CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
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Mia
The air between them felt different now — lighter, but more solid at the same time.
The words they’d shared hadn’t disappeared; they’d simply settled into something softer, warmer, like a hand resting over a bruise that no longer hurt quite as much.
She felt the shift in her chest: the ache of old shame easing into something steadier, safer, held by him.
They were closer than they’d been before — not just bodies, but something quieter, deeper.
From that place the days unfolded, easy and unhurried.
Afternoons by the infinity pool—him pinning her against the edge, water lapping at their bodies while he moved deep and steady until she came trembling against his chest, biting his shoulder to muffle her cries.
But afterward they’d float together, her back to his front, his arms around her waist, her head on his shoulder.
He told her about the first time he drove a real F1 car—Monza, seventeen, shaking so hard he could barely grip the wheel.
“Dad was in the garage. Didn’t say a word when I came in.
Just handed me a water bottle and said, ‘You looked like your grandfather out there.’ First time he ever said it without sounding like a challenge. ”
She turned in his arms, water rippling around them. “And what did you feel?”
“Proud,” he said quietly. “And terrified I’d never be that good again.”
She kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re better.”
* * *
Evenings on the terrace blurred into fire—wine left untouched as he drew her against the railing, bodies aligning under the vast, star-strewn sky.
He moved behind her, deep and unhurried, every slow roll of his hips pulling soft, helpless sounds from her throat that the warm sea breeze carried away.
The night air kissed her flushed skin while he held her steady, one hand splayed low on her stomach, the other tangled in her hair, tipping her head back so he could kiss the curve of her throat as she came apart beneath the stars—shuddering, gasping his name into the darkness.
Afterward they stayed like that for long minutes—his chest pressed to her back, arms wrapped around her, both of them breathing hard, hearts hammering in tandem.
He didn’t pull away immediately. Instead he eased out slowly, turned her in his arms, and kissed her—deep, lingering, tasting the salt of sweat and sea air on her lips.
They sank onto the outdoor sofa, still naked, skin warm against the cooling night. He pulled a soft blanket over them; she curled into his side, head on his chest, one leg draped over his. His fingers traced idle patterns along her spine—slow, soothing circles that made her hum contentedly.
For a while they just existed—listening to the distant waves, the cicadas, the occasional rustle of palm fronds. No words. Just the quiet rhythm of breathing, slowing together.
Eventually she tilted her head, resting her chin on his sternum so she could look up at him.
“Do you ever get scared?” she asked softly. “Not of crashing. Of… not being enough. For the team. For your dad. For the name you carry.”
His hand stilled on her back. He looked down at her, eyes dark and unguarded in the low light.
“All the time,” he admitted, voice low. “Every time I sit in the car, there’s this voice in my head—Dad’s, mostly.
‘Don’t disgrace the name.’ ‘Finish what my father started.’ I was the only one who ever showed promise.
My brothers tried karting for a season or two—Tom hated it, James was decent but bored.
The attention shifted to me almost overnight.
Coaches, sponsors, journalists. Suddenly I wasn’t just Lucas.
I was the Moreau heir. The one who had to prove the bloodline still had fire. ”
He exhaled slowly, fingers resuming their gentle path along her spine.
“Some nights I lie awake wondering if I’m racing for me or for a ghost. And if I fail—if I never win the title—whether that means I’ve let everyone down. Including you.”
She shifted, propping herself on one elbow so she could see his face fully.
“You haven’t let me down,” she said quietly. “Not once. And you’re not racing for a ghost. You’re racing for the kid who loved the wheel before anyone told him what it meant. That kid’s still in there.”
He reached up, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, thumb lingering on her jaw.
“You make me remember him,” he said. “The one who just wanted to go fast. Not prove anything. Just feel the car respond.”
She leaned down, kissed him softly—once, twice—then settled back against his chest.
* * *
The secrecy still sat between them—small but heavy. She called her parents one golden afternoon—Lucas in the outdoor shower, out of earshot.
“Hey, Mum. Yeah, I’m good. Staying in France—little place near Nice. Work thing came up last minute, Louis Vuitton shoot. No, just me. Needed a break from London heat. It’s gorgeous—pool, sea view, total escape.”
Her mother laughed down the line. “Sounds perfect, love. Enjoy it. You work too hard.”
Mia smiled at the phone. “I will. Love you.”
She hung up. Lucas emerged from the shower—towel low on his hips, water still dripping down his chest. He’d heard enough.
“‘Just me,’” he echoed quietly. No anger. Just a small, sharp hurt.
Mia set the phone down. “We have to. No one can know. Not my family. Not yet.”
He nodded slowly, jaw ticked. “Right. No one can know.”
The words hung between them—small but heavy.
“I don’t want to hide you forever.”
“Then we won’t. Just… not yet.”
He kissed her forehead. “Not yet.”
* * *
Lucas
The Louis Vuitton shoot arrived mid-week. He was the centrepiece—casual elegance, effortless charm, every shot dripping with Riviera fantasy.
