Chapter 10: Morning After - The Phone Call
The world returned in the shape of a buzzing phone, skittering across the marble nightstand like an angry insect. Kimi groaned, his arms tightening reflexively around Alessia. She made a soft, protesting sound into his chest, burrowing deeper into the warmth his body had created under the duvet.
The buzzing ceased, then immediately started again. A specific, insistent rhythm.
“Toto,” Kimi muttered, his voice thick with sleep. He knew that ringtone. It was the one he couldn’t ignore.
He pressed a kiss into the crown of her head, a silent apology, and untangled his limbs from hers. The cool morning air hit his skin as he slid from the bed. He snatched the phone, glancing at the screen. A video call request.
“Merda,” he whispered.
He looked back at her. She’d pulled the duvet up to her chin, her dark eyes watching him, soft and understanding. The sight was a physical tug in his gut. He wanted to dive back in, silence the phone, and lose another day in her.
Instead, he swiped to accept, turning his back to the bed as he strode towards the balcony. “Toto. Give me a second.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He slid the glass door open, stepped out into the crisp, salt-tinged air, and closed it behind him. The Mediterranean sprawled, glittering and uncaring. He took a second to drag a hand through his chaotic curls, then lifted the phone.
Toto Wolff’s face filled the screen, his expression characteristically focused. He was in his office at Brackley; Kimi could see the familiar model cars on the shelf behind him. “Kimi. You’re in Sitges?”
“Just arrived last night.” Kimi leaned on the balcony railing, the cool stone sharp against his palms.
“Good. You saw the analysis from the simulator data?” Toto dove in, his tone all business. “The correlation with Spain was within two percent, which is positive, but Brackley is concerned about the rear tyre deg on the long runs we projected for Austria. The engineers want to run through some setup options with you before you get to Spielberg.”
Kimi’s mind, fuzzy with sleep and the scent of Alessia’s skin, reluctantly clicked into gear. He listened, his gaze drifting back through the glass door.
She had sat up. The duvet had pooled around her waist. She was bathed in a stripe of morning sun, her skin golden, her hair a magnificent, tangled cloud. She was looking down at herself, her fingers lightly tracing the faint marks on her inner thighs, a contemplative, almost awed expression on her face. His marks. The sight sent a bolt of pure, primal heat straight through him.
“Kimi? Are you listening?” Toto’s voice cut through.
He snapped his attention back to the screen. “Rear deg. Yes. I saw it. The car was nervous on exit, I was having to correct too much, scrubbing the tyre. Can we look at a stiffer anti-roll bar setting to try and get it to rotate more on entry, so I’m straighter on exit?”
Toto’s eyebrow lifted, a flicker of approval. “That’s what Bradley suggested. We’ll have the data packed for you. Your schedule for Thursday is updated. You have the promo shoot with Petronas at 0900, then the engineering briefing at 1100.”
Kimi nodded, his responses automatic. “Understood. I’ll be there.”
The conversation shifted to media duties, sponsor obligations, and the looming pressure of the Austrian Grand Prix. Kimi answered, his professional self fully engaged, but his consciousness was split. Half here, on the balcony with the boss, half in that sun-drenched room where the most important part of his world was sitting in his bed, exploring the physical proof of their new reality.
He caught a glimpse of her as she slipped out of bed, completely unselfconscious. She padded to the ensuite, a flash of olive skin and dark curves before she disappeared. The bathroom light went on. He felt the loss of her presence like a drop in atmospheric pressure.
“Keep your head clear, Kimi,” Toto was saying, his tone softening just a fraction. “This is a big moment. The home race for the team’s power unit. The spotlight will be intense. I need you focused.”
“I am focused,” Kimi said, and it was the truth. He’d just never had something so precious to focus for before. It changed the calculus entirely.
They ended the call. Kimi stood for another minute, letting the sea air clear the last of the technical jargon from his mind. The reality of his life hadn’t changed. The unrelenting schedule, the microscopic scrutiny, the performance demands that tolerated zero weakness. It was a gargantuan machine, and he was a crucial, spinning cog.
But the center of his gravity had shifted. Irrevocably.
He walked back inside. The bedroom was empty, but the shower was running. He placed his phone face-down on the dresser, a deliberate silencing of that world. He approached the bathroom door, which was ajar, and leaned against the frame.
Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of her almond shampoo. Through the fogged glass of the shower, he could see the blurred outline of her—head tilted back, water sluicing over her body. He watched her for a moment, this simple, intimate act now feeling like a privilege.
