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The air in the driver’s room carried the faint trace of cleaning products, but underneath it, Max could smell something else. Something sweet and warm, like honey left in the sun. He ignored it. He had a job to do.
He leaned against the door frame, notepad tucked under his arm, and watched the man sitting on the small sofa across the room. Charles Leclerc looked exactly like his press photos, which was a rare thing for a public figure. The soft brown hair was a little disheveled, falling over his forehead, and his green eyes were fixed on the phone in his hands. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans, but it looked like designer fabric on him. He was, by any objective standard, beautiful. That was the problem.
According to the sources Max had cultivated over three years of writing his column, Charles Leclerc was also a problem. A string of rumored affairs with other drivers, a reputation for using his omega status to manipulate situations, and a press team that had spun every questionable decision into a narrative of tragic romance. Max had read the files. He knew the patterns. He was tired of watching the sport’s management let this man get away with everything because he had a pretty face and a set of pheromones that could knock an alpha off their feet from twenty meters away.
Max cleared his throat.
Charles looked up from his phone. The green eyes were bright, unguarded, and they widened slightly when they landed on Max. “Oh. You’re early.”
“I’m always early,” Max said. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The seat opposite Charles was a small armchair, but Max didn’t sit down. He stayed standing, letting his height and presence fill the space. “I have a tight schedule. I was told you had an hour.”
Charles put his phone down on the sofa cushion beside him, face down. He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other. The movement was slow, deliberate, and it drew Max’s attention to the line of his thigh. “I was told you wanted a deep interview. Something personal.”
“I do,” Max said. “I write a column. You know that. ‘Inside the Grid.’ I talk to people. I find angles others miss.”
“You write about scandals,” Charles said. The smile that touched his lips was small and knowing. “You write about who is sleeping with whom. Who is fighting with management. Which driver is about to get dropped because their sponsor has had enough of their private life.”
Max didn’t deny it. “I write about what people want to read.”
“And you think I can give you that.” Charles tilted his head. The movement exposed the column of his throat. There was no mark on his scent gland, no claim. At least not a visible one. “You think I have secrets.”
“I know you do,” Max said. He pulled out his notepad and a pen. “Let’s start with the basics. The photos from Monaco last month. You were seen leaving a party with Pierre Gasly at three in the morning. He’s an alpha. You’re an omega. Your publicist said you were just friends catching up after the race.”
Charles’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Pierre is a friend. We grew up together.”
“You grew up together and you were seen together at a party until three in the morning, and then you went back to the same hotel,” Max said. He wrote the date down in his notes, even though he had it memorized. The act of writing was part of the intimidation. “Nobody buys the friend story. You’re too attractive. He’s too available. And you were both alone in a city where everyone knows everyone else’s business.”
“Is that a question or an accusation?” Charles’s voice was calm, even pleasant. It was the voice of someone who had been handling the press since he was a teenager.
“It’s an observation,” Max said. “I’m trying to understand the pattern. There was the thing with Carlos last year, after the Spanish Grand Prix. The thing with the Red Bull driver before that, though I never got that confirmed. And there was the rumor about the team principal’s son, but I heard that one was shut down by your lawyers quite fast.”
Charles’s expression did not change. He looked at Max for a long moment, and then he laughed. It was a soft sound, almost musical. “You have done your homework.”
“It’s my job.”
“And your job is to ruin reputations,” Charles said. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The movement brought him closer, and with it came a stronger wave of that honey scent. It was not artificial. It was coming from him. “You want to take everything I have built and turn it into a tabloid headline. You want to write about how the pretty omega driver is a slut who sleeps around to get ahead.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Charles said. “It’s written all over your face. I have been dealing with people like you since I was sixteen years old. You look at me and you see a problem. A scandal waiting to happen. A story that sells papers. You don’t see a driver. You don’t see a person. You see a way to boost your own reputation by tearing mine down.”
Max set his pen down. He did not like being read so easily. “I see a driver who has been linked to six different alphas in the past two years. I see someone whose personal life is a constant distraction for his team and a constant source of gossip for the paddock. I see someone who has never given a straight answer about any of it.”
“And I see a journalist who has made a career out of reporting on rumors without ever verifying them,” Charles said. His voice was still soft, but there was an edge to it now. “You write about scandals because it is easy. It does not require real work. You do not need to understand racing or strategy or the pressure of being in this sport. You just need to find two people in the same room and imply they were doing something shameful.”
The accusation stung because it was partly true. Max had always told himself he was exposing the truth, shining a light on the parts of the sport that the PR machines tried to hide. But there was an undeniable pattern in his writing, a focus on personal drama over professional achievement. He had never stopped to consider whether that focus was harming real people.
