Page 75 of Flat Out
And then I saw him. Callum, cutting through the paddock crowd toward the lounge we’d agreed on, sunglasses shielding his eyes, every stride lethal despite the limp he tried to hide. He was wearing a ball cap now, and his hair curled around the edges.
Ugh. Even in pain, he still looked delectable.
Ivy’s fire was still ringing in my ears. But as he approached, all I felt was the ache of relief.
He reached me before I could even step forward. No words, no preamble—his hands came up to cradle my face, rough palms warm against my chilled skin, and then his mouth was on mine.
The kiss wasn’t careful. It was bruising, reverent, desperate all at once. His tongue swept over mine and I moaned softly into him, my body melting against his like I’d been waiting all damn day just for this. Honestly, I had. He tasted like cinnamon and something that was uniquely Callum, something that made my stomach bottom out and my toes curl inside my trainers.
The ache from the ice bath hadn’t left me—my nipples were still painfully tight from the cold, pressing against the thin fabric of my bra—but now every nerve ending buzzed for a different reason. I leaned into him, greedy, wanting more despite the crowd milling just meters away. My fingers hooked into his belt loops and I pulled his hips into mine, silently telling him how much I wanted him.
My mind flickered back to last night, the way I’d bratted just enough to earn the sharp sting of his hand against my ass. All because I’d rolled my eyes and called him “old man” when I told him to take his pills. The memory made me clench, heat curling low in my belly, because he’d fucked me deep after that, punishing and tender all at once, until I clung to him like he was the only thing tethering me to the earth.
And here I was again, clinging to him now in a semi-private cabana that shielded us from the worst of the paddock chaos. My ribs still ached, I was certain his head still throbbed, my spine still burned from the setup that was slowly killing me. But none of that mattered with his lips on mine, with his hands sliding down to grip my waist like he’d never let go.
Pain and all, we were here. And in that moment, with the noise of everything else muted to a dull roar outside our thin canvas walls, it felt like near privacy, like this world had finally carved out a sliver of space just for us.
His mouth devoured mine, and I let him, clutching at his shoulders until my nails bit through the thin material of his team polo. He tasted like eternal love and salvation, and I couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t drink him down fast enough.
He groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating against my ribs as his hands slid down, gripping my hips like he was ready to anchor me forever. Then, with a decisive lift, he hoisted me onto the narrow bistro table pressed against the canvas wall. The metal legs creaked under the sudden weight, but I didn’t care. My legs parted instinctively, welcoming him between them, and his body slotted against mine with the kind of inevitability that made me dizzy.
Somewhere beyond the canvas, cutlery clinked; a boom mic’s shadow slid over the wall like a hunting bird. We didn’t stop.
He ground against me, his cock thick and hard through the barrier of our clothes, the friction obscene even with layersbetween us. The pressure had me gasping into his mouth, my nipples aching so hard I could feel every brush of my top as if it were sandpaper. My clit throbbed, pulsing in time with my racing heart.
“Fuck, Cal—” I breathed, breaking the kiss just long enough to gulp in air before his lips stole mine again. He pressed harder, the ridge of him rubbing perfect and cruel against me, enough to make my toes curl in my trainers.
I moaned, and his answering groan felt like it ripped straight from his soul. His teeth grazed my lower lip, his tongue chasing mine in a battle that neither of us wanted to win. He was everywhere, heat and strength and hunger, and I was unraveling, dissolving under him, melting the way I always did.
For one dangerous second, I wanted to forget everything. Forget the setup sheets hidden, forget the sabotage and the FIA and the vultures circling us. I wanted to let him make love to me right here, let the entire paddock hear me scream his name.
But I couldn’t. Not yet.
I tore my mouth from his, my chest heaving, lips tingling. “Callum–” I rasped, my voice hoarse, “I have proof.”
He froze, pulling back enough to meet my gaze through the shadow of his cap, his breath as ragged as mine. His cock still ground against me once, reflexive, like his body couldn’t help itself, and then he stilled. His hands flexed on my hips, the grip equal parts possessive and grounding.
“What proof?” His voice was gravelly and husky, and fuck, my pussy pulsed.
No. Bad Aurélie.
I had to focus, goddamn it.
Swallowed, still trembling from the kiss, from the friction, from everything, I leaned back against my hands on the table. “It’s in my phone. The setup sheets. Everything you said—thebias, the migration, the packers—it’s all there. Logged as ‘driver preference.’”
The smolder in his eyes shifted, tempered, sharpened. He pulled back further to search my face, still close enough that his breath was hot on my lips.
“Show me,” he growled.
We ordered food and caffeine,because if we were going to do this, we needed fuel. By the time the waitress left our drinks–me with an iced coffee and Callum with an iced green tea–sweating on the table, Callum already had the envelope open.
He slid half the stack of papers toward me, and I set my phone on the table, flipping through the photos I’d taken and then sent to my tablet. Side by side, him with the physical sheets, me with the digital backup, we looked like two criminals conspiring.
Except we weren’t criminals. We were the ones being hunted.
“Look here,” he muttered, tapping the margin of one sheet with his pen. His hat was tugged low at first, shielding his eyes from the sliver of sunlight peeking into the cabana. But then he twisted it backwards, and a few waves of dark hair poked through the strap’s little opening.
I blinked rapidly, my brain short-circuiting.
