from me, occasionally glancing in my direction.
My phone lit up again, and I almost dreaded looking. But I couldn’t resist, because it was him, and I had no self-control where he was concerned.