He forced himself to stay calm. “I am here to give you a chance to tell your side of the story. That is more than most journalists would offer.”
“You are here because you think I am an easy target,” Charles said. He stood up. The movement was fluid, graceful. He was not tall, but he carried himself with a confidence that made him seem larger. “You think I am a pretty omega with no real power, so you can push me around and I will cry and run to my publicist. You think I will give you a confession you can weaponize.”
Max opened his mouth to respond, but Charles kept talking.
“But you are wrong,” Charles said. He took a step closer. The honey scent grew stronger. “I am not a victim. I am not a scandal. And I am not going to let you tear me apart for sport.”
“Then give me something else,” Max said. His voice came out rougher than he intended. “Give me a story that makes sense. A narrative I can understand. Why are you always seen with these people? Why do you never deny the rumors fully? Why do you let people talk?”
Charles stopped about a meter away from him. He looked up at Max, and his green eyes were unreadable. “You want the truth?”
“I want the truth,” Max said.
“The truth is that I am lonely,” Charles said. The words were simple, flat. No self-pity. No drama. Just a statement of fact. “I have been in this sport since I was a child. My father pushed me hard. My mother worried. My brother’s death nearly broke my family apart. I have friends, but they are all in this world, and this world is small and suffocating. I get seen at parties because I go to parties. I get seen with alphas because there are a lot of alphas in this sport. And yes, I have slept with some of them. I am a single omega in my prime. It is not a crime to have a sex life.”
Max’s pen had stopped moving. He realized he had not written anything down. “So the rumors are true.”
“Some of them,” Charles said. He shrugged. “Not all. I have never touched a team principal. I have never used sex to get a seat. I have never cheated on anyone, because I am not in a relationship. I am a young man doing what young men do, but because I am an omega, it becomes a headline.”
“That is not fair,” Max said. It was the first honest thing he had said since walking into the room.
Charles laughed again, but this time it was bitter. “No. It is not fair. But it is the world I live in. The world you help create.”
There was a long silence. Max looked at his notepad, then at the man standing in front of him. He had come here expecting to find a manipulator, a user, a person who played games with people’s emotions and reputations. Instead, he had found someone who was simply tired. Tired of being watched. Tired of being judged. Tired of being a story instead of a person.
He should have felt satisfaction. His instincts had been correct. There was material here. A narrative of a lonely omega coping with pressure through casual relationships. It was human. It was sympathetic. It would sell.
But he did not feel satisfaction. He felt something closer to shame.
“I am not going to write that,” Max said. The words came out before he could stop them.
Charles blinked. “What?”
“I am not going to write that you are lonely and that you sleep around to cope,” Max said. He closed his notepad and tucked it back under his arm. “That is not a story. That is a person’s private life being exposed for entertainment. And I do not want to be that person.”
Charles stared at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was a new tension in his shoulders. “Why?”
“Because I did not come here to hurt you,” Max said. The words felt strange in his mouth. “I came here to get a story. But you are not a story. You are a person. And I think I have been forgetting that difference.”
Charles was quiet for a long moment. Then he moved.
He closed the distance between them in two steps, and before Max could react, Charles’s hands were on his chest. The touch was light, almost curious. Max froze. His heart was suddenly loud in his own ears.
“You are surprising,” Charles said. His voice was a whisper. “Most journalists do not change their minds mid-interview.”
“I am not most journalists,” Max said. His voice came out rough.
“I know,” Charles said. He looked up at him through his lashes. The green eyes were dark now, and the honey scent was stronger than ever. It filled Max’s lungs, making his head spin. “I have read your work. You are ruthless. You are honest. You do not take bribes or favors. You are one of the few people in this sport who I actually respect.”
Max’s hands were hanging at his sides. He did not know what to do with them. “That does not sound like respect. That sounds like you are trying to flatter me.”
“I am trying to understand you,” Charles said. His hands slid up Max’s chest, over his collarbones, until they were resting on his shoulders. They were warm. “You came here ready to destroy me. And now you are backing down. Why?”
Max swallowed. The scent was overwhelming. It was in his nose, his mouth, his throat. It was making it hard to think. “Because I was wrong about you.”
“Wrong about what?”
“I thought you were a user,” Max said. His voice was barely audible. “I thought you were a manipulator. But you are just a person. A person who has been treated badly by people like me.”
Charles’s eyes softened. His thumbs traced small circles on the fabric of Max’s jacket. “That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week.”
They were very close now. Max could see the individual flecks of gold in Charles’s green eyes. He could see the tiny freckles on his nose, the curve of his lips, the slight parting of his mouth as he breathed. The omega scent was filling the room, leaving no room for anything else. Max’s alpha instincts were screaming at him. He wanted to pull Charles closer. He wanted to press his nose to that soft throat and breathe in until he drowned.
