He guessed croissant #3
Sponsor logos litter the sleeves of his fireproof shirt, branding the arm that pumps back and forth, jerking Sam off into his mouth.
His race suit hangs off his tiny waist, pooling around his knees like the skirt of a dress.
Even the iconic red racing boots add to the allure, reminding Sam that he’s fucking into the mouth of Ferraro’s number one driver.
Only one thing could make this better.
“Look up, babe,” Sam pants. “I want to see your face.”
Thomas’s eyes fly open and trail up Sam’s body while he continues to bob his head. When they lock eyes again, Sam’s breath hitches.
He’ll remember this moment for the rest of his life.
“Fuck, I won’t last much longer.”
Sam’s not cruel enough to come all over Thomas’s suit before he has to face the press—though, fuck, what a great idea—but he won’t make the smaller driver swallow it either. There’s a trash can somewhere, Thomas just has to pull off of him first.
He doesn’t budge. Thomas picks up the pace while he scrambles against the opening of his own race suit. Once his hand finally snakes its way inside, he tugs at his own dick, over his Nomex underwear.
He’s getting off to it.
He’s going to come from sucking Sam off.
Sam can’t help himself from burying his fingers in Thomas’s hair, tensing around the sweaty strands. The extra sensation must work for Thomas—he whines around Sam’s cock as he jerks faster and spills over in his suit.
The inside of that iconic red race suit, now painted with his cum.
“Fuck. Fuck!” Sam follows quickly after, shooting his load down Thomas’s eager throat. He’s boneless when he stumbles over and collapses on the thin mattress of his massage table, heaving.
Thomas tilts his head back and swallows. His legs wobble as he pulls himself upright, onto the bench. “You forgive me?” His voice is hoarse and he rubs at his throat, massaging it.
“You can do whatever you want forever.” Sam slumps over sideways, against the wardrobe. Sleeping is a good idea.
“We have press,” Thomas croaks, shaking him. “The hotel room would have been a better idea.”
“Nothing could’ve been better. That was perfect.” Sam just needs to doze real quick.
“I think the podium is finished.”
There’s a ruckus outside their room as the guys from the LB1 garage flood back in.
Sam forgot they were on a timeline. “Just give me a moment, I’ll walk you out.” If they could avoid Adam, that would be great. “I should blindfold you, though. We’ve got too many secrets back here that Ferraro can’t see.”
Thomas blows a raspberry. “Ferraro does not need Red Boar secrets, we have our own.” After a pause he adds, “I do not mind blindfolds.”
Sam doesn’t miss the implication. “I like your eyes. I want you to see me.”
I don’t want you to think of him anymore, he doesn’t say.
Thomas nods slowly. “I want that too.”
He wants it too. He wants to look at Sam during sex. He wants to know who’s fucking him, that he isn’t Rafael.
Sam may be spent, but his cock still gives an interested twitch. “You can send me your room number for tonight. If you’re still up for it, I mean.”
“Not sick of me yet?”
Sam shakes his head. “And you’re forgiven. Or whatever.”
“Bien.” Thomas stands up and offers him his hands.
“You speak Spanish too?” All this time?
“It is French.” Thomas hauls him upright, off the mattress. He’s pretty strong for a little guy. “It means ‘good’.”
“I think you’re lying to me.” Sam pulls his Nomex back up and fixes Thomas’s hair. “I reckon you’ve been lying to everyone and you’re actually Spanish.”
Thomas lets out an offended gasp. “Je suis francais!”
“I’m sorry, no hablo espanol.”
“Am I interrupting something?” Lucas’s voice cuts through their argument, causing both men to look up.
Sam hadn’t noticed his door opening. “He’s here to finish the job!” He exclaims, pointing at Thomas. “Get ‘im before he breaks my bones!”
“That is not funny!” Thomas hisses.
“I was just stopping by to see how you were.” Though Lucas is speaking to Sam, his gaze stays trained on Thomas. “But I see you have company?”
Thomas doesn’t answer, so Sam says, “Yeah, he was just apologizing. It’s cool.”
“That is good.” Lucas’s eyes travel down, likely taking in their disheveled appearances. “I can see your penis.”
It’s just some bush and a bit of the shaft, but Sam should definitely hide that before he walks through the garage. “Oh, thanks.”
Hopping in place, Sam pulls the Nomex underwear up. He layers the bottom of the shirt over it, stretching for extra coverage. After zipping his race suit to his waist, Sam presents himself. “Well?”
“No more penis.”
Sam laughs. “I promise, it’s definitely still there. Alright, Big Toe. Ready?”
“Yes,” Thomas says to the back of Sam’s shoulder. His face is bright red, but that’ll probably fade by the time he’s back in familiar surroundings.
