Chapter 5: Possessive Paddock
The champagne in Aya’s flute lost its effervescence the moment the hand landed on the small of her back. It was a heavy, proprietary touch, soaked in gin and entitlement. She’d been scanning the paddock club terrace for Lando, her mind already categorizing the logistics for tomorrow’s race, when the sponsor, a man named Richter whose watch cost more than her flat, had stumbled into her orbit.
“Aya, darling,” he slurred, his breath hot against her ear. “You’re far too serious for this crowd. All work and no play. Let me show you the view from my yacht. Much more… private.”
His other hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from her shoulder, his fingers lingering too low, too close to the neckline of her silk camisole. The noise of the celebration—the clinking glasses, the jovial shouts, the distant rev of a supercar on the promenade—receded into a dull roar. Her body went very still, the way it did when managing a crisis. But this wasn’t a messed-up schedule or a lost passport. This was a violation, humming right against her spine.
“I’m working, Mr. Richter,” she said, her voice cool and flat, her Arabic accent clipping the edges of her words. She tried to step sideways, but his grip tightened.
“Work can wait. Come on. Be a sport.”
Before the ice in her veins could properly translate into action, a new presence solidified at her side. It was like feeling a thunderhead roll in. One moment there was oppressive heat, the next, a charged, protective coolness.
Lando’s arm slid around her waist, his hand splayed possessively over her hip, pulling her firmly back and away from Richter’s touch. He didn’t shove the man. He didn’t need to. His sheer physicality, the warrior stillness that came over him when he wasn’t performing for cameras, was barrier enough.
“There you are,” Lando said, his voice a low murmur meant only for her, though his eyes, hard as flint, were locked on Richter. The charming, boyish energy was utterly gone, replaced by the man who commanded a car at 200 miles per hour through city streets. He leaned in, his lips a breath away from Aya’s temple. The familiar scent of his stupidly expensive cologne and warm skin flooded her senses, obliterating the smell of gin.
“Mijn leeuwinnetje doesn’t play with rats,” he whispered, the Dutch endearment—my little lioness—a stark, intimate contrast to the viciousness of the statement.
Richter blinked, his drunk mind slowly processing the intrusion, the insult. “Lando! My boy! We were just—”
“You were just leaving,” Lando finished, his smile not reaching his eyes. It was a pitiless, professional curve of the lips. “Big day tomorrow. Need your rest.” He didn’t wait for a reply. His grip on Aya tightened, and he turned them both, cutting a clean path through the glittering crowd. His Ferrari team pass swayed from his neck.
He didn’t speak. He just walked, his hand a brand on her hip, guiding her past the greetings and the raised glasses, out of the humidity of the terrace, through the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors of the paddock building. The roar of the party faded, replaced by the echo of their footsteps on polished concrete.
He shouldered open the door to his private driver’s room. It was a sanctuary of stark functionality: a locker, a small fridge, a hydraulic massage table draped with a white sheet, a faint smell of antiseptic and muscle gel. The moment the door shut, locking out the world, the silence was deafening.
Aya leaned back against the cool metal of the door, her heart hammering against her ribs. The adrenaline of the confrontation was now a wild, shaking thing inside her. Lando stood before her, his chest rising and falling just a bit too fast. The controlled fury was still there, simmering in the tension of his jaw.
“You okay?” The words were gruff.
She nodded, unable to speak. The look in his eyes wasn’t just concern. It was hunger, black and bottomless, born of protection and possession and all the unsaid things that had been building since he’d kissed her fear away at thirty thousand feet.
“Tell me,” he commanded, his voice a rough scrape.
“I’m fine,” she breathed.
“Bullshit.” He took a step closer, caging her against the door. “Your hands are shaking.”
She looked down. They were. The composure she wore like armor was lying in shards at her feet. He saw it. He always saw her.
“Lando…” It was half a protest, half a surrender.
He cupped her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “That fucker doesn’t get to touch you. No one gets to touch you like that.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Except me.”
And then he was kissing her. It wasn’t like the kiss on the jet, which had been a lifeline, a diversion. This was a claiming. Hard, desperate, and deep. He licked into her mouth, a hot, wet stroke that stole her breath. She moaned, her hands flying up to clutch at the front of his race overalls, which were unzipped to his waist, the tight fireproof shirt beneath stretched over the firm planes of his chest.
He tasted of mint and the champagne he hadn’t drunk. His body was a solid line of heat against hers. He bit her lower lip, not gently, and the sharp burst of sensation went straight to her core, making her ache.
“On the table,” he growled against her mouth, his hands already pulling her camisole from the waistband of her tailored trousers.
“What?”
“The table. Now.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order, delivered with the same focused intensity he used on the radio with his race engineer. The authority in it unstitched something deep within her. After a lifetime of being in control, of managing every detail, the prospect of giving it up—to him—was a terrifying, exhilarating freefall.
She obeyed.
She pushed herself from the door and walked on unsteady legs to the massage table. The leather of her trousers whispered as she moved. She heard him behind her, the sound of his race boots on the floor, the rustle of fabric. She leaned against the table, her back to him, her head bowed.
His hands settled on her shoulders, then slowly, deliberately, traced down her spine. He found the zipper of her trousers and pulled it down. The sound was obscenely loud. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her trousers and her lace knickers and pushed them down over her hips in one rough movement. Cool air kissed her skin. She shuddered.
“Bend over,” he said, his voice thick. “Arms on the table.”