But he held himself still.
“You should go,” Charles said. His voice was steady, but his hands were trembling slightly on Max’s shoulders. “If you stay any longer, I will do something stupid.”
“What kind of stupid?” Max asked. He knew he should leave. He knew this was a bad idea. But he was rooted to the spot.
Charles smiled. It was a small, sad smile. “I will kiss you. And then I will regret it in the morning.”
Max’s heart was pounding so hard he was sure Charles could feel it through his palms. “I do not think you would regret it.”
“I would,” Charles said. “Because you are a journalist. And I am a source. And this is a terrible idea.”
“The best ideas usually are.”
Charles let out a shaky breath. Then he pulled away. The loss of contact felt like a physical blow. He took a step back, then another, until there was a meter of space between them again.
“You have thirty minutes left on your interview,” Charles said. His voice was back to normal. Controlled. Professional. “Do you want to ask me about the race strategy for Monaco, or are you done with the personal questions?”
Max looked at him. The man had built walls around himself in the span of a single second. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by a cool, polished exterior. It was impressive. It was also heartbreaking.
“I am done with the personal questions,” Max said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. He held it out. “If you ever want to talk. Not for a story. Just to talk.”
Charles looked at the card for a moment, then took it. His fingers brushed against Max’s. The touch was electric.
“Thank you,” Charles said. He slipped the card into his pocket without looking at it.
Max nodded. He turned and walked to the door. His hand was on the handle when Charles’s voice stopped him.
“Max.”
He turned.
Charles was standing in the middle of the room, his arms crossed over his chest. The light caught his hair, turning it into a halo of gold and brown. He looked like something out of a painting.
“You are wrong about one thing,” Charles said. “You said I was just a person. But I am not just a person. I am a driver. I am a competitor. And I am going to win Monaco this year. You can write that.”
Max felt a smile tugging at his lips. It was the first real smile he had felt in weeks. “I will hold you to that.”
He left the room. The door clicked shut behind him. He stood in the hallway for a long moment, breathing in the stale air that held no trace of honey. His hands were shaking. His heart was racing. And he had a feeling that his life had just become a lot more complicated.
Max wrote his column, but the piece about Charles was not there. He wrote about a new regulation change, a fight between a driver and his engineer, and a surprisingly spicy rumor about a team principal’s secret investment in a rival team. He avoided the name Leclerc entirely.
His editor noticed. “You were supposed to have the exclusive on the Monegasque,” she said, standing at his desk with a cup of coffee and a frown. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” Max said. “He was not interesting.”
His editor raised an eyebrow. “The entire paddock thinks he is interesting.”
“The entire paddock is wrong.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Fine. But I want something juicy by the end of the month. We need a boost in readership before the summer break.”
Max nodded. She walked away. He leaned back in his chair and stared at his computer screen. The cursor was blinking at him. He had nothing.
The truth was that he could not stop thinking about the interview. The scent of honey. The soft tremor in Charles’s hands. The raw, honest confession about loneliness. It had lodged itself in his brain like a splinter, and every time he tried to write something else, it hurt.
He picked up his phone. He looked at the contact list. He did not have Charles’s number. He had only given his own card. There was no way for him to reach out.
He told himself that was a good thing. He told himself that the whole interaction had been a professional mistake, a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment that he would learn from. He was a journalist. He was not supposed to get involved with his sources. He was not supposed to feel anything.
But the honey scent haunted him. It followed him into his dreams, wrapping around him like a warm blanket. He woke up hard, frustrated, and more confused than he had been in years.
At the next race, in Imola, he saw Charles from across the paddock. He was walking with his trainer, laughing at something on his phone. The sun was bright, and his hair was shining, and he looked happy. He looked nothing like the tired, vulnerable person Max had met a week ago.
Max ducked behind a hospitality unit before Charles could see him. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. His heart was racing. His palms were sweating. It was ridiculous. He was a grown man. He had interviewed world leaders and survived multiple angry team principals. He should not be hiding from a driver half his size.
But he was.
He spent the rest of the day avoiding the Ferrari garage. He interviewed other drivers, wrote notes, attended press conferences. He did his job. He did it well. But his mind was elsewhere.
That evening, he was in his hotel room, trying to write a piece about qualifying, when his phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
“I won the qualifying. Did you write about it?”
Max stared at the screen. His heart stopped. Then it started again, double time.
He typed back. “How did you get my number?”
“You gave me your card. It has your number on it.”
“You could have called.”
“I did not want to call. I wanted to text. It is less pressure.”
