Chapter Sam Campbell #4
“Could I talk to you? About—about the—” What is Sam even supposed to call it? “The plan you had?”
Thomas flinches like he’s been hit. “You do not have to worry about me. I have forgotten already.”
“No, no, I just—” It’s fucking embarrassing, but at this point, Thomas might be the only person who would understand. “Did you ever tell Rafael how you feel? Does he know?”
“I have not, no.” Thomas sighs and it’s a soft, wistful sound. “But I think he knows.”
“Lucas knows. About me, I mean. Or, at least, he figured it out yesterday.”
“I am sorry.”
It must be obvious that if Sam’s willing to talk about it with Thomas, the feeling wasn’t returned.
“He said it was common. A common fixation for drivers. Said what I feel for him isn’t love.”
Thomas shrugs. “It might not be.”
“Oh gee, thanks.” There goes their bonding moment.
“What?” Thomas looks genuinely confused. “It is fine if it is not true love. Even if you feel just a like or, how you say, ‘common fixation,’ that does not mean it does not hurt. It always hurts to be rejected.”
“Fuck.” Sam releases a shaky breath. “That’s what happened, huh? He rejected me.”
He had been too distracted by Lucas insisting Sam doesn’t recognize his own emotions to put a label on it.
Rejection. That doesn’t happen often. Usually he's the one turning people down.
“I cannot imagine you are used to that.”
Sam laughs. Is he a fuckin’ mind reader?! “So, um… About that plan you had…?”
“Ouais?” Thomas’s honey brown eyes are like fucking saucers the way they’re glued to Sam’s face.
“Uhh… ha ha…”
How the fuck is Sam supposed to ask if it’s still an option? It always hurts to be rejected. Well, Sam delivered a big, fat pile of rejection to Thomas’s doorstep last week.
But still, if they’re talking to each other, maybe it’s salvageable?
Sam just needs one time. A single time to fuck Lucas, to get it out of his system. One time to reassure himself it isn’t anything special—that the sex isn’t any different from what he can get at a club. That world champions fuck just like everyone else.
Except, well, strictly doggy-style.
“Are you…” Is that confusion on Thomas’s face? Or hope? “Reconsidering?”
“Yeah, um.” What was the etiquette for asking for sex outside of clubs? “Yes, please?”
“Yes?!”
“Only if you are still offering.”
“Ouais, yes, I—” Thomas looks almost scared. “Sorry, I did not think you— I can text you my room number?”
“Sure, that sounds good.” Fuck, what did Sam get himself into? “Should I bring anything? Wine?”
“Condoms. I have lube but—”
“Yeah, I got ‘em.” Just like planning a potluck. A potfuck. “Anything else?”
“No, I reckon it’s pretty straightforward.” He stares off into space for a moment before adding, “If you change your mind, please text me. It is okay, just let me know.”
“Got it.”
Fuck knows if Sam will follow through with it. It’s a coin toss. Heads, they fuck tonight. Tails, he doesn’t get emotionally scarred from sex with Thomas.
They’re headed in the same direction, so they start walking again. When they reach the Red Boar garage, Sam excuses himself.
Instead of immediately hiding away in his driver’s room, he waits until Thomas is far enough before he yells, “Later, Big Toe!”
The Frenchman turns and flashes two middle fingers. “I can still cancel!”
Sam cackles as he wanders back into the garage, setting his helmet on the first available surface. His engineers still look pissed, but he feels strangely positive.
“You’re in a good mood.” Lucas is soaked with champagne, his hair dripping with it. They must have finished the podium ceremony already.
“I had a good race. Congratulations, by the way. Both for the win and the championship.”
“I saw a bit—they played a couple of your overtakes in the cool down room.” That’s nice to hear, at least. “I did not know you were close with Thomas?”
“We’ve been racing since we were kids.” Ever since Sam moved to Europe for karting. “So, yeah, I guess we’re pretty close in skill.”
Lucas smiles. “That’s good. Treasure it.”
Sam would be offended by the insinuation that Lucas hasn’t had a good fight since his own contemporaries retired, but it’s too close to the truth. Instead, Sam smiles, promises to do so, and wanders off to the media pen.
Sam shows up to room 2113 with a bottle of wine, three condom packets, and a stomach full of nerves.
It’s stupid to be nervous. It’s just sex. He knows sex. He’s so good at sex.
He checks his breath one more time before knocking. When the door opens, he stands a little straighter.
For a split second Thomas is almost unrecognizable. Sam never realized how much he associated Thomas with Ferraro red until he’s wearing another color.
Suddenly the mix-up at the club makes more sense.
Thomas is dressed down to a loose-fitting white shirt and grey sweatpants. Though they’re just basic clothing items any guy would have in his closet, they seem almost fashionable on him. Elevated, somehow.
Thomas motions for Sam to enter and carefully shuts the door behind him instead of letting it fall.
