He guessed croissant #2
Sam jumps out of what’s left of his car, making sure to return the steering wheel for all it’s worth. Skid marks and pieces of his car litter the road, showing his trajectory. It’ll take time to clean up the debris.
Enough time for Ferraro to assess the damage to Thomas’s car, fix it, and get him back in the race.
Great. Fucking fantastic.
The race is already up and running again by the time Sam is cleared with medical. His mechanics are all pissy to see him, but he’s even pissy-er to be stuck in the garage instead of racing.
After all the lead up for this weekend—three free practices in the lead, pole position, the perfect start—Sam didn’t get to complete a single lap.
He pulls up a chair and watches the rest of the race with his team. It sucks without him, so the broadcast keeps cutting to the camera trained on Sam’s furious expression. He can’t even force a Sammy Smile. The haters have to be loving it.
All of his focus and ire stays trained to Thomas’s “DEB” marker as he progresses through the field. Sam isn’t hoping he’ll crash again, but every successful overtake is another punch to the gut.
The race ends and Sam can’t decide which feels more like a personal blow—Rafael winning the race or Thomas finishing sixth and gaining exactly eight fucking points. He ties Sam for the championship, but forces him down into third place.
Lucas’s garage clears out as they head for the podium, while Sam’s own mechanics bitch and moan about the work they’ll have to do to get the car back to working before Miami.
Yeah, Sam also wishes his car had four wheels. Join the club.
He dreads the press line, so Sam retreats to his driver’s room, grabbing his phone and throwing himself onto the cushion. It’s been hours since he’s been here, but his race suit isn’t even sweaty. That’s how quickly his race ended.
He replies to the most important texts, emojis the others, and scrolls social media as he tries to determine how long he can avoid press before someone notices. Just as he is about to give in, a light tap on his door catches his attention.
Nobody at Red Boar lightly taps anything. He loves his team, but even in the best of times, they’re brutish.
“Who is it?” Sam calls out. Maybe a reporter traversed through his garage, desperate to get the first comments about his DNF.
“Thomas.”
Wait, what? In the Red Boar garage? It’s undoubtedly his pompous-ass voice, but Sam still has to see it to believe it.
He answers the door but immediately regrets it. Thomas has clearly raced—his face is red, his hair dripping with sweat. Oh I knocked you out of the race, but my car kept working, so now I’m second in the championship, nyeh nyeh.
“Who the fuck let you back here?”
Thomas tenses. “I walked in through Lucas’s garage.”
“You just—?” Sam had seen the garage clear out, but nobody was there? “You’re wearing bright fucking red!”
They have like, secrets and shit lying around. Doesn’t Red Boar have security?! Adam should do something about that.
“Yeah.” Thomas looks around, checking that the coast is still clear. “Can I come in?”
Sam wants to say no. The pain’s still fresh, and he can tell he’s too on edge for a polite conversation. If he still wants to fuck Thomas in the future, it’s better to say no than to burn the bridge with an emotional outburst.
Still, he looks apologetic.
Sam sighs before opening his door wider. The Frenchman takes the hint and darts inside, like Sam might change his mind and slam it in his face.
He might, actually.
“First, I want to apologize.” Thomas has his hands out in front of him. It’s either placating or defensive—maybe both. “I thought I had the space to rejoin behind. I swear, I would never put you in danger on purpose.”
“This was my chance,” Sam says, controlling his voice as best as he can. “I was only eleven points behind him. Eleven.”
“I am sorry.”
Sorry isn’t enough, he needs to understand how much Sam lost today.
“When I woke up this morning, I thought I would fall asleep leading the championship.” He talks slowly, forcing every syllable out. “Now I’m third. Because of a mistake you made.”
“I know.” Thomas stares at the ground. “I did not want it like this.”
“But you sure as fuck got it!”
A ten second penalty is such a fucking joke. The stewards will take any chance they can to bury Red Boar, to keep them from winning.
“Yes.”
Thomas is still talking to the ground. He never looks at Sam when it matters. When they fuck, when he confronts him, when he apologizes—why won’t he look at him?!
“Whatever.” It’s Sam’s turn to look away. “You can leave now.”
He’ll get over it. It’s stupid to stay upset over things that happen out on the track. Accidents are common—he’ll move on eventually.
If Thomas had just waited until tonight—until they met up in his hotel room—Sam would probably be too sick of the analytics, the reporter questions, and the replays on social media to care anymore.
Confronting him in his driver’s room, when the pain is still fresh, is such a stupid idea.
“Is there anything I can do?” Thomas asks. “To show you I am sorry?”
That sounds like sex. “You mean sexually?”