Max sat down on the edge of his bed. The screen glowed in the dim light. He did not know what to say. He did not know what this was. A game. A trap. A genuine attempt at connection.
He chose his words carefully. “You drove well today. The last sector was perfect.”
“Thank you. I told you I would win.”
“You did not win yet. You only qualified first. The race is tomorrow.”
“I will win tomorrow too.”
Max smiled. It was ridiculously cocky. It was also completely believable. “I will be watching.”
“Good. I like knowing you are watching.”
The heat of the sentence hit Max like a wave. He felt his face flush. He read the words again. There was nothing explicitly sexual about them. But the implication was there. Charles knew Max was paying attention. Charles wanted him to.
Max put the phone down. He took a deep breath. He picked it up again.
“I should go. I have to finish my article.”
“Goodnight, Max.”
“Goodnight, Charles.”
He stared at the conversation for a long time after it ended. Then he saved the number under a codename. ‘Monaco.’ Because Charles was from Monaco. Because the whole thing felt like a gamble. And because Max had a sinking feeling he was about to lose everything he had built.
The race was a victory for Ferrari. Charles took the podium, his face split in a wide grin as he held the trophy above his head. Max watched from the media center. He had a photographer’s feed on his monitor, showing Charles spraying champagne, the liquid catching in his hair, his eyes bright.
Max wrote the race report. He was professional. He was objective. He did not mention the honey scent or the trembling hands or the text message that had kept him awake until three in the morning.
That night, his phone buzzed again.
“I told you I would win.”
“You did.”
“Are you happy for me?”
“I am happy for you.”
“Good. I am happy for me too.”
The conversation was brief, but it sparked something in Max’s chest. He went to sleep with a smile on his face.
The pattern continued. Every race weekend, a text. Sometimes before the race, sometimes after. Sometimes just a line. Sometimes a longer message about how Charles was feeling, what he was thinking, what he was scared of. Max found himself looking forward to them. He found himself writing back, carefully, thoughtfully, offering his own thoughts in return.
He was not falling for Charles. He was not. That would be unprofessional. Reckless. He was just... invested. In a source. In a person. In a story that had turned out to be more complicated than he had expected.
But the text messages grew more frequent. The gaps between them grew shorter. And Max started to feel like he was living a double life. During the day, he was the journalist. Collected. Professional. Distant. At night, in his hotel room, he was the man who had a secret connection to the most beautiful omega in the paddock, and he could not stop thinking about what would happen next.
The moment came in Budapest.
It was late. The race was over. Charles had finished second, a result he was visibly unhappy with. Max had written his usual column and was packing up his equipment in a small office the media center had loaned him.
A knock on the door.
“Come in.”
The door opened. Charles stepped inside. He was wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, his hair wet from a shower. He looked younger like this. Softer.
“I did not win,” Charles said.
Max set down his laptop. “Second is still good.”
“Second is not good enough.”
“It is still a podium.”
Charles walked into the room. The door clicked shut behind him. He stood in front of Max, close enough that Max could smell that scent again. Honey. Warm. Sweet. Overwhelming.
“I texted you fifty times this weekend,” Charles said. His voice was quiet, but it filled the space. “And you replied every time. Do you think I am stupid?”
Max’s throat was dry. “What?”
“Do you think I do not know what is happening?” Charles stepped closer. The space between them was barely a foot. “You are a journalist. I am a source. We are not supposed to text each other about how our days went. We are not supposed to care.”
Max’s hands were shaking. He could not seem to control them. “I do care.”
“Why?”
The question was simple. The answer was not. Max looked at Charles, at the determination in his eyes, at the slight tremble in his lower lip. He saw the vulnerability that Charles hid from the rest of the world, the fragility that he only showed in brief, guarded moments.
“Because you are the first person in this sport who has made me feel like I am not just a journalist,” Max said. “You make me feel like a person.”
Charles’s breath hitched. His hands came up, resting on Max’s chest again, just like they had in Monaco. The warmth seeped through the fabric.
“I am going to do something stupid now,” Charles whispered.
And he kissed him.
It was soft at first, tentative. A question. Max answered it by pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, and the world narrowed to the sensation of Charles’s lips against his, the taste of his mouth, the sound of his small, desperate gasp.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard.
“This is going to ruin me,” Charles said. His voice was hoarse.
“This is going to ruin both of us,” Max said.
Charles laughed. It was a wet, broken sound. “Then we will be ruined together.”
He took a step back, far enough that Max could see the full picture: the disheveled hair, the swollen lips, the green eyes that were shining with something between fear and hope.
“I have hotel room 412,” Charles said. “If you want to continue this conversation in private.”
