Chapter Sam Campbell #12
How could Sam be such an idiot? “Nah, I have a club invite with my name on it.”
It also has stupid Rafael’s name on it. He opens up the group chat and copies the address for his driver, shooting Ezra a text and a basic plan for the night.
“Be safe,” Lucas says.
After years of wishing Lucas cared about him, about his safety, Sam can only shrug the comment off. “You too.”
“I am not the one planning to get blackout drunk.”
“I never plan on it, it just happens.”
Lucas laughs as Wayne pulls up to the curb. “Enjoy your youth!”
“Only seven years,” is Sam’s pitiful reply.
What Sam needs, more than anything, is to drink. Not room temperature red wine, he needs something cold. Something to wake him up out of whatever funk he’s in even though he won the French GP.
The amount of people screaming his name from the GA line helps usher Sam through the door without dipping into his wallet.
He’s led behind ropes and up the stairs until he spots Owain and says, “I’ve got it from here.”
“Sam!” It’s still relatively early, but the Welshman is already swaying. “Mannn… You gotta let the rest of us win some time!”
It’s only his second win of the year, but Sam’s not going to rub it in the face of someone who’s never won a race before. “You gotta get a better car.”
“Fuck man, I knowww.” Owain hooks an arm around Sam’s neck and drags him over to the couch area. “But McLean is like, my blood. I bleed peach.”
“You should get that checked.”
“Hey guys, guess who I found!” Owain calls out, yelling over the thud of the bass.
A couple of shrill “Sammy!”s ring out in reply.
Sam loves the fans.
A strobe light flashes, lighting the area in bursts. His eyes travel down the couch with each pulse, documenting where the hottest girls are sitting. He bookmarks a couple of spots before registering something out of place.
Sam does a double-take just as Thomas turns away, ducking towards Rafael.
So these are the plans, huh? Too busy tonight—not because his family is in town, but because he wants to go clubbing with Rafael.
Even when Sam wins, he’s only ever second best.
“Sam’s been avoiding us!” Owain says to the group, shaking him for emphasis. “But he won the race today, so… a round of shots on him!”
“On him?” some drunk girl in a too-tight dress asks. “Or off him?”
The girls scream and Owain laughs with fiendish glee as he turns to Sam for his reply.
He knows this. He knows what to do next. He understands how to navigate this situation—he’s been in it enough times before.
Yeah, Thomas is here, but that doesn’t change anything. If Thomas doesn’t give one flying fuck about what Sam does tonight, why should his presence matter?
Sam came to the club for hard alcohol and an easy lay, and he’s not leaving until he checks both off his list.
He steps out from under Owain’s arm and unbuttons his shirt. “Both.”
Owain whoops. “Clear the table, clear the table! Fuck, where’d that bottle girl go?!”
Sam tosses his shirt over to an empty section of the couch as some of the girls clear the table. Usually the groupies sit back and let other people wait on them, so their enthusiasm is a pleasant surprise.
Then again, who in their right mind wouldn’t do a body shot off a Form 1 driver? Even if he was one of the uggos—it’d still be a good story.
Sam cautiously lowers himself onto the short table to judge whether it can support his weight. Once he clears it for stability, he leans back, propping himself up with his elbows and tensing his muscles.
Rafael and Thomas are the only people who don’t move. They pretend they don’t notice him, huddling together on the couch and talking low. Their stubbornness backfires, and they end up with front row seats.
Sucks for them.
Club lights love Sam, and they caress each curve of his abs, drawing attention to his impressive physique. He lets his head hang back, exposing his throat, and asks, “Who first?”
They decide on shot glass, salt line up his abs, and the classic lime wedge in the mouth.
The first two are relatively tame, but the third girl seems to sense there’s a bigger prize to win. She takes the shot and drags her tongue all the way up his torso, between his pecs, and up the column of his throat. She removes the lime with her fingers, opting instead to kiss him.
Sam doesn’t mind at all, licking into the seam of her tequila flavored lips until they open, dumping a bulk of her shot into his mouth. He swallows on instinct, surfacing with a hiss, and she sticks the lime back between his teeth, fruit first.
“You looked thirsty,” she says.
“Fuck.” Sam laughs and gives her the once-over. Green dress, the brunette in the green dress.
He makes the mistake of rolling his head to the side and catches Thomas’s surprised stare. What Thomas thinks doesn’t matter, but his eyes seem glued to Sam’s slicked lips.
Well, it’s not Sam’s fault they don’t kiss when they fuck. It'd ruin Thomas's fantasy of him being Rafael, after all.