Lucas steps out of the doorway, letting the other drivers pass. “Be careful.”
The words almost sound ominous, but Sam shrugs. “I don’t want a lecture from Adam any more than you do.”
Lucas disappears into his own room and Sam turns to Thomas. “Let’s get you back to the paddock.”
He drapes an arm around the smaller driver, keeping him close in case he decides to run off and steal all of their data. It’s a very real concern of his.
“Has Lucas ever said anything about me?”
“About you?” Sam thinks back, but Lucas doesn’t talk about other drivers often. “Not that I remember? You want his autograph or something?”
Everybody likes Lucas—he’s a legend.
“No, no.” Thomas looks nervous, but that’s probably because he’s still in enemy territory. “I do not think he likes me very much.”
“Nah, he’s a good guy.” Sam’s never seen Lucas hate anyone. Well, other than his old teammate. “You’re a threat to us in both championships, so that’s probably it. I don’t think it’s personal.”
Thomas exhales audibly, but keeps otherwise quiet as they navigate the labyrinthine hallways.
When they see the paddock, Sam asks, “You got it from here?”
“Can I walk a straight line?” Thomas ducks out from under Sam’s arm. “Yes, I am pretty sure I am okay now.”
“Just making sure, don’t want you getting los—shit.”
“What?” Thomas follows Sam’s eyeline and stops in the hallway. “Shit.”
Sam smiles at the photographer whose camera is trained on them. He pushes Thomas forward, but the Ferraro driver buries his face in his hands.
“Lorenzo is going to kill me.”
“You were just apologizing to me, there’s nothing to be scared of.”
“Sounds like you have never met Lorenzo.”
The Ferraro team principal has never been on Sam’s radar, no.
Thomas breaks away, walking faster and hiding his face as well as he can. It’s useless—he’s still wearing his full race suit. He’d be recognizable from across the entire paddock.
Sam would rather face the issue head on. He walks right up to the photographer. “Hey, how you doin’?”
“I’m not deleting them.” Okay, so much for pleasantries. “And they’re backed up automatically, so you can’t strong arm them out of me either.”
Sam holds up his hands in surrender. “Not asking you to do any’a that. Just wanted to ask if I could pick my favorites.”
“Oh. Um—” The photographer turns his camera so Sam can see the screen, but the driver has to cup his hands to shield it from the sun.
There’s no mistaking it—they’re all pictures of Thomas leaving the Red Boar garage. It’s not even a little subtle.
“I like that one.” Sam says about a picture where they’re looking at each other. Thomas’s expression is worried, but that’s normal for him. “That one too. God, not that one.”
“No, it’s not great.” The photographer flags the image in-camera. “That can happen when you shoot in a burst.”
Most of them are fine, but Sam makes sure the photographer knows which ones he prefers. “If I’m going to see these pictures everywhere for the next month, I wanna make sure I like them.”
As predicted, the rumor mill spirals with speculations about Red Boar recruiting Thomas to replace Lucas. The media won’t let up, posting the photos as often as they possibly can.
Man, that photographer better have made bank.
Thomas acts like it’s the end of the world, even after Ferraro publishes a whole-ass press release about how integral he is to the future of the team. They even convince him to sign another contract extension.
Still, maybe the reason people won’t let it go is because it’s not a particularly bad thought—Thomas at Red Boar.
Sam could compete against him with equal machinery. No excuses—they could finally find out who is the better driver once and for all.
Then there’s the little things—social media games, fan stages, publicity stunts—things that would just be better if Sam could suffer them alongside someone he likes.
Plus, Red Boar could save money on hotel rooms if they shared. Keeping costs down benefits the team. It’s the noble thing to do.
“I mean, have you thought about it?”
“No,” Thomas replies with a breathy gasp.
“You should definitely think about it.”
“Right now?!” the smaller man wheezes. “Is this what you are thinking of when you are inside me?”
“No.” Sam’s mind usually only wanders when he’s trying not to come too fast. “It’d just be nice to have you around, I guess.”
“I am already around!”
Sam pulls out slowly, just to get Thomas to make that face. His eyebrows draw up in the middle, his mouth hangs open. A low moan rumbles out of his chest.
“We could compete in equal machinery.”
Sam snaps his hips forward and Thomas keels up with a cry. His back arches up, away from the bed, strung tight like a bow.
“This was better when we were doggies.”
Sam wants to laugh, but he’s slightly offended. “Why was it better?”
“You were quiet!”
Sam huffs and leans forward, bracketing Thomas between his forearms. With his weight better distributed, he pistons his hips forward at a ruthless pace.
Thomas reacts immediately—his hands claw at Sam’s back, his legs lift to wrap around Sam’s hips. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”
Sam isn’t the only one who got more talkative when they started facing each other.