Max’s brain was screaming at him to say no. His body was screaming at him to say yes.
He said yes.
He packed his equipment, turned off the lights, and followed Charles out of the office. They walked through the empty paddock in silence. The night air was cool. The only sound was their footsteps on the pavement.
In the elevator, Charles leaned against the wall and looked at Max with an expression he could not quite read.
“Do not write about this,” he said.
“I will not,” Max said.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
The elevator stopped. The doors opened. They walked down the hallway to room 412. Charles unlocked the door and pushed it open. He looked back at Max, a question in his eyes.
Max stepped inside.
The door shut behind them.
Neutral colors. Minimalist furniture. A large bed with a duvet that had been turned down by housekeeping. Charles stood in the middle of it, his arms crossed over his chest, looking like he was waiting for Max to change his mind.
Max did not change his mind.
“Come here,” he said.
Charles walked to him. His steps were slow but certain. When he was close enough, Max reached out and cupped his face in his hands. The skin was warm. The eyes were green. The scent was everywhere.
“I want you to know what you are getting into,” Charles said. His voice was steady. “I am not good at this. I am not good at relationships. And I am not good at trusting people.”
“I know,” Max said. “I remember the interview. You told me you were lonely.”
Charles closed his eyes. “I did not mean to tell you that.”
“I am glad you did.”
He leaned in and kissed him again. It was slower this time, deeper. Charles’s hands found their way under Max’s jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor with a soft thud. Max’s hands moved to the hem of Charles’s hoodie, lifting it up.
Charles raised his arms, letting the hoodie be pulled over his head. He was wearing nothing underneath. His skin was pale, smooth, beautiful in the dim light. The scent gland on his neck was exposed, pulsing gently with his heartbeat.
Max leaned down and pressed his mouth to it.
Charles gasped. His whole body trembled. His hands gripped Max’s shoulders, his nails digging in hard enough to leave marks.
“I want to hear you,” Max said against his skin. “I want to hear every sound you make.”
Charles nodded. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. Max worked his way down, kissing the line of his throat, his collarbone, his chest. Charles’s skin tasted like honey. Like sweat. Like want.
They moved to the bed. Charles lay back against the pillows, his dark hair spread out against the white, his eyes half-lidded and dark. He looked like a fantasy, like something Max had conjured from his own imagination.
Max climbed over him, caging him in with his arms. He looked down at the man beneath him, at the trust and the fear and the desperate hope in his eyes.
“Do you trust me?” Max asked.
“I do not know,” Charles said. “But I want to.”
It was enough.
Max leaned down and kissed him again. The kiss went on and on, tongues sliding, breath mingling. Charles moaned into his mouth, and the sound went straight to Max’s groin. He was already hard, pressing against the fabric of his jeans.
He pulled back to remove his own shirt. Charles watched him, his eyes tracking the movement. His tongue wet his lower lip.
“I have wanted this since the interview,” Charles said.
Max’s heart lurched. “You hid it well.”
“I am good at hiding things.”
Max leaned down again, pressing a kiss to Charles’s jaw, then moving down his neck, his chest, his stomach. He could feel Charles’s muscles tensing under his lips, the shallow rise and fall of his breath.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Charles’s sweatpants and pulled them down. Charles lifted his hips to help, and then he was naked on the bed, his legs spread, the scent of his arousal filling the air.
Max stared. Charles was beautiful. The smooth curve of his hips, the flat plane of his stomach, the soft, pale skin. Between his legs, his clit was swollen, poking out from between the lips of his pussy. The folds of skin were pink, dewy with moisture.
Max’s mouth went dry.
“You are staring,” Charles said. His voice was teasing, but there was a nervous edge to it.
“You are beautiful,” Max said.
Charles’s cheeks flushed. He looked away. “You do not have to say that.”
“I am not saying it because I have to,” Max said. “I am saying it because it is true.”
He settled himself between Charles’s legs. The position was intimate, vulnerable. Charles looked up at him, his green eyes wide and dark.
“I am going to kiss you everywhere,” Max said. “And then I am going to fuck you until you forget your own name. Is that okay?”
Charles’s breath hitched. “Yes.”
Max lowered his head. He started at the inside of Charles’s thigh, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin. Charles whimpered. His legs twitched, but he did not close them.
The skin was baby soft. Max traced a path with his tongue, moving higher, closer to the center of Charles’s heat.
When he finally reached his destination, Charles let out a choked cry. Max’s tongue touched his clit, and the taste exploded across his senses. Honey. Salt. Pure, undiluted omega.
He licked again, more firmly. Charles’s hips jerked. His hands came down to tangle in Max’s hair.
“More,” he breathed. “Please.”
