Chapter Sam Campbell #6
The Ferraro driver throws himself forward, back into that sexy little arch. Even if he can go back to sorta looking like Lucas, he sounds nothing like him.
—and post-orgasm Thomas isn’t exactly quiet.
“Fuck, you are so big.” Thomas moans and his chest sinks further into the mattress. “Where the hell do you hide that thing inside your race suit?”
Zatzing in-zide your race-zoot.
Just imagine it’s Lucas. He’s still Lucas.
Sam gives a tentative thrust forward and Thomas mewls. “And you hit my prostate every time. Every single time! With every thrust!”
Wizz ev’ry zrust!
Honestly though, the compliments are kinda doing it for Sam—however French they may sound. He picks up the pace, spreading Thomas’s cheeks as he drives into him.
“And zhat—’owyousay—’it? Smack?”
“Spank?”
“Yes, yes, ouais, merde. Like my whole body izzon fire. I can still feel it.”
Sam hesitantly grasps the reddened cheek. It lost the definition of his fingers, but it still looks painful. “You like that?”
“Uuuhn, c’est bon!”
Sam has only ever been on the wrong side of a Thomas monologue, but this? He could get used to this.
He grasps Thomas’s hips and uses them as leverage, pumping into him faster, faster, faster, until he stills, buried to the hilt inside of him. His orgasm is a wave that crashes into him, knocking Sam forward as he spills everything he has into the smaller man.
Thomas cries out with him—probably oversensitive by now. He’s a good sport for holding out until Sam finished. Sam should like, thank him or something.
Instead, he lets go. As he collapses onto the sweaty body in front of him, somewhere in the back of his mind he’s surprised lithe, little Thomas is strong enough to catch his weight.
Sam’s still inside him, but he’s not ready to pull out quite yet. Maybe once he gets feeling back in his thighs. Maybe never. Maybe this is just how they are now.
Racing might be a little more difficult, but they can figure it out.
The Frenchman slides downwards slowly, until they’re laying flat on the bed. “Merci,” he whispers.
Sam grunts out in reply.
“Oh, let me—” Thomas shifts and Sam cries out as his dick finally slides free. “Shh, shh, it is okay. Let me clean you up.”
Sam’s fading fast, but he has some awareness when his condom is removed and immediately replaced by a warm, wet towel. His hands get the same towel treatment, his chest, his biceps. After he’s received the equivalent of an entire sponge bath, his brain has finally rebooted and reconnected.
He’s even sitting up by the time Thomas returns from the bathroom.
“Oh! I thought you would be asleep.” Thomas is radiant, smiling as big as any time he’s won a race. “Would you like to sleep here? Plenty of space.”
That seems dangerous somehow. Waking up to Thomas’s sleeping face would be another nail in Sam’s coffin—he already has too many revelations to sort through.
Number one: Was Thomas sexy?!
“I should really get going.” Sam sways when he stands and Thomas rushes over to steady him.
Fuck. Sam is fucked.
“At least let me help you.”
When Sam’s stable again, Thomas collects his clothes. He turns the shirt right side out and hands it to him. His boxers next.
It’s oddly domestic.
Sam just focuses on putting his limbs through the correct holes.
“I thought you would have said his name.” Thomas sounds eerily similar to how he does after racing. Sam wasn't expecting post-sex commentary. “When you came. Or any other time before that, really.”
“I didn’t?”
Of course he didn’t. By the time Sam came, the fantasy of Lucas had long disappeared.
Thank God he didn’t say any name at all—there’s no telling how Thomas would have reacted if Sam belted out “Big Toe!” when he blew his load.
Thomas shakes his head in reply and holds Sam’s jeans open so he can step into them. He’s surprised when Thomas pulls them straight up, tucking his dick to the left before zipping.
“You guessed which way I hang?”
There was a fifty/fifty chance he’d get it right, but those hands had been too steady for a toss-up.
“No, I knew already.”
Sam’s brain lags too far behind to figure out if that’s normal information for rivals to have on each other. “Yeah, okay.”
Thomas steps back into his sweatpants and walks Sam to the outer door of his suite. “Do not forget your expensive wine.”
“What?” Sam is holding a bottle. It’s heavier than he remembers it being. “Okay.”
“I—” Thomas hesitates when they reach the door. “I had a good time tonight.”
“Yeah, yeah, me too.” Sam loved fucking Lucas. It’s the coming in Thomas part that confuses him.
“Can we…” Thomas shifts, his bare feet almost graceful against the hotel carpet. “Would you be interested in doing it again?”
Sex is sex, and Sam loves sex. The only problem is what happens at cum midnight—when Cinderella’s asshole turns from Lucas into Thomas. Is he okay with coming in Thomas again if it means fucking Lucas?