“If it proves to you that I mean what I say—that I did not do it on purpose.”
Sam scoffs, his frustration growing. “We fuck all the time. I would have won. That’s an entire race win you owe me.”
“No.” Thomas finally looks up when he says. “I do not think you would have won today.”
Sam doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream. “Oh, really?!”
Thomas can’t read a room, so he nods. “I will admit that we struggled with the softs during qualifying, but the Ferraro is bet—”
Sam cuts him off. “I know how you can apologize.”
“Great!” His shoulders slump with relief. “Okay, how?”
“Blow job.”
“I will send you my room number as soon as I am back to my phone.”
“No, now.”
Thomas cracks an unsteady smile. “But I do not remember my room number right now. I will send it as soon—”
“No.” Sam points to the ground, in front of his feet. “I want your mouth here, in my driver’s room. Suck my cock in your race suit. Forza Ferraro.”
Thomas’s mouth drops open a little too early—he’s still standing and everything. “I cannot—I cannot do that.”
“Then don’t.” Sam shrugs. “If it doesn’t matter to you, then it doesn’t matter to me.”
“But the walls are so thin. You do not have a ceiling!”
Sam looks up like he never noticed they were standing in a glorified cubicle. “I bet you’d make less noise if your mouth was full of cock.”
Thomas’s gaping mouth and wide eyes are entirely too shocked for Sam’s taste. He’s an enthusiastic consent type of dude. “Look, if you really don’t want to, it’s fine.”
“No. No, I—I messed up.” Thomas drops to his knees. Right there. In Sam’s driver’s room. “I want forgiveness.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
“You sure?” Sam asks, already reaching into his race suit. He yanks down the waistband of his fireproofs, wiggling his hips to help it along.
“Yeah, just—” Thomas looks up with those big saucer eyes and Sam’s heart skips a beat. “Go gently. We still have press.”
Sam finally frees his cock and shoves the rest of the tight, navy fabric further down. He jerks himself a couple of times, though it won't take much to get fully hard with Thomas looking like that.
Thomas stares at it, transfixed, and Sam feels like he’s king of the world. “I’ve got one stipulation.”
Thomas’s eyebrows furrow. “I do not know what this means.”
Right. English. Third language.
“A rule for you to follow.”
He huffs. “I am already like this.” Thomas gestures down as if Sam could possibly miss that he is on his knees in his race kit.
“I want you to look at me.” Sam cups Thomas’s jaw with the hand that isn’t busy and tilts his face up. “Don’t pretend I’m Rafael. Sam Campbell’s the guy fuckin’ your throat—don’t forget it.”
Thomas swallows against Sam’s palm and nods. His dark, unblinking eyes stay glued to Sam’s face.
“Good.”
Thomas is pliant when Sam works his mouth open. His hand keeps a firm hold under his jaw as Sam lines his cockhead up to the Ferraro driver’s lips and eases into the heat.
The stretch of the intrusion contorts Thomas’s pretty face, elongating it and emphasizing his sharp cheekbones. His hollow cheeks balloon outwards, the thin skin stretching to mold around Sam’s girth.
“Watch your teeth. You like this cock, treat it nice.”
Thomas pulls back just enough to cover his sharp lower teeth with his tongue and dives back in. His signature whine is muffled, but he relaxes his jaw and continues to take more.
Tears form in the corners of Thomas’s eyes, and saliva drips from the taut edges of his mouth, running down his chin.
He’s so beautiful.
Sam knows he’s bigger than most, so he only pushes himself half-deep. “Suck it, Thomas.”
Thomas’s lips fasten, forming a tight seal around Sam’s cock, and his eyes flutter close as he sucks.
“Hhhnnn!”
Sam’s stomach swoops as Thomas’s cheeks hollow further, wrapping around Sam’s member and pulling, completely encompassing him in his warm, wet grip.
When he starts bobbing his head, Sam tenses, his own mouth falling open on a long groan.
His grip slides up from under Thomas's jaw, the length of his thumb now resting against the smaller man’s cheekbone. With the rocking motion, his own cock fucks against his palm. Thomas’s head bobs faster and deeper, pulling himself further down his length.
Sam’s hand wraps around his base, both to keep pressure on it and to stop himself from fucking forward too far. His fingers are quickly covered in saliva as Thomas moves, drool sliding down his knob and pooling around his fist.
Thomas hastily smacks Sam’s hand out of the way, replacing it with his smaller one and twisting up in time with his bobbing. He gains confidence with every pull, working himself further and further down until Sam’s almost fully sheathed.
Sam doesn’t want to come too fast, but the image of Thomas going to town on his dick while wrapped entirely in Ferraro red is, frankly, overwhelming.