Chapter 7: Multitasking
The phone’s shrill, insistent ring sliced through the room’s heavy silence like a spike strip on a straight. It was the specific, obnoxious cadence Fernando reserved for the team principal’s direct line.
Bella felt him freeze inside her, the lazy, deep rhythm of his hips stuttering to a halt. He was buried to the hilt, her body stretched and full around him, a sweaty, perfect anchor. She whimpered, a high, needy sound, and clenched around him instinctively, a silent plea. Don’t stop.
“Joder,” he growled against the pulse hammering in her throat. His hand, which had been tangled in her hair, tightened. The other, splayed possessively over the aching bruises on her ass, stilled.
The phone rang again, a digital snare drum counting out his neglect.
“Nando, please,” she whispered, arching her back, trying to recapture the movement. The angle shifted, and he slid even deeper, pulling a gasp from both of them.
He let out a long, frustrated breath, warm against her damp skin. “I have to answer it.”
“No, you don’t,” she murmured, lifting her hips, trying to ride him. “Let it go to voicemail.”
“He’ll just call back. And then he’ll send security.” His voice was gravel, roughened by lust and annoyance. He withdrew almost completely, the sudden emptiness a cruel shock. “This will just take a minute.”
Before she could protest further, he hooked his hands under her ass. With a grunt of effort, he stood, lifting her with him. She clung to his neck, her legs locking around his waist as he pulled himself fully back into her with a smooth, upward surge that punched the air from her lungs. He was still hard, still impossibly deep inside her as he took his first step.
Walking was a slow, obscene ballet. Each step jolted him within her, a delicious, grinding friction that made her teeth clamp down on a moan. He carried her through the suite’s main living area, past the scattered debris of room service and discarded clothes, his bare feet silent on the thick carpet. Her own feet, dangling, brushed nothing. She was entirely in his grasp, impaled and carried.
He shouldered his way into the smaller office nook. The chair—the old, cracked leather one he favored, the one that faced the window where, on better days, he could watch the sea—awaited. He turned and sat down heavily, the worn springs groaning in protest under their combined weight.
She settled onto his lap, adjusting to the new angle. It was deeper, more consuming. She let her head fall forward, her lips finding the salty skin of his neck, the sharp line of his jaw. She tasted the clean sweat there, the faint, lingering trace of her own scent from earlier. She pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along his stubble, her tongue darting out to trace the shell of his ear.
With his free hand, Fernando snagged the still-ringing satellite phone from the desk. He hit the answer button and brought it to his ear, his other hand immediately returning to its grip on her ass, fingers digging into the mottled purple and blue.
“Dígame,” he said, his voice shockingly calm, a flat professional monotone.
The voice on the other end was a torrent of staticky, agitated Spanish. “Fernando! Where the hell have you been? Debrief started twenty minutes ago! The engineers are waiting, the data from FP2—”
“I am aware of the schedule,” Fernando cut in, his tone even. His hand on her ass flexed, and he began to move her, a subtle, slow rock of her hips on his cock. It was barely a movement, just enough to make her breath catch. She muffled a moan against his neck, biting down on the hard muscle of his shoulder to stay quiet.
She rode the gentle rhythm he set, her own hips answering in tiny, eager circles. The sensation was a slow, sweet burn, a stark contrast to the furious tension in the voice leaking from the phone.
“—absolutely unacceptable. We have a car balance issue that we must address. Your feedback is critical. Where are you?”
Fernando’s gaze drifted from the window to the top of Bella’s head, where her dark hair spilled across his chest. He watched her, his eyes dark and preoccupied, as the team principal ranted. He didn’t hear the words, not really. He heard the tone, the bluster of a man trying to control a force of nature. It usually grated, this posturing. It usually lit a fuse in his gut.
But not today.
Today, he had his pretty little Belladita wrapped around him, her desperate, tight little body eager for more. He could feel her inner muscles fluttering around his shaft, a rhythmic, clenching pulse of pure need. He felt the hot, slick spill of her arousal coating him with each minute rock of her hips. The world outside, the car, the data, the fucking debrief—it all seemed like a poorly rendered simulation.