He pushed the door open quietly. The steam enveloped him. He didn’t speak. He just undid the towel from his waist, let it drop, and slid the shower door open.
She jumped, a small gasp escaping her before she saw it was him. Water droplets clung to her eyelashes. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” He wasn’t sorry. He stepped in, closing the space and the door behind him. The hot water hit his back. He reached past her for the shampoo bottle. “Here.”
He poured a dollop into his palm and gently turned her around. His hands went to her hair, massaging her scalp, working the lather through her long curls. She leaned back against his chest with a sigh, her body relaxing into his.
“Bad news?” she asked, her voice muffled by the water and his proximity.
“No. Just work. The usual tsunami of details.” He rinsed her hair carefully, using one hand to shield her eyes. “Austria is next. It’s… a big one.”
He felt her nod. She knew the calendar as well as he did. “The Red Bull Ring. You love that track.”
“I do.” He took the soap, began washing her shoulders, her back. “It’s also a circus. The whole Red Bull energy drink fantasyland. It’s loud.”
She turned then, water cascading between them. She took the soap from his hands. “My turn.”
Her touch was shy at first, sliding over his chest, his arms. But it grew more confident as she soaped him up, her small hands smoothing over the hard planes of his stomach, the familiar contours of his back. It was tender, but it was also a reclaiming. A quiet communication: I am part of this, too.
“Will I be a distraction?” she asked suddenly, not looking at him, focusing on rinsing soap from his collarbone.
He hooked a finger under her chin, lifting her face. Water streamed down her cheeks like tears. “You’re the opposite of a distraction, Alessia. You’re my ground wire. Everything else is just noise.”
“But last night… and this morning… it’s different now. If I’m in the garage, if I’m at the motorhome, people will look at us and they’ll know. I saw how you looked at me from the balcony. Even from there, I could feel it. It’s not how a best friend looks.”
A fierce pride swelled in him. “Good.”
“Kimi, be serious. The media, the fans… they have microscopes. They’ll see it.”
He turned off the water. The sudden silence was heavy with steam. He opened the door, grabbed two towels, and wrapped one around her, bundling her up before securing his own. He led her back into the bedroom, not letting go of her hand.
“Let them see,” he said, his voice low and firm. He stopped in the middle of the room, facing her. “I don’t care if they see me looking at you like you’re the only person on the planet. Because most of the time, you are.”
“It’ll be a story. ‘Golden Boy’s Mystery Girl.’ ‘Kimi Antonelli’s Garagista Lover.’ They’ll dig into my life. Our families.”
He shook his head, a slow, determined movement. “They’ve been preparing for this longer than we have, remember? The bet.” A small smile broke through her worry. He saw it and pressed on. “We control the story, Lessi. We give them nothing to dig for. We just… are. We’ll be a fact. Not a rumor. A fact is boring after a while.”
He pulled her to the wardrobe, a massive mirrored thing. He opened it, revealing rows of his clothes—mostly black, grey, team gear—and a small section she’d claimed on previous visits. He pulled out a simple, loose black t-shirt. It was one of his, soft from a hundred washes.
“Here,” he said.
She let her towel drop and pulled the shirt on. It swallowed her, falling to mid-thigh, the neckline slipping off one shoulder. She looked like she was wearing his skin. The effect was more possessive, more intimate, than any mark he could have left. He felt a surge of satisfaction.
He dressed quickly in jeans and a hoodie, the mundane act feeling profound. They were getting ready for the day. Together.
Downstairs in the vast, minimalist kitchen, he made coffee. The machine hissed and gurgled. She hopped up onto a stool at the island, watching him, her bare legs swinging.
“So, what’s the plan, champion?” she asked, adopting a faux-reporter tone. “How does Kimi Antonelli prepare for the Austrian Grand Prix?”
He placed a steaming cappuccino in front of her, dusted with cinnamon just the way she liked it. He leaned on the island opposite her, cradling his own black espresso. “First,” he said, his eyes crinkling, “he spends today with his girl. He takes her for a walk by the water. He lets her bully him into eating actual vegetables for lunch.”
She giggled, sipping her coffee.
“Then,” he continued, his tone shifting, “he gets on a private jet tomorrow. He goes to work. He wins a race. And then he comes back to her.” He reached across the granite, his fingers finding hers. “That’s the only plan that matters now. Everything in the middle is just… logistics.”
She held his gaze, her dark eyes clear and sure. The last traces of doubt evaporated. She squeezed his fingers. “Okay,” she said simply.
For the first time, he saw not just his Alessia, but his partner. The one who would be there in the quiet after the storm of cheers, who would understand the weight of the helmet when he took it off. The real world wasn’t encroaching. It was simply the track they would now navigate, side by side.