Max gave him more. He circled the clit with his tongue, then sucked it gently into his mouth. Charles’s moans were getting louder, more desperate. His thighs were trembling on either side of Max’s head.
Max moved lower. His tongue pushed into Charles’s pussy, the slick flesh opening for him. The taste was even stronger here, intoxicating. He worked his tongue in and out, fucking him with it, feeling the muscles flutter around him.
Charles was crying out now, a stream of words in French that Max could not understand. But he understood the tone. He understood the way Charles’s body was arching, the way his fingers were gripping Max’s hair, the way his scent was spiking with every passing second.
Max pushed a finger inside him. Charles gasped. He added a second finger, stretching him, feeling the tight heat around his digits. He kept his mouth on Charles’s clit, sucking and licking in a steady rhythm.
“I am close,” Charles said. His voice was broken. “Max, I am close.”
Max did not stop. He kept going, faster, harder, until Charles’s body convulsed around him. A cry tore from Charles’s throat as his orgasm hit. His pussy clenched around Max’s fingers, his hips bucking, his whole body shaking.
Max worked him through it, gentle now, until the trembling subsided. He pulled his fingers out and crawled up the bed to kiss Charles on the mouth.
Charles kissed him back weakly. His eyes were glazed, his lips swollen. “That was... that was really good.”
Max smiled against his lips. “We are not done yet.”
Charles laughed. It was a soft, breathless sound. “I know.”
Max sat up and undid his jeans. Charles watched him, his eyes tracking the movement as Max pushed them down, freeing his cock. It was hard, thick, leaking precum against his stomach.
Charles’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Is that okay?” Max asked.
“Yes,” Charles said quickly. “Yes, that is fine. That is more than fine.”
Max positioned himself between Charles’s thighs. He could feel the heat radiating from Charles’s body, could see the slickness of his pussy, ready and waiting.
He notched the head of his cock at Charles’s entrance and pushed in.
The feeling was indescribable. Tight, wet, hot. They both groaned as Max slid deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside Charles.
“Good?” Max asked.
“Good,” Charles breathed. “Move.”
Max moved. He pulled out almost all the way, then pushed back in. The rhythm was slow at first, building, finding a pace that made Charles’s eyes roll back in his head.
“Faster,” Charles said.
Max obeyed. He drove into him, the sound of their bodies slapping together filling the room. Charles’s legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. His nails raked down Max’s back, leaving red lines.
“I am going to come again,” Charles said. His voice was high, desperate.
“Wait,” Max said. “Wait for me.”
Charles nodded, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. Max watched his face, the concentration in his expression, the strain as he held back his orgasm.
Max increased his pace. The pressure was building at the base of his spine, a coil of heat and tension. He was close. So close.
“Now,” he grunted. “Come now.”
Charles’s body obeyed instantly. His pussy clenched around Max’s cock, drawing him deeper, pulling the orgasm out of him. Max buried himself to the hilt and let go, spilling hot inside Charles, his whole body shuddering with the force of his release.
They stayed like that for a long moment, panting, tangled together. Max’s weight was on Charles, but Charles did not seem to mind. He had his arms wrapped around Max’s neck, his face pressed into his shoulder.
When Max finally pulled out, Charles whimpered at the loss. Max rolled onto his back and pulled Charles with him, tucking him into his side.
“I do not know what this is,” Charles said, his voice muffled against Max’s skin.
“Neither do I,” Max said.
“But I do not want it to end.”
Max pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Then we will not let it end.”
They lay in silence, the hum of the air conditioner the only sound. Charles’s breathing evened out. His body was warm and soft in Max’s arms.
Max stared at the ceiling. His mind was a storm of thoughts. This was reckless. This was dangerous. This was everything he had told himself he would never do.
But as he felt Charles’s lips press a sleepy kiss to his chest, he could not bring himself to regret it.
“I trust you,” Charles murmured.
Max tightened his arms around him. “Good.”
Because he was going to make sure Charles never regretted saying that.
Morning light filtered through the hotel curtains. Max opened his eyes to find Charles watching him, his green eyes bright and alert.
“You stayed,” Charles said.
“I said I would not let it end,” Max said.
Charles smiled. It was a soft, vulnerable expression. “I thought you might change your mind in the morning.”
“I do not change my mind easily.”
Charles reached out and traced a line down Max’s cheek, his jaw, his chin. The touch was light, almost reverent.
“What happens now?” he asked.
Max captured his hand and kissed his fingers. “Now we figure this out. Together.”
Charles’s smile grew. It reached his eyes, lighting up his whole face. “Together.”
They stayed like that for a moment, hands intertwined, hope between them. Then Max’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. And Charles’s phone buzzed on the floor. And the world intruded again.