“The car is understeering into the high-speed chicane,” Fernando stated, his voice detached, analytical. His thumb stroked the swollen, heated skin between her ass cheeks, tracing a light circle near where their bodies joined. Bella shuddered, her kiss on his jaw turning into a slow, sucking bite. “It’s not the front wing. It’s the rear ride height. You’re losing downforce on the exit.”
He paused, listening to the sputtered response on the other end. His hand on her ass tightened, guiding her into a slightly faster, more deliberate grind. She was taking him so completely, so perfectly. He could feel every exquisite fold, every pulse of her.
“No,” he interrupted, a faint edge of impatience finally coloring his tone. “Listen to me. The numbers lie. The seat of my pants doesn’t. It’s the rear. Fix it.”
Bella, emboldened by his distraction, by the sheer surreality of the moment, let one of her hands trail down his chest, over the hard ridges of his stomach. She dipped lower, her fingers finding the coarse, dark hair at his base, then lower still, to where their bodies met. Her fingertips brushed her own stretched, slick flesh, then the thick root of him where he disappeared inside her. A soft, whimpering sigh escaped her lips, directly into his ear.
Fernando’s breath hitched, a sharp, audible sound. On the other end of the line, the team principal was mid-sentence.
“What? Fernando, are you there?”
“I have to go,” Fernando said, his voice suddenly thicker, lower. He wasn’t even trying to sound professional anymore.
“What? No! We need to discuss the tire strategy!”
“Send me the data. I’ll look at it tonight.” His hand left her ass and clamped over the mouthpiece of the phone. He turned his head, capturing Bella’s mouth in a fierce, open kiss. She could taste his frustration, his simmering lust. He swiveled his hips upward, a sharp, shallow thrust that made her back arch. He broke the kiss, panting, and brought the phone back to his ear.
“Do it,” he commanded, his voice rough with exertion. “Adiós.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He stabbed the ‘end call’ button with his thumb and flung the phone onto the desk. It skittered across the polished wood and clattered to the floor.
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by their ragged breathing. He stared at her, his eyes blazing with a wild, unchecked fire. The calm was gone, burned away by the feel of her fingering herself around his cock.
“You,” he breathed, his hands coming up to frame her face, his thumbs stroking her feverish cheeks. “You little devil. You did that on purpose.”
She gave him a dazed, triumphant smile, her hips still rotating slowly, maddeningly. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You don’t?” he said, his voice dropping to a predatory purr. His hands slid from her face down to her throat, his thumbs resting lightly on her jaw. It wasn’t a squeeze, just a claiming. “Fingering your filthy little cunt while I’m on the phone with my boss?”
His hips pistoned up once, a sharp, brutal thrust that knocked a gasp from her lungs. “Trying to make me lose my fucking mind?”
She rocked against him, meeting his thrust, her nails digging into his shoulders. “It worked.”
He grinned, wicked and ruined, and kissed her deep and dirty. It was a conquest of a kiss, all tongue and teeth and shared, panting breath. He devoured the lie from her lips, tasting her triumph and her want.
His hands moved to her hips, his grip vise-like. He began to bounce her on his cock, deep and rough. He set a punishing pace, driving her down onto him with each upward slam of his own hips. The old leather chair squealed in protest, a rhythmic counterpoint to the wet, slapping sound of their joining.
“You love this, don’t you?” he grunted, his forehead damp against hers. “You love getting fucked while the whole world waits.”
“Yes!” she cried out, her head thrown back. The world had narrowed to the creak of the chair, the smell of sex and leather, the exquisite burn of him filling her over and over. “Fuck, Nando, yes!”
“Tell me,” he demanded, his rhythm never faltering. “Tell me what you love.”