She slid off the stool, her coffee abandoned, and walked around the island to him. She didn’t say anything. She just wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her ear to his chest, listening to the heart that, from now on, beat for two very different kinds of victory. He held her, his chin resting on her head, and they stood there in the silent, sun-filled kitchen, anchored.
He held her, his chin resting on her head, and they stood there in the silent, sun-filled kitchen, anchored. The espresso machine’s last drops fell with a hollow finality. He breathed her in, this new scent of them both, of sleep and salt and his own soap on her skin. “Hungry?” he finally murmured into her hair.
She shook her head, the motion rustling against his hoodie. “Not for food.”
He understood. The hunger was a different, simmering thing now, a current that had been switched on and couldn’t be turned off. He kissed her temple, a soft press of his lips. “Walk first,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “Sun. Air. Then we’ll see.”
The promenade was a postcard of blues and whites, the Mediterranean stretching to a sharp horizon. He kept her hand in his, their fingers laced, a simple act that felt more revealing than anything they’d done in the dark. She pointed at a fishing boat, its paint peeling, and told him a story about a children’s book she’d loved. He listened, watching her lips form the words, the way her eyes crinkled against the glare.
“It’s just us,” she said, swinging their joined hands.
“It’s always been just us,” he replied, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist. “Everyone else was just background noise.”
He bought her ice cream from a cramped gelateria that smelled of waffle cones. Stracciatella for her, a stark lemon sorbet for him. They found a bench facing the sea. She ate with a focused joy that made him ache, a tiny smear of cream at the corner of her mouth. He watched her, not the water. When she caught him, she blushed, that beautiful, deepening flush that started at her throat.
“What?” she asked, licking her spoon.
“Just looking.” He leaned over and wiped the cream away with his thumb, then slowly brought his thumb to his own mouth. Her breath hitched, audible over the gentle lap of waves. A couple strolled past, laughing, oblivious. To them, they were just another young pair, maybe tourists. Kimi’s grip on her knee tightened, a brief, possessive squeeze. He saw her understand the performance, the secret they were keeping in plain sight.
Back at the villa, the lazy afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, cutting the living room into bars of gold and shadow. She was curled at one end of the vast linen sofa, her feet tucked under his thigh. A faint sheen of salt from the sea air still clung to her skin. He had one hand absently stroking her calf, his other holding his phone, scrolling through engineering data with a detached focus. The domestic silence was a new language they were learning.
“Your phone buzzes constantly,” she observed, her voice soft.
“It’s the hive,” he said, not looking up. “Always humming.” He tossed the device onto the coffee table, a definitive thud. “Ignore it.”
She uncurled, shifting to kneel beside him on the sofa. The oversized shirt slipped, revealing the smooth slope of her shoulder. “What happens if you ignore it?”
“World doesn’t end. Car might be a tenth slower. Doesn’t matter right now.” He turned his head to look at her. Her proximity was a palpable force, a low-frequency pull in his gut. He saw the question in her eyes, the same one that had been building all day—a curious, brave want.
She bridged the last inch, her mouth meeting his. It was sweet, tasting of lingering sugar and her. He let her lead, let her explore the angle and the pressure. Her tongue traced his lower lip, a shy inquiry. He opened for her, a groan vibrating in his chest as she deepened the kiss with a sudden, surprising confidence. Her hands came up to frame his face, her thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
When she pulled back, her lips were swollen, her eyes dark. “I liked that,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” he breathed, the word ragged. “Me too.”
She didn’t retreat. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then lower, to where his arousal was evident against his jeans. A look of fascinated determination settled on her features. It was the same look she got when figuring out a complex puzzle. Her fingers, which had been on his face, trailed down his neck, over the fabric of his hoodie, coming to rest on the hard plane of his stomach.
“Can I…” she started, then swallowed. “I want to try. Like last night, but… more.”
He knew what she was asking. A raw, greedy part of him surged forward. He fought to keep his voice level. “You can do whatever you want to me, Alessia. Always.”
He helped her pull his hoodie and t-shirt over his head in one movement. The cool air hit his skin, but her gaze was hotter. She looked at his chest, his stomach, with an open appreciation that was entirely new. Her fingertips followed her eyes, tracing the lines of his abdomen, the dusting of hair that led downward. Her touch was electrifying, each point of contact a minor explosion of sensation.