She did, resting her forearms on the crisp white sheet, her back arched, presenting herself to him. She felt exposed, completely vulnerable. The position was one of absolute surrender. She heard the tear of a foil packet, the rustle of his clothes. Then his hands were on her again, spreading her open, a blunt, hot pressure nudging at her entrance. She was wet, embarrassingly so, her body betraying her mind’s chaos.
“Look at you,” he muttered, a filthy, awe-filled sound. “So fucking perfect for me.”
He didn’t wait. He didn’t tease. With one powerful, relentless thrust, he seated himself fully inside her. Aya cried out, a raw, strangled sound as he filled her, stretching her, the force of it driving her forward on the table. It was overwhelming. There was no gentle pacing, no slow build. It was pure, unadulterated possession.
“Mine,” he grunted, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her in place as he began to move.
He set a brutal, pounding rhythm, each drive of his hips slamming her into the edge of the table. The room filled with the sounds of it: flesh meeting flesh, his low, guttural curses, her ragged, sobbing breaths. The metallic smell of the room was now layered with the scent of sex and sweat.
“You take it so good,” he rasped, one hand sliding around her hip, his fingers finding the slick, swollen nub of her clit. He rubbed rough, tight circles there, matching the punishing pace of his thrusts. “You obey me so perfectly. My smart, fierce, perfect girl. Let go. Come for me. Now.”
The command, coupled with the exquisite friction of his hand and the deep, relentless penetration, broke her. A climax tore through her with violent, stolen intensity, wrenching a scream from her throat. Her inner muscles clamped around him, milking his length.
It spurred him on. His rhythm became frantic, erratic. He fucked her through her climax, his own control shattering. With a final, deep plunge and a roar that sounded like her name ripped from his chest, he came, pulsing hotly inside her, his body shuddering against hers.
For a long moment, the only sound was their heaving breaths. He remained buried within her, his weight slumped over her back, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades. His hand, now gentle, stroked the soaked hair from her neck.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. She winced at the sudden emptiness, the cool air a shock. She heard him dispose of the condom, then the rustle of his clothes. He turned her around, his hands firm but infinitely softer now. She was boneless, her legs trembling. He read it in her stance and simply lifted her, seating her on the edge of the table before kneeling before her on the cool floor.
He took her knickers and trousers and gently dressed her, pulling them up her legs and fastening them with a tenderness that contradicted everything that had just happened. He stayed on his knees, his arms wrapped around her hips, his face pressed against her stomach. She threaded her shaking fingers through his sweat-damp hair.
“You’re really okay?” he asked, his voice muffled against her.
She looked down at the crown of his head, at the man who was chaos incarnate but who had just become her absolute center of gravity. In the silent, sterile room, with the ghost of the race weekend humming beyond the door, Aya Darzi gave up her final shred of control.
“Yes,” she whispered, and it was the truest thing she’d ever said. “I’m yours.”
He held her there for a long moment, his breath warming the silk at her abdomen. The blatant, echoing silence of the room settled around them, thick with the smell of sex and gel. Her thighs ached. A pleasant, deep tremor lived in her muscles.
“Can you walk?” His voice was gravel.
“I think so.”
“Good.” He stood in one fluid motion, his hands finding hers. He helped her up from the table, her legs momentarily buckling. He steadied her, an arm around her waist, his touch now entirely supportive. He retrieved her blazer, draping it over her shoulders, his fingers brushing her neck.
He cracked the door, peering into the corridor. The distant celebrations were a muted bassline. “Coast is clear. Come on.” He kept her close to his side, his body a shield between her and the world as they moved. They took a service elevator, its sterile light humming.
No one saw them. He used a private keycard for a separate entrance to his hotel tower, bypassing the glittering lobby entirely. The suite was dark, quiet, overlooking the inky Mediterranean and the scattered sequins of yachts in the harbor. He didn’t turn on the main lights.
Wordlessly, he led her to the expansive bathroom. He turned on the taps, testing the water with his hand. Steam began to curl, fogging the mirrors.
He faced her, his expression unreadable in the dim light from the bedroom. His hands came up and began undoing the buttons of her silk camisore, his movements methodical and slow. Each inch of skin he revealed was met with his lips. He pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, the faded scar on her collarbone from a childhood fall.
He knelt again to remove her shoes, her trousers, her knickers, his mouth following the path of his hands. A kiss to her knee, the inside of her thigh, the sharp bone of her ankle. It was a silent liturgy. He shed his own clothes in a heap on the marble floor.
The bath was full, the water clouded with a milky, fragrant oil. He helped her step in, her body sighing as she sank into the heat. Then he slid in behind her, the water sloshing gently over the edge. He settled her back against his chest, her head nestled under his chin, his legs bracketing hers.
She let out a shuddering breath, all the remaining tension dissolving into the steam. His arms came around her, one hand splayed low on her stomach, the other lifting to gently cup her breast, thumb grazing her nipple in a slow, absent circle. It was not a demand, but a reassurance.
“Alright?” he murmured into her damp hair.
She nodded, her hand coming up to cover his on her belly, lacing their fingers together. She felt the steady, strong beat of his heart against her back, a counter-rhythm to the one he’d asked her to count in the jet. She melted into him, utterly. A soft, full happiness, quiet and deep, replaced the sharp, frantic chords of the evening.
The only sounds were the drip of the tap and their breathing. Outside, Monaco glittered, indifferent. In here, they were anchored.