Max sighed. “I have a deadline.”
Charles groaned. “I have a team meeting.”
They untangled themselves slowly, reluctantly. Charles pulled on his hoodie. Max climbed back into his jeans.
At the door, Charles turned to face him. “This is not just a one-time thing.”
“No,” Max agreed. “It is not.”
“Good.” Charles leaned in and gave him a quick kiss. “I will text you.”
The first text came while Max was still in the elevator. I can still feel you inside me. Max had to lean against the wall and breathe through his nose until the doors opened.
The second came during his morning coffee. Do you think anyone noticed you walking out of my room? Max typed back: No. I checked the hallway. Charles responded with a string of heart emojis that Max saved to his phone like a teenager.
The third came during the team meeting Charles was supposedly paying attention to. My trainer is talking about tire degradation and all I can think about is your tongue.
Max choked on his water. His editor shot him a look across the conference table. He typed back under the table: Focus on your meeting. Charles replied: I am focused. Just not on tires.
This was going to be a problem.
They met again in Spa. Charles's hotel room this time, because he had the better view. Max knocked at eleven at night and Charles opened the door wearing nothing but a silk robe that ended at his upper thighs. The green of the fabric matched his eyes. Max had him pressed against the door before it finished closing.
"I missed you," Charles breathed, already working at Max's belt.
"It has been four days."
"Four days too long."
Max shoved the robe off Charles's shoulders and watched it pool at his feet. The omega stood there, completely bare, his skin glowing in the soft lamplight. His scent was already filling the room, thick and sweet and maddening. Max dropped to his knees.
"Again?" Charles's voice was trembling with anticipation.
"Again," Max confirmed. He hooked one of Charles's legs over his shoulder and buried his face between those perfect thighs. Charles's head thudded back against the door. His fingers twisted into Max's hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. The pain just made Max work harder, his tongue sliding through slick folds, finding the swollen clit and pressing against it until Charles was gasping his name like a prayer.
"I want you to come on my face," Max said, pulling back just long enough to speak. His lips were wet with Charles's arousal. "Can you do that for me?"
"Yes," Charles said. "Yes. Yes. Keep going."
Max kept going. He pushed two fingers inside, curling them the way he had learned Charles liked, and sucked on his clit with steady pressure. Charles came with a sharp cry, his body convulsing, his slick dripping down Max's chin. Max licked him through it, gentle and thorough, until Charles was tugging weakly at his hair to pull him up.
"Your turn," Charles said, his voice wrecked. He pulled Max to his feet and kissed him, tasting himself on Max's mouth. "I want you to fuck me against the window."
"The window has a view of the paddock."
"I know."
Max was not going to argue with that. He walked Charles backward to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the ones overlooking the dark circuit, and turned him around. Charles pressed his palms against the glass and arched his back, presenting himself. His pussy was pink and swollen from Max's mouth, glistening with slick.
"Look at you," Max said, running his hands over Charles's hips, his ass, the dip of his spine. "The most beautiful omega in the paddock, bent over for a journalist."
"The journalist who is taking too long," Charles said over his shoulder. His eyes were dark, challenging. "Fuck me. Now."
Max lined himself up and pushed inside in one slow, steady motion. They both groaned. The angle was deeper like this, and Charles was so tight around him, so wet, so perfect. Max set a rhythm, hard and fast, the way he had learned Charles liked it when he was impatient. The window fogged where Charles's breath hit it. His moans were getting louder, his body pushing back to meet every thrust.
"Is someone going to see us?" Charles panted.
"Do you want someone to see us?"
"I want everyone to see us. I want them to know I am yours."
The possessiveness sent a jolt of heat through Max's body. He wrapped an arm around Charles's waist and pulled him back, changing the angle, hitting a spot that made Charles cry out sharply. "Say it again," Max growled.
"I am yours," Charles said, his voice breaking. "Only yours. I have wanted to be yours since the moment you walked into my room in Monaco."
Max fucked into him harder, chasing his own release now, feeling the tight coil of pressure building low in his gut. He reached around and found Charles's clit with his fingers, rubbing in tight circles. Charles shattered immediately, his pussy clenching around Max's cock in rhythmic pulses that pulled Max over the edge with him. Max pressed his forehead to Charles's shoulder and spilled inside him, hot and deep, his whole body shuddering.
They stayed like that for a moment, pressed against the window, breathing hard. Then Charles started laughing.
"What?" Max asked.
"You are still inside me and I am already thinking about round two."
"You are insatiable."
"You made me this way."
Max pulled out carefully and turned Charles around to face him. The omega's face was flushed, his lips swollen, his eyes bright with satisfaction. He looked thoroughly debauched. He looked happy.
