Chapter 21: Champagne & Conquest
The roar of the garage was a physical thing, a wall of sound made of revving engines, shrieking air guns, and a hundred shouted conversations. But as Sergio and Alma walked through it, hand in hand, a pocket of silence traveled with them. It was the silence of halted words, of held breaths, of mechanics and engineers and public relations people watching, calculating, understanding.
Sergio didn’t acknowledge any of it. He moved with the arrogant grace of a man who had just taken pole position by three-tenths, his focus seemingly on the data screen a technician was holding up. But his thumb kept stroking the back of Alma’s hand, a tiny, relentless caress that belied his detached expression.
Enzo materialized, shoving two bottles of electrolyte drink into Sergio’s free hand. “Hydrate. Now. And the FIA wants a word about the track limits in Q2. They’re being pricks about the exit of Turn 10.”
“Tell them to check their own sensors. My telemetry is clean,” Sergio said, his voice flat. He finally dropped Alma’s hand to take the bottles, but his eyes found hers. “Stay with me.”
It wasn’t a question. She nodded, falling into the familiar role, her tablet now active, a shield against the staring eyes. She followed him through the gauntlet—the FIA steward, a brief, tense exchange in rapid Spanish; his race engineer, a flurry of technical jargon about tire deg and brake temps; a mob of microphones and cameras, which he bypassed with a terse, “Tomorrow, after the race.”
Through it all, she felt the heat of his attention like a spotlight. When a journalist from Corriere della Sera pushed too close, Sergio’s arm slid around her waist, pulling her back against his side, a clear, territorial move. The journalist’s eyebrows shot up, a smirk playing on his lips. Alma kept her face neutral, but her blood sang.
The celebration in the motorhome was already boiling over when they entered. The roar redoubled. “Sergio! Il campione!” Someone shoved a magnum of champagne into his hands. He popped the cork with practiced ease, the foam geysering into the air, showering a cluster of mechanics who whooped with delight.
He was swept into the maelstrom, backslapped, embraced, toasted. Alma hovered at the periphery, a silent satellite to his sun. She watched him, the effortless way he held the room, his laughter loud and genuine, the dark intensity from the bathroom completely masked by a champion’s charismatic glow. He drank from the bottle, the line of his throat working as he swallowed.
Then his eyes cut through the crowd and found her. The smile on his face didn’t change, but something in his gaze sharpened, darkened. He held her look for three long seconds before turning to clink bottles with his strategist.
A hand touched her elbow. Enzo, his face sweaty and happy. “He is unbeatable today, no? A demon. You are good for him.” The trainer’s expression was knowing, devoid of judgement. “But he will crash soon. The adrenaline… it always finds a release. Be ready.”
Enzo melted back into the crowd. Alma understood. She watched as Sergio drained the champagne, as he grabbed another bottle, shaking it and spraying a shrieking publicist. The energy around him was escalating, vibrating on the edge of chaos. His jubilation was real, but beneath it, she could see the coiled spring, the same wildness that had pinned her to the shower tiles. It was looking for a target.
He finally broke from the crowd, striding towards her. Champagne dripped from his hair, his race suit was half-unzipped, revealing the damp t-shirt beneath. He smelled of sweat, victory, and Brut champagne.
“Out,” he said, his voice low, for her ears only. The word was guttural, raw.
“Sergio, the team dinner…”
“Now, Alma.”
He didn’t take her hand this time. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, his grip firm, and pulled her through a side door, into the sterile, brightly-lit back corridor that led to the private driver facilities. The noise of the party faded to a muffled thunder. Her heels clicked a frantic staccato on the linoleum as she hurried to keep up with his long, impatient strides.
He stopped at a nondescript door marked ‘04’, fumbled with a keypad, and shoved it open, pulling her inside. The lock clicked shut behind them, plunging them into sudden, profound quiet. It was a small, utilitarian room: a leather couch, a low table littered with water bottles and energy gel wrappers, a television mounted on the wall, silent.
Before her eyes could adjust, he had her. He spun her, pressing her back against the cold door, his body slamming into hers, driving the air from her lungs. His mouth came down on hers, a hot, ravenous collision. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a consumption. She tasted the sweet-sharp champagne on his tongue, felt the desperate hunger in the scrape of his teeth.
He tore his mouth from hers, his breath ragged. “I saw them looking at you,” he growled against her lips. “All of them. Every fucking one.”
His hands went to the buttons of her linen blazer, fumbling in his haste. He gave up, his fingers curling into the fabric at her shoulders and yanking down, hard. The crisp material trapped her arms at her elbows, pinning her. A button popped and skittered across the floor. He didn’t seem to notice. His mouth was on her neck, sucking at the sensitive skin under her ear, teeth grazing the old bite mark.
“Sergio,” she gasped, a protest that got lost in a moan as his hands found her breasts, cupping them through her silk camisole. His thumbs rubbed her nipples to stiff points.
“Mine,” he breathed, the word a hot puff against her damp skin. He pushed the silk down, exposing the lace of her bra. He didn’t bother with the clasp. He simply bent his head and took one peaked nipple into his mouth through the lace, biting down with just enough pressure to make her cry out, a sharp, pleasure-pained sound that echoed in the small room.
