Chapter 22: Interrupted Celebration
The polished floor of the motorhome’s main lounge felt a world away from the sticky linoleum of the driver’s room. Here, the air smelled of lemon disinfectant and expensive perfume, the chaotic roar of the paddock muted to a dull, respectable murmur. Alma moved through the space with a deceptive calm, her tablet a modern-day shield, directing caterers and politely deflecting two journalists who’d slipped past security.
She was a study in composed reconstruction. Her hair, still slightly damp at the roots from Sergio’s shower, was twisted into a severe, elegant knot. The linen blazer was gone, sacrificed to the frenzy of the previous hour, but her silk camisole and pencil skirt were impeccable, a uniform of normalcy she clung to. No one could look at her and see the woman on her knees, the taste of champion still faint on her tongue.
Sergio held court across the room, surrounded by sponsors in tailored suits. He was back in his champion’s skin, clean-shaven and wearing a fresh team polo, laughing at something a silver-haired man said. But his eyes, dark and restless, kept tracking her. Every pass, every glance was a hot brand on her skin. He’d touch the shoulder of a CFO, nod attentively at a engineer, all while his gaze followed the sway of her hips as she walked towards the strategy office to fetch a misplaced briefing document.
The strategy room was a sanctuary of data. Bank of screens lined one wall, now dark. The long, custom-made table, usually buried under meteorological maps and tire degradation charts, was cleared. The silence was a shock after the lounge. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, leaning against the table, her fingers pressing into the cool, smooth wood.
The door clicked open behind her. She straightened, assuming it was the race engineer.
“The packet for Petronas is on the—”
Strong hands landed on her hips, spinning her around. Sergio. His expression was no longer that of the polished public figure. It was hungry, immediate, the mask completely gone. He’d followed her.
“You walked away,” he said, his voice low. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a statement of fact that seemed to baffle him.
“I’m working,” she said, but the protest was weak, her body already humming in response to his proximity.
“Fuck work.” He walked her backwards until the edge of the table bit into the backs of her thighs. His mouth found hers, not with the frantic desperation of before, but with a deep, possessive certainty that was more devastating. He kissed her like he was reclaiming territory. His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “I can still taste myself on you,” he murmured against her lips.
The words, so filthy and intimate, sent a jolt straight to her core. Her professional resolve, carefully rebuilt, crumbled into dust. She kissed him back, her hands fisting in his polo shirt. He made a sound of approval, a dark rumble in his chest, and his hands left her face to grasp her waist. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, seating her on the high table. The cool surface seeped through her thin skirt.
He stepped between her legs, spreading them with his body, his hands sliding up her thighs, pushing the pencil skirt up to her hips. The air in the room was cool against her exposed skin. His fingertips hooked into the sides of her silk underwear.
“These are in the way,” he said, and she lifted her hips, letting him pull them down and off. He stuffed them into the pocket of his chinos, a gesture so casually proprietary it made her breath catch.
He just looked at her for a moment, his gaze burning a path from her face, down her throat, over the swell of her breasts barely contained by the camisole, to the apex of her thighs, exposed and open to him on the team’s strategic altar. “So fucking perfect,” he breathed.
Then he dropped to his knees.
The sight of Sergio Dorbenson, reigning world champion, on his knees before her, his hands sliding under her thighs to pull her to the very edge of the table, was more powerful than any trophy. He didn’t tease. He put his mouth on her, his tongue finding her clit with unerring, devastating accuracy.
A sharp cry tore from her throat. Her head fell back. Her hands, desperate for purchase, scrambled across the empty table before gripping the far edge, her knuckles white. He ate her with the same focused, relentless intensity he drove his car. There was no hesitancy, no exploration. He knew what he wanted. He licked broad, flat strokes that made her thighs tremble, then zeroed in with tight, rapid circles that built a coil of pure, incandescent pressure in her belly.
“Sergio… God…” she choked out.
He groaned against her, the vibration pushing her closer to the edge. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a spot that made her back arch off the table. He fucked her with his fingers in a steady, piston-like rhythm while his tongue never ceased its torture on her clit. The obscene, wet sounds filled the silent room, a brutal counterpoint to the muffled party chatter beyond the door. She was completely exposed, completely vulnerable, completely his.