"I am keeping you," Charles said, wrapping his arms around Max's neck. "For the record."
"For the record," Max agreed, "I am keeping you too."
They kept each other through the rest of the season. Through Monza and Singapore and Austin and Mexico. Through race wins and DNFs and the constant, exhausting circus of press obligations. They were careful in public, exchanging nothing more than professional nods and the occasional handshake. But in private, they were anything but careful.
In Singapore, Charles discovered that Max had a thing for being called sir. He used this discovery strategically, usually when he wanted something. Max pretended to be annoyed. He was not annoyed at all.
In Austin, Max ate Charles out for so long that Charles cried. Real tears, streaming down his face, his body shaking with overstimulation. Max kissed each tear away and told him he was beautiful. Charles called him an asshole and then asked him to do it again.
In Mexico, Charles returned the favor by deepthroating Max so enthusiastically that Max saw stars. Afterward, lying in the tangle of hotel sheets, Charles propped himself up on one elbow and said, completely seriously, "I have been practicing on a toothbrush." Max laughed so hard he almost fell off the bed.
The season finale was in Abu Dhabi. Charles won. Not just the race but the championship, his first, the one he had been chasing since he was a child. Max watched from the media center as Charles climbed out of his car and was mobbed by his team. He watched the trophy presentation. He watched Charles spray champagne, his face split in a grin so wide it looked like it hurt.
That night, the text came. Room 712. Come celebrate with me.
Max went. The room was dark except for the city lights streaming through the windows. Charles was standing by the bed, still in his race suit, the top half unzipped and hanging around his waist. His hair was damp with champagne. His eyes were wild with adrenaline and joy.
"I won," he said.
"I saw," Max said.
"I want you to fuck me in this suit. I want to remember tonight. All of it."
Max crossed the room and kissed him, tasting champagne and victory. He unzipped the suit the rest of the way and peeled it off, leaving Charles in just his fireproofs underneath. He took those off too, slowly, worshipfully, pressing kisses to every inch of skin as it was revealed. When Charles was finally naked, Max guided him onto the bed and spread his legs.
"Champion," Max said, looking down at him. "My champion."
"Yours," Charles agreed. He reached up and pulled Max down. "Now prove it."
Max proved it. He proved it with his mouth and his hands and his cock. He proved it until Charles was screaming his name, until the headboard was slamming against the wall, until neither of them could remember what language they were speaking. He proved it until they collapsed together, sweaty and satisfied, their hearts beating in sync.
In the quiet afterward, Charles traced patterns on Max's chest with his fingertip. "I want to tell people."
Max went still. "Tell people what?"
"About us. About this." Charles lifted his head to look at Max. "I am tired of hiding. I am tired of pretending I do not know you when we pass each other in the paddock. I want to hold your hand in public."
"It will be a scandal," Max said. "A journalist and a driver. People will say I am biased. They will say I traded coverage for access. It could end my career."
"I know." Charles's voice was steady. "I have thought about all of that. But I do not care. I love you. I want people to know."
Max stared at him. The words hung in the air between them. Love. He had not said it before. Neither of them had. They had been too careful, too afraid of what it meant, too aware of the precarious situation they were in.
But here, now, with Charles looking at him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world, Max could not imagine being afraid anymore.
"I love you too," he said. "I have loved you since the interview. Since you told me you were lonely and I realized I was lonely too."
Charles kissed him. It was soft and sweet and full of promise.
"So we tell people," Max said against his lips. "Together."
"Together," Charles agreed.
The press conference was held two days later. Charles sat at the table in his Ferrari shirt, his championship trophy in front of him. Max stood at the back of the room, his press pass hanging around his neck. They had agreed on a plan. Charles would make the announcement. Max would be there, visible, present. A statement without words.
Charles took a deep breath and leaned into the microphone. "Before I take questions about the season, I have something I want to say."
The room went quiet. Cameras flashed. Charles looked directly at Max.
"There has been a lot of speculation about my personal life over the years. A lot of rumors. A lot of stories. Most of them were not true. But I want to tell you something that is true." He paused. "I am in a relationship. With someone I trust. Someone I love. And I do not care what anyone thinks about it."
The room erupted. Reporters shouted questions. Cameras swung around, searching for the mystery partner. Max did not move. He just looked at Charles, and Charles looked back at him, and for a moment, they were the only two people in the world.
Max pulled out his phone and typed a single message. I love you. You are insane. This is going to be a disaster.
Charles's phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it and smiled. Then he looked up, found Max's eyes again, and mouthed the words so clearly that even the photographers caught it.
"Worth it."