Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
My breath catches.
Holy. Fuck.
His suit is unzipped to his waist, the arms tied loosely around him, revealing the black compression shirt that is still very much clinging to every sharp muscle of his torso - perhaps even more so than before.
His hair is still messy from the helmet, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his skin, like he’s just finished something physically demanding.
Which, I guess, he has.
His blue eyes find mine immediately, and his resulting smirk?
Devastating.
He looks unbelievable. Like he isn’t even real.
“Poppy.”
His voice is pure liquid confidence, laced with something infuriatingly amused.
He pushes off the couch, standing tall and commanding. I faintly register the sound of the door closing - no doubt my escort has left us in peace. But I can’t look away, can’t take my eyes off him.
My stomach tightens as he starts toward me, and I inhale sharply.
I should say something. I should act normal.
In fact, I should tell him that sending someone to collect me is the most obnoxious thing he’s ever done.
Instead, all I manage is a stuttered out -
“You look…”
My words trail off as he stops inches away, and Frederic lifts a brow, grinning.
“Go on.”
I snap my mouth shut, hating myself.
He laughs softly, reaching up to pull the zipper of his suit a little higher. It’s like he’s teasing me, and I have to wonder just how much he knows this will be affecting me.
“Well?” he drawls, his blue eyes dancing over my face. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
I blink, forcing myself to focus.
Right. The race.
“Uh, yeah. Congratulations.”
He smirks. “That was convincing.”
I exhale, rolling my eyes. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to throw myself at your feet?”
Frederic hums, tilting his head. “Not your worst idea.”
I glare, though I’m very much fighting back a smile. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, reaching out, his fingers brushing lightly over my wrist, “here you are.”
A shiver races up my spine, my pulse thrumming beneath his touch.
Because for the first time today, it’s just us.
No glass barriers. No roaring crowds. No flashing cameras or blurred images on a screen.
And he knows it.
His fingers skim my wrist, light as air, his thumb tracing a slow, lazy circle over my skin. His blue eyes flick over me, taking me in.
It’s an innocent enough touch, an innocent enough look, but the heat behind his hands and his eyes is unmistakable.
And everything about it burns.
“So,” he murmurs, his voice low, smooth, “what did you think?”
I blink, trying to focus.
“What?”
He smirks. “Of the session.”
Shit.
“It was…” I clear my throat, forcing my voice to work. “It was fast.”
Frederic chuckles, the sound deep and rich.
“Fast?”
“Well, yeah,” I huff. “I mean - it’s Formula One, isn’t it?”
He grins. “Of course. I was just hoping for a little more insight than that.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Would you like me to start talking about tire compounds and brake temperatures?”
His expression lights up, all mock surprise.
“You’ve been paying attention.”
“Okay, I watched one segment on the big screen about tire wear, Freddie. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Freddie,” he repeats as he takes a step forwards, almost as though he’s testing it out on his tongue. "I like when you call me that."
“Nobody else calls you that?” I ask.
“No.”
I shake my head, stepping back, desperate to escape the heat creeping up my neck.
“Ah. Well, I don’t - I don’t have to call you that.”
He smirks, stepping forwards, effectively following me.
“Mon ange, you can call me whatever you want.”
Argh - why oh why does that sound so filthy?!
Flustered, I try to turn my attention to literally anything else.
My eyes land on the couch, where a freshly opened water bottle and a white towel are resting.
“You’re not too tired, are you?”
Frederic tilts his head, reading between the lines.
“Why?” he asks, a teasing edge to his voice. “Worried about me?”
I scoff. “I just don’t want to be blamed if you’re exhausted on race day.”
His grin deepens, something wicked sparking in his eyes as he steps closer.
“I think we both know that if I’m exhausted on race day, it won’t be because of the car.”
His fingers brush against the side of my waist, sending heat curling through me, and my breath catches as he moves in.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Not like the last time he kissed me - when he was desperate and wild, impatient to take what he wanted.
This is different.
This is measured. Intoxicating, even.
His lips hover just above mine, so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my skin, so close that the space between us is practically humming with tension.
But then a voice clears from the doorway.
Frederic sighs before closing his eyes for a moment, like he’s gathering patience.
I practically leap away from him, turning around quickly and coming face-to-face with who I can only assume is one of his team members.
The man is tall, built and in full Mercedes gear. His expression is carefully blank, but his eyes flick between us like he’s just walked in on something far too intimate.