She clung to him, chanting a litany of praise and pleas. “I love your cock… I love how deep you go… I love when you’re rough… please, don’t stop…”
He spanked her ass once, a sharp crack that echoed in the quiet room. The impact bloomed hot across the existing bruises, a bright spike of pain that melted instantly into pleasure. “Cum,” he commanded, his voice raw and guttural. “Cum for me. Milk my cock. Do it.”
The command, the sting, the relentless pounding—it shattered her. Her orgasm tore through her with violent, breathtaking force. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound, as her body convulsed around him. Her cunt clenched and fluttered, a tight, wet fist milking his length just as he’d ordered.
The sensation of her pulsing around him, so tight and desperate, broke his control. With a final, roared curse, he slammed her down onto him and held her there, grinding as his own release erupted. He came deep inside her tight, wet cunt, jet after hot jet, filling her with a profound, possessive heat.
He held her close as they shuddered together, both breathless and wrecked. He pulled her into a messy kiss, tasting the salt of sweat and the remnants of her cry. It was desperate, full of teeth and tongue.
Then it shifted. The desperation softened into something else. His lips gentled, moving over hers with a sudden, breathtaking sweetness. The kiss turned playful and sweet, a slow exploration that made her heart stutter.
He broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against hers, his breathing still ragged. “Mi vida,” he whispered, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. “You are perfect. You take me so perfectly.”
He kissed her eyelids, her nose, the corner of her swollen mouth. “Te amo,” he breathed into the space between them, the words softer than any touch. “I love you, Bella.”
She smiled back at him, the expression slow and radiant, transforming her bruised and sweat-sheened face. She nuzzled into the hollow of his throat, her lips soft against his pulse. She was happy, sated, a weighted warmth in his lap.
For a long moment, they just breathed, tangled in the creaking leather chair. Then he shifted, intending to lift her. A hot, sudden flood leaked from her, a thick trickle of his release escaping her well-used cunt and tracing a path down his balls and onto the leather beneath them.
She felt it, the warm spill against his skin. A possessive, hungry look flashed in her eyes. Before he could move, her hand slipped between their bodies.
Her greedy little fingers dove into the mess, scooping up the pooling mix of their cum. She brought her fingertips to her mouth, her eyes locked on his, and sucked them clean with a soft, obscene pop. She tasted them, her tongue swirling.
Then her hand returned, stroking the base of his cock where he was still half-buried inside her, gathering more. She coated two fingers in the slick mixture. With a shy, defiant smile, she raised them to his lips. “Taste us, Nando,” she whispered, her voice husky. “We taste so good.”
He didn’t hesitate. He opened his mouth, capturing her fingers, and sucked them clean. The taste was complex, salty and musky and uniquely theirs—her arousal, his spend, the faint tang of her lotion. A deep, approving groan vibrated in his chest. “Fuck,” he breathed against her skin.
He pulled her into a kiss, deep and slow and greedy. He licked into her mouth, sharing the taste, consuming it. It was a kiss that spoke of ownership and reciprocity, a filthy, perfect communion.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathless. The reality of the room seeped back in: the phone on the floor, the data waiting, the world pressing at the suite’s door. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “The team will be sending files. I have to look.”
“I know,” she said, but her hands were still tracing the hard lines of his shoulders, reluctant to let go.
“You should rest. Your skin… it needs it.” His thumb brushed the worst bite on her neck, now neatly bandaged. The concern in his voice was real, layered over the exhaustion.
She shook her head, a stubborn set to her jaw. “I’ll get your laptop. I can preview the data, highlight the key telemetry. You can focus on the feel.” It was what she always did, but now the offer felt different, intimate.
He studied her, this woman who had just taken his brutal love and answered it with a hunger that matched his own. He saw the assistant, the caretaker, and the utterly wanton creature she became just for him, all woven into one. “Alright,” he conceded softly. “But you sit with me.”
He helped her stand, a slick, separating ache. He fetched a towel from the bathroom, cleaned himself with brisk efficiency, and tossed it to her. While she blotted her thighs, he pulled on a pair of soft grey sweatpants, leaving his chest bare. The physical marks of their night—scratches, a few bites of her own—were stark against his skin.
