Chapter Sam Campbell #2
The thumping bass and strobe lights distort his senses, making his teammate appear even slimmer, more grabbable. Sam gives himself over to it, splaying his hands over the smaller man’s hips.
Lucas groans, pushing his ass backwards until they’re grinding, swaying to the beat. He fits perfectly in his arms and Sam’s hands wander up his slim body to his chest.
These ‘old bones’ are almost liquid with how fluidly Lucas moves in his embrace. It’s better than Sam’s ever imagined it would be. Sexier.
Lucas’s head falls back against Sam’s shoulder and he moans, “Yes, Rafael, just like that.”
Raff-aye-elle.
Sam jerks back and gasps when it’s Thomas’s face that turns around, confused.
“Samuel?” The Frenchman squints, though the club lights aren’t that dim. “Where is—?”
He looks around and Sam can tell the exact moment he spots Rafael across the room, still on the couch. Thomas does a double take and gulps. “You are not Rafael.”
“No shit.” Sam can’t breathe. Or he might be hyperventilating. Can he do both at once? “Well, you’re not Lucas, so I guess we’re both disappointed.”
He laughs, but there’s nothing to laugh about. It’s probably hysteria at this point. He’s hysterical.
Who could blame him? Sam just spent the last several minutes grinding against his biggest rival. His childhood nemesis. The bane of his existence.
Thomas is talking at him, but Sam spins and makes a beeline for the couch.
If he gets blackout drunk, maybe it doesn’t count. Maybe he’ll forget, and Thomas will forget, and then this tree that fell in the forest never made any sound. Without any memory of it, there’s no proof the tree ever got chopped in the first place.
The tree is perfectly safe in the forest, and Sam’s dick isn’t hard for Thomas.
Two drinks closer to his goal, and Sam’s not forgetting. Actually, he’s doing the opposite—replaying it over and over and over again until it’s the only thing he can think about.
There’s no way Thomas didn’t notice Sam’s cock. He’s big enough to feel even when he’s soft—and he certainly wasn’t.
So Thomas is okay with that. With cock. With cocks grinding against his perky little ass. With the implication that there could be a cock in his tight-ass asshole in the near future. He’s okay with that.
No, he’s only okay with that because he thought the cock in question belonged to Rafael. Rafael.
But the guy was straight, right? Sam thought he was straight. Have the Ferraro drivers been fucking this whole time?
Rafael is sitting close enough for Sam to watch him make out with some random chick. It looks like his fingers are already inside her—Rafael’s digits have disappeared under the hem of her short dress.
Not that fucking girls make a guy straight. Hell, even Sam has some rando chick grinding on his lap. He loves beautiful people—he’s not exactly picky about their equipment. Was Rafael?
Fuck, why did it even matter? He couldn’t care less whether Rafael and Thomas are bumping uglies.
“Can I speak to you?” Thomas leans over the back of the couch and whispers in Sam’s ear. There’s that damned alluring smell again—the one that isn’t Lucas. “In private? Please?”
“I’m sorta busy.” Sam nods to the girl rubbing herself off on his thigh.
She leans in and laps at his neck, making a mess of it. She’ll be so good at slobbering around his dick and she knows it.
“Okay. I will wait.”
“You’ll—what?”
Thomas pulls a thigh up to rest on the back edge of the couch. His eyes are wide, focused, and he stares unblinkingly at the couple.
“Okay, fine,” Sam says, calling his bluff. “We don’t mind an audience, do we?”
The girl smirks. “Let’s give him a show.”
Sam’s hands span the globes of her ass, keeping her steady as he thrusts up. She makes pretty little sounds as she rides him, her dainty hands grasping his expensive shirt, wrinkling it. He’ll have to find a quick service dry cleaner—he has an event to be at tomorrow night.
Focus. Grinding. Just as good as the grinding he shared with Thomas. Sam peeks over—to see if he left or has turned away—but Thomas stares back. One of his eyebrows raises like he’s not impressed, and Sam loses it.
“Okay, fine. Sorry, honey, but I gotta—” Sam nods over to Thomas and doesn’t even try to hide his annoyance. Sure, he can find another girl to slobber his knob, but this one is already so ready to go.
Sam hurdles over the back of the couch and follows Thomas to a quieter part of the floor. He can accept the apology—or give one, whatever—and find the eager girl again.
Once Thomas is good with the location, he turns and says, “You know what this is about.”
“I reckon I gotta good idea, yeah.”
“You liked it.” That doesn’t sound like an apology.
“What?”
“You liked it—what we did out there.” Thomas nods over to the balcony like Sam could've forgotten. “I felt you.”