Her hands went to his belt. The buckle clinked softly in the quiet room. He lifted his hips to help her slide his jeans and boxers down, freeing his cock. It stood thick and full, a blatant testament to his need for her. She wrapped her fingers around him, her grip tentative at first. He hissed, his head falling back against the sofa.
“Like this?” she asked, beginning to move her hand.
“Tighter,” he managed to grit out. “Yeah, tesoro, just like that.”
She adjusted her grip, her strokes growing more assured. She was watching his face, learning what each movement did to him. The slide of her palm was exquisite, maddening. Pre-cum beaded at his tip, and she smoothed her thumb over it, spreading the slickness, her touch becoming filthy and perfect. Her other hand cupped his balls, a gentle, exploratory weight that made his thighs tense.
“You’re so hard,” she murmured, almost to herself. “All for me.”
“All for you,” he echoed, the words a vow. “Only ever you.”
He couldn’t just watch. He reached for her, his hands sliding under the hem of the shirt she still wore. He pushed it up, revealing her to the honeyed light. Her breasts were perfect, the nipples already peaked and tight. He bent his head, taking one into his mouth. She cried out, her hand on him stuttering. He suckled deeply, his tongue circling, his teeth grazing with just enough bite to make her back arch.
Her strokes became frantic, uneven. “Kimi, I… I want to taste you,” she blurted, the words husky and unfamiliar on her tongue.
The request, so brazenly voiced, shattered the last of his control. He gently stilled her hand. “Later,” he rasped. “Right now, I just… I need to feel you.”
He shifted, laying her back against the cushions. He knelt between her legs, pushing them apart. The view was devastating: her glistening folds, already swollen and ready for him. He used his fingers first, slipping two inside her, curling them. She was so tight, so wet. She gasped, her hips rising off the sofa to meet his hand.“Please,” she begged, the word a broken sound.
He withdrew his fingers, shining with her wetness. "I know what you need," he murmured, his voice gravel-dark with restraint. He positioned himself above her, the broad head of his cock nudging against her soaked entrance. He didn’t push inside. Instead, he began to rock his hips, dragging his length through her slick folds with a slow, deliberate friction.
The slick, hot drag was exquisite torture for them both. He fucked his cock through her glistening folds, the swollen head catching on her clit with every forward rock of his hips. A ragged gasp tore from her throat each time he hit that perfect, desperate spot.
“Kimi,” she choked out, her hands scrabbling at his shoulders. “Please, just… be inside me. I need it. I need you in me.”
He shook his head, his own breath coming in sharp bursts. Sweat dripped from his temple onto her chest. “Not yet, tesoro. Not today.” He was teaching her, and himself, the sweet agony of delay, the building of pressure that made release catastrophic.
The heavy weight of him on her cunt, the relentless, teasing friction, made her mewl and arch. She was so open, so wet, her body trying to pull him in. “I can’t… it’s too much,” she sobbed, her heels digging into the small of his back.
“You can,” he growled. “You will. Come for me like this. Just from this.”
He watched, transfixed, as his cock became smeared with a mix of her slick and his own precum. The creamy white from her cunt coated him, a lewd, glistening proof of her arousal. The sight, the filthy sound of their bodies meeting, pushed him to the edge. He shifted his angle minutely, focusing the full, brutal pressure on her clit.
“Now, Alessia,” he commanded, his voice rough. “Let it go. Come all over my cock.”
Her whole body went rigid. A broken scream ripped from her lungs, raw and unfamiliar. She convulsed beneath him, her cunt clenching around nothing, and she gushed, a hot flood of release soaking his balls and the couch beneath them. Her eyes rolled back, her cries dissolving into helpless, shuddering whimpers.
It undid him completely. He followed her over, a harsh groan wrenching from his chest. He tore himself away from her at the last possible second, his hand flying to his shaft. He came in thick, pulsing stripes across her stomach and trembling tits, painting her olive skin with his release.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. She was dazed and satiated, her limbs liquid, her gaze clouded with pleasure. He watched, captivated, as her eyes fluttered open. She looked down at the mess he’d made on her body, a slow, drowsy smile touching her lips.
Without a word, she dragged a finger through the pooled cum on her stomach. She brought her finger to her mouth, her dark eyes locked on his, and sucked it clean. A low, happy moan vibrated in her throat at the taste of him.
“Mine,” she sighed, the word slurred with contentment.
The raw possessiveness in that single sound, in that act, stole the air from his lungs. He collapsed beside her, pulling her sticky, trembling form into his arms. She nuzzled into his neck, her breathing already deepening towards sleep. He held her, the smell of sex and salt and them filling the quiet room, and knew no victory lap, no podium, would ever feel as complete as this.