Chapter 18: Strawberry Vengeance
The paddock later that morning was a symphony of controlled chaos, a stark contrast to the previous night’s intimacy. Alma moved through it like a ghost, aware of the sideways glances, the hushed conversations that died as she passed. The story of the shattered flute had mutated, taking on wings of speculation.
Enzo found her by the engineering bay, staring at a screen of tire data she wasn’t seeing. “You’ve caused a stir, cara,” he said, lighting a small cigar.
“I didn’t cause anything,” she replied, her voice flat.
“He did,” Enzo corrected, blowing out smoke. “And when he does that, people look. They calculate. They wonder what else he might break for you.” He gave her a paternal, weary look. “Be careful the questions they start asking.”
The invitation to the Artemis Motorsport suite for post-practice drinks was a pointed power play. Sergio accepted with a tight smile, his hand resting at the small of Alma’s back as they entered. The space was all chrome and white leather, louder and brasher than his team’s decor.
Henrik Voss, the team principal, was a man who collected beautiful things—cars, watches, people. He greeted Sergio with a backslap, but his pale blue eyes slid to Alma and stuck. “The famous Alma,” he boomed, his English tinged with a German clip. “The linguist. I hear you silenced Pierre Lacroix in five languages last night.”
“It was mostly the sound of breaking glass,” she said, her smile professional and frozen.
“A useful skill!” Voss laughed, too loud. He hovered close as a waiter brought champagne. “I could use someone with your talents. The media scrum here, it’s a zoo. All those accents.” His hand, heavy and proprietary, landed on her upper back, just below her neck. It didn’t move.
Sergio went very still beside her. Alma felt the heat of him, a banked furnace ready to ignite. She took a subtle half-step away, but Voss’s hand stayed, a damp, unwanted weight.
“My contract is exclusive, Herr Voss,” she said, her voice cooling by several degrees.
“Contracts can be bought,” Voss murmured, leaning in conspiratorially. His breath smelled of gin and almonds. “Everyone has a price. What’s yours? I pay better than a driver, even a champion. Less drama, too.”
Sergio watched this, the tendons in his jaw working. He saw the man’s fingers press into the fabric of her blouse, claiming a fraction of her space. A white-hot wire snapped behind his ribs. It was different from the violent reach for her scar—this was worse, a slow, entitled acquisition, and it tore at him with quiet, surgical precision.
Alma’s expression hadn’t changed, but her eyes had gone flat and dark. “I’m not for sale.”
Before Voss could reply, Sergio moved. It was fluid and shockingly deliberate. He didn’t shove Voss. He simply reached out, hooked his fingers into the belt loop of Alma’s trousers, and pulled her backwards.
She stumbled slightly, falling not onto the floor, but directly into his lap as he settled into a deep armchair. A few gasps hissed around them. He anchored her there with one arm wrapped firmly around her waist.
“She’s occupied,” Sergio said, the words dropping into the sudden quiet like stones.
He reached for a plate of strawberries on the low table, not breaking eye contact with a stunned Voss. He selected a perfect, red berry, holding it by the stem. He brought it to Alma’s lips, his gaze finally leaving Voss to lock onto hers. A command, and a question.
For a heartbeat, the room vanished. There was only his eyes, the dark intensity in them, and the possessive heat of his grip. She saw the raw, unvarnished jealousy there, a reflection of the same primal claim he’d kissed into her skin the night before.
A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. She leaned into him, letting her body soften against his chest, a surrender that was its own kind of power. Then she parted her lips and took the strawberry from his fingers, her eyes never leaving his.
She ate it slowly, the sweet juice blooming on her tongue. A tiny drop escaped, tracing a path down her chin. Sergio watched it, captivated. He didn’t wipe it away. Instead, he brought his thumb to her lower lip, catching another bead of juice there.
He then held his thumb up, his eyes still holding hers, now glinting with a dark, possessive heat. “Lick it,” he said, his voice low, meant only for her but carrying in the breathless silence.
Without hesitation, without a flicker of shame, she took his thumb into her mouth. Her tongue swept over his skin, cleaning the sweet residue with an intimate, deliberate thoroughness that was both submission and collusion. He let out a soft, shaky breath, the only sign of how deeply the act unraveled him.
When she released him, he finally looked back at Henrik Voss, who was standing frozen, his face a dull red. Enzo, watching from the bar, took a slow sip of whiskey, a smirk of pure admiration settling on his features.
“You were saying something about a price?” Sergio asked, his voice dangerously pleasant. His other hand stroked a slow, absent pattern on Alma’s hip, as if petting a treasured thing already won.
Voss had no words. The other guests, a mix of executives and frightened-looking models, watched in awe, their glasses forgotten. This wasn't a flirtation or a public dalliance. It was a border drawn in blood and sugar, a territory marked with a touch and a taste.
Sergio shifted Alma gently, standing her up before he rose himself, never letting go of her hand. “Our thanks for the hospitality,” he said, not sounding thankful at all. He led her towards the door, the crowd parting for them.
As they crossed the threshold back into the noisy paddock, Alma squeezed his hand once, tight. He glanced down at her, the fierce jealousy in his eyes finally softening into something more vulnerable, more real.
“Next time,” she said softly, so only he could hear, “just tell him to fuck off. It’s faster.”
A genuine laugh broke from him, rough and surprised. He brought their joined hands up, brushing his lips over her knuckles, right there in the open gauntlet of the paddock. “Where’s the fun in that, mi cielo?” he murmured. Then he tugged her forward, back toward the garage, back toward the only world that made sense, leaving the stunned silence of the suite behind them.