Even his hair looks styled. It seems softer? Plush? “Did you blow-dry your hair?”
Thomas lifts a hand to his strands, almost self-consciously. “Yes. It is terrible when it is wet—dripping and everything. Especially during sex.”
“Right.” Great, now Sam’s self-conscious. “I just ran a towel through mine. Is that alright?”
“Yes, of course.”
Still, it feels like Sam should have put in the effort as well.
“You brought wine?”
“Yeah, it’s uhhh… French.” Sam looks at the label, and it sure looks French. He had asked the guy at the bar downstairs for the most expensive French wine they had. Thomas seemed like a wine guy.
“Did you bring a corkscrew?”
Whelp. “No, I didn’t. Sorry ‘bout that.”
“C’est la vie.”
Wait. “Do French people really say that?” Sam thought it was one of those phrases that didn’t actually exist.
Thomas stares at him in French.
“Right, sorry.”
Sam kicks off his shoes and pads further into the hotel room. It’s much nicer than his own—a suite. There’s a stiff couch that probably folds out into an extra bed, a big screen tv, a bar but no kitchenette. The door to the bathroom is open, but the door to the bedroom looks purposely shut.
He places the wine bottle on the bar. Maybe Thomas will be able to find a corkscrew before he leaves for the airport.
Well, time to get down to business.
“Couch?” Sam asks. “Standing? Bar?” He looks over to the open door. “Shower?”
“Ah, non, the bed is fine.” With shuffling steps, Thomas leads him to the bedroom. “Sorry, it is habit to keep closed for guests.”
The bed is king sized, as expected. It's littered with hard, decorative pillows in fun sizes, which is unexpected, but San appreciates them nonetheless.
“Should we talk first?” he asks. “About limits and stuff like that?”
“I sleep on the right side, so we should keep to the left.”
Sam’s first instinct is to laugh, but he tamps down on it. This thing feels fragile, and the last thing he wants to do is scare Thomas off. “I meant like… Do we kiss?”
“Oh. Not this time. We—we can work up to that.”
“This time?” Sam repeats. It’s supposed to be a one-time thing. Fuck, get it out of his system, move on.
“Sorry, I get ahead of myself.” Thomas sighs and studies the bed. “But if it is so bad we never want to do it again, I do not think kissing would have helped.”
“That bad at kissing, are you?” Sam teases.
Thomas huffs and pulls off his shirt. “Do a good job tonight and maybe you will find out.”
He grabs the lube from the nightstand and tosses it onto the mattress, towards the foot. He shoves most of the pillows off except a cylindrical one he tests with a squeeze.
Thomas turns to Sam, his eyes dipping down. “Well?”
Oh, okay. So now, then.
Sam shucks off his shirt and steps out of his jeans, toeing his socks off. He leaves his boxers on, just in case there’s a stall for time, but when he pops back upright, Thomas’s sweatpants are already around his ankles and he’s stroking himself to hardness.
So he doesn’t wear underwear. Yeah, that’s cool. That’s fine.
Thomas is still pulling himself when Sam kicks his boxers off. “Does it get much thicker than that?”
“Hey, I’m still soft!” Sam’s never had a complaint about his size before. “Yeah, it’ll get thicker, just give me a sec.”
Thomas exhales. “I am glad I did not try to buy condoms, I would have chosen smaller.”
“Smaller?”
Thomas climbs onto the bed, the hard pillow still in his grasp. “You will have to prepare me more, I only did two fingers.”
“Why the fuck did you think I had a small dick?”
Thomas bends over, the pillow planted firmly underneath his hips. It pushes his cock up, trapping it up against his stomach.
Sam expected him on his hands, but Thomas’s full chest rests against the mattress—his back arching at an obscene angle. His arms fold above his head, hiding his face while his elbows nearly touch the headboard.
Though he fell into the position almost casually, it’s one of the most erotic things Sam has ever seen.
He climbs up onto the bed, right behind Thomas, and he jerks his cock a couple of times.
Thomas’s ass is so enticing like this—so round and perky, teasing him with a flash of his hole. His waist, in contrast, nearly disappears at this angle. It makes Sam want to grab him, want to use him.
The way Thomas’s shoulders are up, makes them look broader, more masculine. More like— “You look like him.”
Thomas tenses, then relaxes again. “That is the point,” he grumbles into the mattress.
His hole is still wet from working himself open with his fingers. Two of his dainty little fingers.
Sam rubs his thumb over it, and it gapes—begging for him. “So I guess I’m not supposed to talk, right?”
“Right.” Thomas’s voice is muffled by the mattress, but Sam still hears him loud and clear.
“Do you want it like, hard? Or romantic? Or like, what?”
Thomas pushes himself up onto his arms and jerks his head around. “I do not care. Just do what you would do to Lucas.”