He righted the heavy office chair and sat. Bella returned, wearing only his discarded button-down from the night before. It swallowed her, the cuffs hanging past her fingertips. She carried his laptop and a bottle of water. She didn’t take the other chair. Instead, she settled sideways in his lap again, her legs curled beside her, her back against the armrest. It was a position of work, but also of constant contact.
He opened the laptop, the screen casting a blue glow on their faces. Sheets of data, graphs of tire degradation, rear suspension travel maps filled the screen. He began to scroll, his eyes scanning numbers with a trained, fatigued focus.
Her fingers reached out, tracing a line on the graph tracking rear downforce through the high-speed chicane. “See this dip?” she murmured, her head close to his, her voice all business. “It’s not gradual. It’s a cliff. Exactly where you said you felt it.”
He grunted, zooming in. “The damper response is too slow. They’re chasing aero when it’s mechanical.” He began typing a response to the engineers, his fingers flying. His other hand rested on her bare thigh, his thumb absently stroking the fingerprint bruises there.
She read the raw data streams, translating the numbers into the sensations he’d described in the car. “Lateral G’s are spiking right before it falls away. The car’s hopping. It’s losing contact.”
“Sí,” he said, a spark of engagement lighting his tired eyes. He typed faster, his diagnosis becoming a direct, clipped command. He was in his element, the genius of feeling translated into code and instruction.
Bella watched his profile, the intense concentration, the way his brow furrowed. This was the other side of his passion. The fury of the night, the precision of the day. Both all-consuming. Both true. She felt a swelling in her chest that had nothing to do with the ache between her legs.
He sent the email with a decisive click and closed the laptop. The room was darkening with late afternoon. He looked down at her, seeing the fatigue finally etching itself around her eyes. “You need to sleep, Bella.”
“So do you.”
“I will.” He didn’t move. His hand slid from her thigh to cup the back of her head, drawing her to him. He kissed her forehead, a long, quiet press of his lips. “Come on.”
He carried her to the bed, not the ravaged one from the night, but to the pristine second bedroom in the suite. He peeled his shirt from her, laid her on the cool sheets, and pulled the duvet over her. He climbed in beside her, drawing her back against his chest, his body a solid wall of heat around her.
She drifted almost immediately, her breathing deepening. He held her, listening to the sound, watching the shadows lengthen across the ceiling. The words he’d said, the words she’d echoed, hung in the quiet air between them, real and terrifying.
His phone buzzed once on the nightstand—a new email, the engineers’ response. He ignored it. For now, the only rhythm that mattered was the slow, steady beat of her heart against his arm. Sleep pulled him under, dragging him down into a dreamless dark where the only thing that existed was the weight of her in his arms and the salt-and-musk taste of them both still on his tongue.
He woke to the faint, predawn glow painting the room in shades of monochrome grey. The first conscious sensation was her weight, a warm and perfect pressure against his chest. The second was a deep, radiating ache in his muscles, a pleasant soreness that spoke of exertion and release.
She was already awake. He could tell by the even, deliberate rhythm of her breathing, by the way her fingers traced abstract patterns on his sternum. He didn’t open his eyes. He tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer, burying his face in the messy cloud of her hair. He inhaled deeply. She smelled of sleep, of his soap, of them.
“I can hear you thinking,” he murmured, his voice graveled with sleep.
She didn’t deny it. Her fingers stilled. “My mind is loud,” she whispered back. “It’s too quiet in here.”
He knew what she meant. The silence after the storm was a vast and echoing thing. It left room for everything unsaid, for the terrifying scale of what they’d done. He opened his eyes then, looking down at the top of her head. The delicate part in her dark hair seemed infinitely fragile.
Gently, he shifted. He rolled onto his side, facing her, and hooked a finger under her chin. He guided her until she was looking at him. In the grey light, her face was a pale moon, her eyes wide and dark pools holding galaxies of unspoken fear and hope. The purpling bite on her neck was a stark, violent jewel against her skin.