“Well, yeah.” Sam wasn’t the one shoving his ass back, desperate to get skewered. “But that was before I found out it was you.”
Thomas looks excited, though Sam meant it as an insult. “Exactly! A yes, until it was you. But you would have kept going, right? If it was not me?”
“What?” Forget an apology, this is starting to sound like blackmail. “I wouldn’t have sex with uninterested parties, if that’s what you’re suggesting. And a lotta people already know I’m bi.”
“Not uninterested.” Thomas grunts like he’s frustrated, but he’s the one not making any sense. “If I never turned around—if I never spoke—would you have… gone further?”
“Only because I thought you were someone else.”
“Lucas, yes, you said.” He nods quickly. “Just like I thought you were Rafael. You want to have sex with Lucas, yes?”
“What makes you think that?”
Thomas fixes him with a glare.
“Okay, yeah. Maybe.” Sam clears his throat and tries his best to appear nonchalant. “Maybe I’d be interested.”
“Yes, okay. And I would maybe—maybe—be interested in the same with Rafael. We are in the same position.”
Well, that answers that question. The Ferraro drivers are not fucking each other. Case closed.
“Why does any of this matter?” Sam’s still at square one as far as Lucas is concerned. What advice could Thomas give if he was just as SOL as he is?
“What if we could… have something similar? Even if it is not the same?”
“Have something…” Surely, he wasn’t suggesting— “Similar? Like how both of us could mistake each other for the person we want?”
Thomas nods furiously. “Exactly. We could use each other for this purpose.”
Sam’s stomach drops. “For what purpose?”
“We could have an understanding. Both of us pretend we are fucking the man we want—satisfy both needs.”
A laugh bubbles up until Sam can’t contain it. “You can’t be serious. We hate each other!”
“And you do not hate Lucas? Even one little bit? Every time he wins the championship in the same car you drive—you do not envy that?”
“Well, I—”
Thomas pleads, “There are days I could drive Rafael off the track—it does not make my needs any less.”
My needs. Sam’s going to try to forget that. “How would it even work, though? You look and sound like… you.”
“Apparently not from behind.”
Well, no. Actually, Sam had been so convinced Thomas was Lucas that he didn’t even stop to consider if he could’ve been some random stranger.
It was probably just the club lighting. Lighting and his own pathetic desperation.
“So you want me to fuck you from behind and call you Lucas?”
“No.” Thomas’s gaze darkens. “What I want is for Rafael to fuck me and call me ‘mon cher.’ For him to fucking look at me.”
Sam swallows the lump in his throat. It’s difficult to see himself mirrored in a man he hates.
“But what I am suggesting is for us—both of us—to settle for one another instead.”
Sam can’t pretend he doesn’t see the merit in it. To have a go-to fuck buddy every race weekend—someone who could pass for Lucas and wouldn’t mind Sam calling out the wrong name in bed.
But it’s Thomas. Fucking Big Toe.
Of anyone, why him?!
“This is crazy.”
“I know.” Thomas deflates. “I know it’s a stupid idea, but it felt so good. The fantasy of it, I mean. Thinking you were him.”
And, yeah. Sam can admit it felt good. For one perfect moment everything just clicked into place.
But was he willing to deal with Thomas to feel that again? Thomas.
“Let me think about it, okay?”
Thomas’s face shoots back upright. His large, unsettling eyes find Sam’s again. “You will consider it?”
“Yeah.” Something tells him Sam will do little else with his free time from now on. “Lemme get your number.”
After that night, Thomas is suddenly everywhere.
He walks the track at the same time as Sam, only about half a kilometer ahead of him. He sits only two rows away at the drivers’ meeting. He stands only three drivers away in the press pit and only seven away during the national anthem.
It’s suffocating.
Thomas catches him staring sometimes, but that’s not saying much since Sam can’t bring himself to look away.
Thomas asked Sam to pretend to be Rafael and fuck him from behind. That has to be a good enough reason to space out—to gawk as often as he does.
He’s mostly intrigued by Thomas’s back. About comparing him to Lucas.
They’re around the same shorter height, sure. And yes, they both have disheveled, light brown hair. But Thomas is leaner, his hips narrower. If Lucas was to lean over, to present himself, there would be some meat to hold on to. If Thomas did? There’d be nothing. Just a flat, bony ass.
It’s completely unattractive. It would never work.
Plus Thomas? He has moles. Dark dots strewn about haphazardly all over his too-pale skin. He probably has them all the way down his back and that would be distracting. Way too distracting.
Sam had just been drunk. They both were. Drunk and stupid with hope cause Sam? Yeah, he doesn’t look anything like Rafael.
Sam is taller, for one. By a full inch at least. And he is way more muscular, especially in the arms.