“Who’s next?”
The next girl pushes a little further, tonguing his belly button and lightly pinching his nipples. Not his thing, but okay. The next palms his cock before dipping down to lick his abs.
As each girl prepares him with a line of salt, Owain upturns the tequila bottle over Sam’s mouth for a splash until his face is warm and his limbs are looser.
“I should spit in your face,” the next girl says, with a strong French accent. “For what you ‘ave done to France today.”
French accents shouldn’t turn him on.
“Oui,” Sam replies, grinning. “S’il vous pla?t.”
He knows about five words, and he pronounces all five terribly, but it looks like his simple ‘yes, please’ still works for the girl.
Smirking, she palms his cock through his pants. Her eyes bulge like she’s surprised by what she finds there, giving him a small tug. She takes her shot, swallows, licks up his abs, and pulls him upright by the neck. Climbing into his lap, she gives him an authentic French kiss.
Frenchy in the light pink dress, he notes as he surfaces for air.
Once the girls all have a turn, Owain jokes, “It can’t be as good as they made it look. You’re so hairy.”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” Sam says, with a laugh. He’s had a bit too much tequila for his liking, and he fumbles when he reaches for the bottle to fill up another shot.
“Yeah, good point.” Owain throws back the tequila and grabs Sam’s rod, forgetting it wasn’t part of the process. “How the fuck are you so big?”
“Why’d you think I’d be small?!”
Owain shrugs and licks up the abs he forgot to salt. He’s not entirely bad at it, the pad of his tongue slippery against the divots of Sam’s muscles. He looks good from above too.
Okay, Sam’s had too much to drink.
He takes the lime slice out of his own mouth and feeds it to Owain before they end up making out on some club table in France.
Owain sucks up the entire slice and chews on the rind as he says, “Thomas, Rafael, you should do that!”
“No.” It’s impossible to tell who says it first.
“Feel his dick, at least.”
“No!”
Sam rolls off the table laughing and hobbles up to his feet. If he’s going to be whored out, at least it came with the satisfaction of people complimenting his dick.
Take that, Rafael.
The girls hold his shirt hostage, but Sam doesn’t fight for it back. He drops into the small space they left for him, to delighted shrieks and playful nudging.
See, this is his element. This is where he belongs—he’s the life of the party, the one everyone wants.
Sam doesn’t need Thomas. He doesn’t even need Lucas. He is perfectly capable of being happy all by himself, surrounded by women.
He leans towards Green Dress, singling her out. They talk a little about the race—general small talk, really—until she runs her dainty little hand up his thigh and palms his cock.
“It wasn’t fair.” She sounds British, her voice like velvet compared to the music thumping in the background. “Everyone else got to touch.”
Sam’s still half hard from all the attention his dick received, and she massages him like a challenge.
Sam brushes her dark hair behind her ear, letting his fingers graze down her neck, before he leans in. “We can do more than touch.”
Her breath hitches and she nods, her hand grasping the meat of his thigh. “Lemme tell my friends first, hang on.”
She turns and rattles off a couple of sentences to the girls sitting closest to her. They look between Green Dress and Sam with awe and push for her to go.
He doesn’t bother announcing he’s leaving—the guys have a mutual understanding about what happens at these things. He lets himself be pulled up, off the couch and back to the loo.
Green Dress’s green dress is short enough to hike up. They don’t bother removing any clothes—she yanks her panties to the side and hikes up her thigh as he pushes in.
They’re face to face—something Sam hasn’t had in a long time.
She moans as he bottoms out, encouraging him to go faster, faster, harder, harder.
Grunts and slaps of skin against skin seem extra loud in the muted room. The thump of bass is still present, still shaking the walls, and Sam tries not to thrust to the beat like a dickhead.
He chases his peak, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of his head that can’t shake the feeling anal is just… better.
She’s so, so hot, and so, so wet, but there’s just something about a tight rim, a muscled back, and taking his time that sounds more appealing.
The bouncing breasts help, though.
He is just a man.
Sam rubs her mound with his thumb and groans praise in her ear until she’s shaking. When she comes, she clenches down on him, and it only takes a couple more thrusts before he spills into his condom.
She collapses back against the wall of the stall and Sam follows, hoping he doesn’t crush her with his weight. He needs to stay awake. He knows he needs to stay awake, but man, he’s exhausted.
“Fuck,” Green Dress mutters on an exhale. “Fuck, that was so good.”
“Yeah.” Sam forgets where he is for a brief moment. “That was good. Thanks for that.”