“Bella,” he said, her name a prayer on his lips. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs sweeping over the high arches of her cheekbones. His touch was a reverence.
“This isn’t just sex,” he began, the words forming slowly, carefully, as if he were assembling something delicate and new. “What I feel for you… it has never been just that. Last night… that was me. All of me. The ugly, the possessive, the fucking animal. You saw it. You took it.” His throat tightened. He could see the flicker of memory in her eyes, feel the echo of his own hands on her skin.
“And you’re still here,” he breathed, wonder threading through the rasp. “You asked for more.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. “I want to give you everything. I want you to be mine. Not just here. Not just in the dark. Always.”
He opened his eyes, forcing himself to hold her gaze, to let her see the terrifying vulnerability there. “I am in love with you, Isabella Rossi. Desperately. Irreversibly. Say you’ll be mine.”
A single, perfect tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracing a slow path down to his thumb. A smile broke over her face then, so brilliant it seemed to generate its own light in the dim room. It was joy, pure and unadulterated.
“I have been yours for years,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I just didn’t know I was allowed to say it.” She lifted a hand, covering his where it held her face, pressing his palm harder against her skin. “Yes. Always.”
He kissed her then. It was nothing like the kisses from the night before. There was no bruising hunger, no desperate clash of teeth. This was soft, a slow melding of lips, a tender exchange of breath. It was a sealing of a pact. When he pulled back, he rested his lips against the bandage on her neck, a silent apology and a promise.
Her hand slipped between them, over the waistband of his sweatpants. He caught her wrist, his grip firm but gentle.
“No, mi amor,” he said, his voice thick. “Look at you.” He gestured at the sprawling map of bruises visible even in the low light. “You’re sore. I can see it in the way you move.”
“I don’t care,” she argued, but it was weak. Her body was a symphony of aches, a pleasant, heavy throbbing between her legs, a sharp tenderness on her hips and neck.
“I do,” he said, finality in his tone. He kissed her knuckles. “Today, I take care of you. Let me.”
He swung his legs out of bed. The room was cool. He fetched a robe for himself and wrapped her in a soft, thick blanket. He led her to the bathroom, not the scene of last night’s frantic cleansing, but to a brushed nickel shower stall. He adjusted the water to a warm, gentle stream.
He undid the blanket, letting it pool at her feet. He stood her under the spray, joining her a moment later. He washed her hair with a meticulous, tender focus, massaging her scalp until she moaned with a different kind of pleasure. He soaped her body with a soft cloth, his hands gliding over her curves with a possession that was healing, not claiming.
He dried her with a fluffy towel, patting every bruise with infinite care. He led her back to the bedroom, to her suitcase. He knelt and opened it, sorting through the contents with a focus usually reserved for race strategy.
He selected a dress. It was a simple sheath of dove-grey silk, with a high, ruffled neck and long sleeves. It was pretty, feminine, and it would cover every mark. He held it up for her approval. She nodded, her eyes soft.
He helped her step into it, his hands ghosting up her calves, her thighs, easing the fabric over her hips. He zipped it up the back, his fingertips skimming her spine. He turned her to face the mirror.
The woman who looked back was transformed. The dress covered the violence, presenting a vision of elegant composure. But her eyes were different. They held a secret, a knowledge that glowed from within. She looked well-loved. Ruined and restored.
He dressed himself in dark trousers and a simple black sweater. He took her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Come,” he said. “The world is waiting.”
“Will they know?” she asked, a flicker of her old, professional anxiety surfacing.
He looked at their joined hands, then back at her face, at the secret in her eyes. He brought her knuckles to his lips. “Let them try to prove it.”
They walked out of the suite, into the hushed hotel corridor. Her body sang with a chorus of pains, each one a testament. His hand in hers was an anchor, a claim. The elevator doors slid open. They stepped inside, a united front facing the mirrored walls. He didn’t let go. He would never let go again.