The wet lace abraded her, his tongue a hot, relentless point. His free hand slid down her stomach, over the pencil skirt, searching for the hem. He shoved it up, his fingers digging into the flesh of her thigh. He found the edge of her underwear, his fingertips brushing the soaked silk. He groaned, a deep, animal sound, and tried to push two fingers inside her.
That’s when she pushed back.
“No.” The word was firm, a stone in the torrent.
He froze, his mouth still on her breast, his fingers poised at her entrance. He lifted his head, his eyes black with confusion and rampant need. “What?”
She brought her hands up, still constrained by the jacket, and placed them on his chest. She pushed, firmly. “Sit down.”
He stared at her, his chest heaving. For a heartbeat, she thought he would refuse, that the wild thing in him would overpower her completely. Then, something shifted in his gaze. A flicker of understanding, of ceding control. He took a stumbling step back, then another, until his legs hit the low couch and he sat down heavily.
The jacket fell from her arms. She let it pool on the floor. She stepped out of her heels, never breaking eye contact. The silence was absolute, thick with the sound of their breathing. Outside, the distant roar of the party was a world away.
She approached him, her movements slow, deliberate. She stood before him, between his spread knees. He looked up at her, his expression naked, stripped of the champion’s arrogance. Here, he was just a man, buzzing with adrenaline and desperate for her.
She reached for the zip of his race suit, tugging it down the rest of the way. He helped her shrug it off his shoulders, letting it fall behind him on the couch. His t-shirt was next. She pulled it over his head, revealing the sweat-sheened, powerfully defined planes of his chest and abdomen. Her fingers traced the lines of muscle, the old scar from a long-ago biking accident on his ribs.
Then she sank to her knees on the hard floor.
His breath hitched. He watched her, mesmerized, as her hands went to the waistband of his fireproof undershorts. She hooked her fingers in them and pulled them down, freeing his cock. It sprang out, fully erect, thick and veined and already glistening at the tip.
She looked up at him, holding his burning gaze. A small, private smile touched her lips. “Mi campeón,” she whispered, her voice husky. “Let me give you your prize.”
She didn’t start with his cock. She leaned forward, her lips brushing the coarse hair at the base. She nuzzled his balls, inhaling his musk, a heady mix of sweat, clean skin, and pure male. She took one heavy sac into her mouth, rolling it gently with her tongue, worshipping the weight and heat of him. He made a choked sound, his hands flying to her head, his fingers tangling in her curls. But he didn’t force. He just held on.
She lavished attention there, licking, sucking, until his thighs trembled and a low, continuous groan vibrated in his chest. Only then did she trail her tongue up the thick vein on the underside of his shaft, a slow, tortuous journey. She reached the head and swirled her tongue around the flared crown, collecting the salty-bitter pre-come that had beaded there.
“Alma… Dios…” he rasped.
She opened her mouth and took him in, slowly, sinking down until she felt the head nudge the back of her throat. She relaxed her jaw, willed her throat open, and took him deeper. His guttural curse was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard.
She began to move, establishing a rhythm that was both relentless and reverent. She used her hand at the base of his shaft, twisting in time with the motion of her mouth. She looked up at him through her lashes, watching his face contort with pleasure, his eyes screwed shut, his teeth bared. The raw power of him, this man who commanded a thousand-horsepiece machine with brutal precision, now utterly at the mercy of her mouth, was the most potent aphrodisiac she’d ever known.
She sped up, her movements becoming sloppy, hungry. Drool slicked her chin, mixing with his own fluids. The sounds were obscenely wet, filthily intimate. She took him deep again and again, her nose pressed into the dark hair at his groin, her throat working around him.
“I’m gonna… Alma, I’m gonna come…” he warned, his voice strangled.
She didn’t pull away. She hummed around him, the vibration making his whole body jerk. She reached between his legs, cupping his balls, feeling them draw up tight.
With a roar that was part shout, part sob, he came. The first jet hit the back of her throat, hot and bitter. She swallowed convulsively, keeping her mouth sealed tightly around him as pulse after pulse emptied into her. His hips bucked off the couch, his hands clutching her head like a lifeline as he rode out the seizure of his orgasm.
When the last tremor subsided, he collapsed back against the couch, boneless, utterly spent. She gently released him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stayed on her knees, her own arousal a fierce, damp ache between her legs, watching him.
His chest rose and fell like he’d run a marathon. Slowly, he opened his eyes. They were clear, the frantic energy completely dissipated, replaced by a deep, sated awe. He looked down at her, at his own spend glistening on her lips.
He reached out a trembling hand, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “Come here,” he whispered, his voice shot.
She rose, her knees protesting, and let him pull her onto the couch, onto his lap. He held her close, his face buried in her hair. They sat like that for a long time, in the silent, stolen room, as the world celebrated his victory without them.
“That,” he finally murmured into her hair, his voice thick with emotion, “was the best win of my life.”
She nestled against him, feeling the rapid, steady beat of his heart begin to slow. The adrenaline had found its release. For now, the storm had passed. But as she kissed the damp skin of his shoulder, she knew with absolute certainty it was only a temporary calm. The real race was just beginning, and the track was more dangerous than any street circuit. It was the uncharted territory between them.