Page 108 of Close Contact
After Monaco, the rumors exploded.
Videos of us hugging and touching helmets after the race. That post-race press conference, where the eye-fucking was nearly impossible to miss—as was the red skin around Aurélie’s mouth. Us leaving the paddock together, my hand visibly bleeding, then later leaving the club looking entirely too smitten. Every glance, every laugh, every time we were standing alittletoo close to each other.
But nothing that made it concrete.
Not even that night, after we’d run through the paddock together like a normal young, drunk-in-love couple, wild and carefree, instead of celebrity athletes with millions of people watching.
I wished I stayed, wished I kissed her again. I should’ve told the woman who caught us to fuck off so I could have Aurélie to myself just a little bit longer. I would’ve pressed her against the door, pulled those red lace panties to the side, and made her forget the whole fucking world again, just for a few minutes.
Except we’d already been caught. The damage was done. And in that moment, I didn’t care who knew. I just wanted her writhing under me, clawing at my back, calling me hers.
But Aurélie was thinking beyond the moment. About optics, about Ferrari, about everything she stood to lose if she got this wrong.
So I stepped back. Let the silence stretch between us. Walked away with my cock aching, my jaw clenched, my heart thudding like I’d just taken a corner flat out.
She didn’t text me until hours later, after her shoot, when my nerves were a jumbled mess and I had worried myself into oblivion.
Aurélie
We’re good, mon amour. She works for a private PR company and wanted to sign me.
Still smell like you. Wish you were here. Je t’aime. Bisous. xx
And it fucking wrecked me.
Her new personal rep—what’s her name, Ivy?—seemed to be doing her job so far, and better than the Luminis PR team. She shielded Aurélie from the worst of it, handled social media statements by spinning the story into something else. Keeping things quiet, including turning my handprints on Aurélie’s ass into a fucking inspiration during the photoshoot. But that didn’t mean we could be together.
Because God forbid people think we’rehuman.
We were only a few days into it, so only time would tell.
Even now, the articles kept popping up:
F1’sGolden Girl & the Fallen King—Are Sparks Flying or Is It Just Smoke?
CallumFraser Caught Glancing atDuboisin the Paddock Again—Fans Speculate on What’s REALLY Happening Behind the Scenes.
We were becoming a headline. A ship name. A marketing ploy. None of it in the ways that mattered.
All we wanted was to hold hands in peace, share a bed during race week, be together in private, have moments that were more than pinky holding when no one was looking and quick trysts in shadowed corners.
“I miss you,” I whispered.
She sighed. “I miss you, too.” A pause. “I can’t wait for Montreal,” she said. “I want to be in your arms. I want you inside me. I want to wake up next to you again.”
I swallowed hard. “Do you want me to come over tonight?”
“I do,” she said. “So fucking much.”
“But…”
“But my press starts at five, and I’m wearing a full face of makeup before sunrise. If I leave your hotel at three, the photos will hit X by 3:05.”
I closed my eyes again, groaning. “Fuck the optics.”
She didn’t answer right away. Then, softly, “We’re almost there.”
We said goodbye a few minutes later. Neither of us wanted to hang up, but we had to. She had an appearance. I had a debrief.