Then he tugged her forward, back toward the garage, back toward the only world that made sense, leaving the stunned silence of the suite behind them. The garage was a cathedral of purpose, all noise and carbon fibre, and for a few hours the world shrank to tire temps and fuel loads. He drove qualifying like a man exorcising a demon, grabbing pole by three-tenths.
Enzo just shook his head, watching the timings. “Anger makes him fast. Possession makes him untouchable.”
Later, the silence of his villa was a physical relief, a deep breath after holding one for too long. Alma stood on the terrace, the same spot from the night before, but everything felt different. The performance was over. There was no one left to convince.
Sergio came out, having shed his team kit for a worn grey t-shirt and soft sweatpants. He carried a small tray. “You didn’t eat anything at that circus,” he said, his voice stripped of its earlier performative edge. “Sit.”
He settled into the same wide lounger and patted his lap. It wasn’t a command now, but an invitation. She went, curling into him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder as if they’d practiced the fit for years. The tray held a pot of melted dark chocolate, a small dish of honey, sliced figs, strawberries, and churros.
“Here,” he murmured, dipping a fig into the chocolate. He held it to her lips. “Taste.”
She did, the bitter chocolate and seedy sweetness bursting on her tongue. A drop of honey followed on his fingertip, gold and viscous. He painted it gently across her bottom lip. “Suck.” She did, closing her eyes, the flavor pure and clean.
He fed her pieces of churro dipped in chocolate, berries dragged through honey. Each movement was slow, deliberate. His focus was absolute, watching her mouth, watching her throat move as she swallowed. It was an act of service, a penance, a worship.
“You’re making a mess, mi cielo,” he whispered, his thumb catching a smear of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. He showed it to her. “Clean it.”
She took his thumb into her mouth, her tongue warm and searching. He groaned softly, his other arm tightening around her waist. He fed her another honey-drenched strawberry, the juice running over her fingers this time.
“Now clean yours,” he instructed, his voice thick. She brought her own fingers to her mouth, her eyes locked on his as she sucked the sticky sweetness away. He watched, mesmerized, his breathing shallow.
A string of honey bridged the distance from the dish to her chin. He leaned in, not to kiss her, but to speak against her skin, his lips a breath away. “Look at you. My messy girl.” The term was unbearably tender. “Clean up your mess.”
He offered his fingers again, coated in chocolate and honey. She took them one by one into the heat of her mouth, cleaning them with a languorous thoroughness that made his hips shift beneath her. The world was the two of them, the night air, and this shared, decadent sacrament.
When the food was gone, she was pliant and warm against him, a slight stickiness on their skin. He just held her, his nose buried in her hair, his large hand splayed possessively over her ribcage, feeling the steady beat of her heart.
“They’ll talk about today for years,” she mumbled, drowsy with sugar and trust.
“Let them.” His voice was a rumble in his chest against her ear. “They don’t get to have this. They don’t get to have you licking honey from their hands in the dark. They just get the story. We get the quiet.”
She turned her face, her lips brushing the column of his throat in the closest thing to a kiss they’d ever allowed. He went perfectly still, every nerve alight. She didn’t do it again. She just settled deeper into him, as the distant lights of Monaco blurred into a constellation below their quiet, sticky sanctuary.
She just settled deeper into him, as the distant lights of Monaco blurred into a constellation below their quiet, sticky sanctuary. The peace was a tangible thing, woven from spent adrenaline and sugar, until he shifted slightly beneath her. His hand, which had been stroking her hair, came to rest between them.
He examined his own fingers in the low glow of the pool lights, seeing the glistening trails of honey there, mixed with the prints from her lips. He didn’t speak. He simply brought his thumb to his own mouth, his eyes dark and fixed on her as he slowly, deliberately, sucked the pad of his thumb clean.
He pulled it out with a soft pop. It shone, wet and slick in the moonlight. The sight was more intimate than anything that had happened in the suite. Alma’s breath caught. A current, low and urgent, crackled through her lethargy. She didn’t think. She grabbed his wrist, her grip surprisingly strong, and pulled his hand to her mouth.
She took his thumb between her lips, her tongue sweeping over the salt-sweet skin, tasting the distinct, warm flavor of him beneath the lingering honey. A low, breathy moan vibrated in her throat, unabashed and wanton. She released him just enough to whisper against his skin, her voice husky and sweet. “You taste like honey.”
The sound she made, the words, shattered the last pretense of peace. It was an admission that went beyond the physical, a confession that the sweetness she craved was him, not the garnish. Sergio’s control, so absolute all day, snapped. A sharp, punched-out sound escaped him. In one fluid, powerful motion, he stood up, lifting her with him as if she weighed nothing. The tray clattered forgotten to the terracotta tiles.
He carried her inside, through the cool, dark living room, not to a guest room but straight to the master suite he’d never asked her to enter. The door closed behind them with a heavy, final click. He didn’t put her on the bed. He kept her in his arms, her legs around his waist, her face level with his.
“Say that again,” he demanded, his voice ragged, his forehead pressed to hers. His whole body was tensed, a wire about to break.
“You taste like honey,” she repeated, the words a soft surrender against his mouth. She nipped at his lower lip, tasting him there, too. “And salt. And you.”
That was all it took. His mouth crashed down on hers, not with practiced artistry but with raw, unchecked hunger. It was a claiming, an answer, a devouring. The careful world they’d built of glances and whispered Spanish and staged performances in suites burned away in the heat of it. There was only this: the solid wall of him, the desperate clutch of her hands in his hair, the taste they now shared, and the terrifying, exhilarating freedom of having nothing left to hide.