Weirder still, can he keep lying about it? Can Sam keep pretending he’s thinking of Lucas while he fucks Thomas?
If Thomas thinks Sam’s only sleeping with him because he loves Lucas, what will he think if Sam admits the illusion was gone before he came? Gone, but he still asked for more?
Fuck, but he can’t give it up. Not when he knows how compatible they are—how good the sex is.
“Absolutely,” Sam says, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Just lemme know what room you’re in next weekend.”
“P3. That’s P3.”
For once, Sam isn’t concerned about himself. “Where’s Lucas?”
Please be P1. Please be P1. Please don’t let that slimy little—
“P2.”
Sam smacks his wheel. “When did he pass ‘im?”
“On the last lap.”
The last lap. “He’s going to hate that.”
“Yeah, he hasn’t replied yet. Congrats on the podium, though! You dragged that thing all the way to the end.”
Yeah, but if he could’ve held Thomas off for just one more lap—
Sam pulls up to the number three sign and hops out of his car. He crosses straight across, to the other Red Boar. The Ferraro almost bowls him over as Thomas parks in between.
Lucas takes his time emerging from the car. When he's out, he triple-checks his steering wheel is reattached.
Sam can wait for him. He can wait all night.
Thomas does his on-car poses before throwing himself into the arms of his team. The whole Ferraro mafia is out to celebrate the Italian team’s first win of the year.
Sam wants to be happy for him, but why today? Why did Thomas have to win the German Grand Prix?
Sam gathers Lucas up and squeezes him as tight as he can manage after a hard race. It isn’t the first time Lucas has lost the German GP, but if he’s serious about retiring, it could be his last ever home race in Formation 1.
“I’m fine, you big baby.” Lucas pulls back from their embrace but doesn’t let his teammate go. “Seriously, I do not need to win every race. Losing is part of it.”
Sam forces a smile. Always smiling. “Guess there’s a good reason to come back next year.”
Lucas gives him a final squeeze and taps Sam’s helmet before wandering away and congratulating Thomas. He’s such a good fuckin’ person.
If it was Sam, he’d tear pieces off the Ferraro until the car fell under weight.
Sam avoids Thomas by reporting to the scale. When the Frenchman follows him, he wanders off to exchange his helmet for his team’s hat and dry towel. Face dried, he figures it’s as good a time as any to get the interview out of the way.
Sam waves to the crowd before stepping up in front of the screen.
“I think I speak for everybody when I say we were all very impressed you managed to finish the race with that broken wing—much less podium.”
The spectators roar in response.
“Yeah, thanks. As long as the car could still run, I wanted to push it to the end.”
“You even managed to hold Thomas off for several laps—it was very exciting driving!”
Exciting, maybe, but disappointing nonetheless. “Thanks, yeah, glad you liked it.”
“Is something wrong?”
Fuck, Sam let his guard down. He drags the corners of his mouth upright and says, “Yeah, nah. Unless we win, we all think we coulda done better. I just wish I coulda held Thomas back enough for Lucas to stay ahead.”
“There’s always next weekend.”
Next weekend isn’t Lucas’s home race.
Sam’s dismissed and he lets his face fall as he wanders off camera.
Thomas looks like he’s expecting praise for his win, turning those giant, creepy eyes in his direction and smiling.
It’s better for Sam not to say anything, so he stands a little too far away and watches Lucas’s interview in silence.
“It is dangerous to race so hard when your front wing is falling off.” Thomas appears at his side like a magician’s worst trick.
Would it kill him to be quiet for a single moment?
“It could have broken away and hit another car. You should have boxed, maybe then you could have pushed a faster lap time.”
“It would have to be quite an impressive lap time to make up for the twenty-five seconds I’d spend in the pits.” Longer, really, to switch the front wing.
Thomas seems to consider it. “With new softs and light fuel, it might have been manageable. When did it break?”
“The lap before you caught up to me.” Why else would he have fallen so fast?
“You sound upset.”
When did everyone become his freakin’ therapist? “Yeah? Well, I’m a little pissed you’re pushing this issue when there’s nothing we can do about the outcome now! You won, go be happy somewhere else.”
Thomas is quiet for a record-breaking several seconds before he whispers, “This is about Lucas?”
“Just shut up.”
It works until it doesn’t. “It is not your job to give him the race win.”
Sam bristles. “Since I’m a good teammate, it basically is.”
“Right.” Thomas crosses his arms in front of himself. “He would not want to win like that.”
“How the fuck would you know?”
“I know I would much rather fight to the end and lose than blame my teammate for not holding my competition back—even for my home race.”
There’s a glaring problem to that argument. “Well, you aren’t actually Lucas.”
He just plays him in the bedroom.