The orgasm built like a wave, immense and terrifying. She tried to fight it, to hold on, but he was merciless. He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying a firm, rhythmic pressure, his fingers driving deep.
“I’m gonna… Sergio, I’m coming…” she warned, her voice a broken thing.
He redoubled his efforts. The wave broke. It wasn’t a release; it was a seizure. Her body bowed, a silent scream locked in her throat as pure, electric pleasure detonated through every nerve ending. She convulsed around his fingers, her hips grinding against his mouth as he drank her in, his tongue gentling now, coaxing every last shudder from her spent body.
The door opened.
Alma’s bliss-hazed eyes fluttered open. Over Sergio’s head, which was still buried between her thighs, she saw Enzo Bellini step into the room. The older man stopped. His eyes, sharp and tired, took in the scene: his champion on his knees, Alma sprawled across the strategy table, her skirt around her waist, her body still quivering.
For a long, suspended second, no one moved. Sergio, sensing the shift, went still but didn’t pull away.
Enzo’s face didn’t register shock. It registered a profound, weary resignation. He sighed, a long-suffering sound that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. He turned, and for a heart-stopping moment Alma thought he would leave. Instead, he clicked the door lock shut. The sound was final, heavy.
He walked calmly to the small bar cart in the corner, selected a crystal tumbler, and poured two fingers of amber whiskey from a heavy decanter. He took a slow sip, his back to them, as if giving them a moment. Then he turned, leaned against the cart, and regarded them.
“About fucking time,” he said, his voice dry as dust.
Sergio slowly lifted his head. His mouth was glistening. He looked at his manager, his expression defiant, unashamed. He brought his fingers, slick with her, to his lips and sucked them clean, never breaking eye contact with Enzo. Then he flipped the older man a casual, brutal middle finger.
Alma expected horror. She expected shame to crash over her, icy and debilitating. It didn’t come. A different heat flooded her, dark and secret and thrilling. Sergio’s defiance was a shield. Enzo’s bored acceptance was a permission slip. The fact that this powerful, cynical man saw her, saw them, and didn’t recoil, but simply poured a drink… it was more arousing than any touch.
She felt Sergio’s hands slide back under her thighs, his intention clear. He was going to continue. With an audience. And she, to her own shocking core, wanted him to.
Her eyes met Enzo’s over Sergio’s shoulder. The manager took another sip of whiskey, his gaze impersonal, analytical. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t encouragement. It was acknowledgment. This is the reality. This is the mess. Now deal with it.
Sergio’s mouth returned to her, his tongue licking through her wetness with renewed possessiveness. The coil, impossibly, began to tighten again. A low moan escaped her, loud in the quiet room. She didn’t try to stifle it. She let her head fall back again, but this time her gaze found the ceiling mirror installed for reviewing track maps. She watched the reflection: the powerful man between her legs, the older man sipping his drink by the bar, and her own abandoned form, offered up on the table.
She came again, harder this time, a raw, guttural cry tearing from her throat as the tension shattered into a thousand bright shards. Sergio rode it out, his grip on her thighs bruising in its intensity.
When her spasms subsided, he stood up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his breathing ragged. He turned to face Enzo, placing his body slightly in front of Alma, a protective, territorial stance.
“We done?” Sergio asked, his voice rough.
Enzo finished his whiskey. “The Swiss watch people leave in twenty minutes. You need to be charming for twelve of them.” He placed the glass down with a soft click. “And for Christ’s sake, use the bedroom suite next time. This table costs more than your first car.”
He walked to the door, unlocked it, and paused. He didn’t look back. “Alma? The press summary for Italy is on your desk. It needs a polish before it goes out at seven.”
Then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him.
The silence he left was different. Charged, but now with a terrible clarity. Sergio turned to her, his hands coming up to cup her face. “Alma—”
She kisses him deep and dirty and says “I didn’t mind the audience”
Sergio’s grin is feral, he helps her smooth her clothes back into place and kisses her forehead before they go back to work