Mia was there as media lead—clipboard in hand, coordinating interviews, managing social posts, keeping the narrative clean. She wore a simple sundress, hair up, professional, invisible.
One of the models—tall, dark-haired, French accent like honey—leaned close between takes, laughing too easily at something he said, touching his arm lightly. He smiled politely, but he felt Mia’s gaze from across the set.
The photographer—an Italian with a disarming grin and expensive sunglasses—kept complimenting Mia’s eye for composition, asking her opinion on framing, brushing her elbow when he passed. She laughed at his jokes.
Lucas noticed.
By the end of the day, tension crackled like dry lightning.
The drive back was silent—thick, suffocating silence that pressed against the windows like humidity.
He kept both hands on the wheel, knuckles white.
Mia stared out at the passing olive groves and whitewashed villas, arms crossed tight over her chest. The sun was low, turning everything golden, but the air inside the car felt cold.
They pulled into the villa driveway. Gravel crunched under the tyres. He killed the engine. Neither moved.
Finally, he spoke—voice low, controlled, but edged with something raw.
“You were very friendly with the photographer.”
Mia turned to him slowly. “And you were very friendly with the model.”
“She was flirting. I was being polite.”
“Polite.” Mia let out a short, humourless laugh. “She had her hand on your arm for half the take. You didn’t exactly pull away.”
“I was working,” he said, teeth gritted. “It’s a campaign. I smile, I pose, I don’t make scenes. You know that.”
“I know.” Her voice cracked just a fraction. “But it still looked like… like you enjoyed it.”
He exhaled through his nose, staring straight ahead. “And you? Laughing at his jokes. Letting him touch your elbow every time he passed. You think I didn’t notice?”
Mia’s cheeks flushed. “He was being professional. Friendly. That’s my job—build rapport, keep things smooth.”
“Rapport,” he repeated, the word bitter on his tongue. “Right.”
Silence stretched again—longer this time, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.
Mia spoke first, quieter. “I hated watching her touch you.”
He turned to her then—really looked. The anger in his eyes softened into something more vulnerable.
“I hated watching him look at you like he wanted to fuck you,” he admitted. “And you smiling back.”
“I wasn’t—” She stopped, swallowed. “I was being polite. Same as you.”
They stared at each other—two people who’d spent months hiding, protecting, pretending—and suddenly the pretending felt exhausting.
He reached across the console, slow enough she could pull away if she wanted. She didn’t. His fingers brushed her cheek, thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
“I don’t want anyone else,” he said quietly. “I haven’t since Monaco. Since before Monaco.”
Mia’s breath hitched. “Me neither.”
He leaned in—slow, deliberate—until their foreheads touched. “Then why are we doing this? Fighting over nothing?”
“Because it hurts,” she whispered. “Seeing someone else want what’s mine.”
His eyes darkened. “You’re mine.”
She closed the distance—mouth on his, soft at first, testing. Then deeper. Hungrier. His hand slid into her hair, tilting her head, kissing her like he was claiming every inch of her mouth. She whimpered against him, fingers curling into his shirt.
They broke apart only long enough to stumble inside—door slamming shut behind them, shoes kicked off, hands already tearing at clothes.
Her sundress hit the hallway floor. His shirt followed.
They made it as far as the living room—halfway to the bedroom—before he lifted her onto the wide console table against the wall.
Legs wrapped around his waist. His mouth on her throat, sucking a mark just below her collarbone. She gasped, head tipping back, fingers working his belt open. He pushed her underwear aside and thrust in—slow, deep, both of them groaning at the stretch, the fullness.
They stilled for a moment—foreheads pressed, breathing each other in.
He stayed buried deep, hips flush against hers, not moving yet. His voice came out low, rough, almost a growl. “You’re mine.”
It wasn’t a question. But it wasn’t quite a demand either—just raw truth spilling out after the day’s tension.
Mia’s eyes met his, steady despite the flush on her cheeks. She tightened around him deliberately, once, feeling him twitch inside her. Then she rocked her hips forward—slow, claiming the motion herself. “Then prove it,” she whispered, voice breathy but firm. “Show me.”
His breath hitched. He didn’t rush—he waited a beat, letting her guide the next roll. Then he matched it: long, deep strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot, steady and unrelenting, but always attuned to the way she lifted to meet him.
She set the rhythm—subtle shifts of her hips dictating depth and pace. Her hands roamed his back, nails tracing muscle, pulling him closer when she wanted more. He groaned against her throat, mouth sucking that mark just below her collarbone harder now, possessive but careful.
“Feel that?” he murmured, lips brushing her skin. “How deep you take me. How fucking perfect.”
“Yes—” She clenched again on purpose, drawing another rough sound from him. Her mouth found his—open, hungry, tongues sliding as their bodies synced. Moans vibrated between them.
Her thighs trembled first. Breaths fractured into soft whimpers. She tilted her hips just right—guiding him exactly where the pressure built hottest.
“Lucas—”
He pressed deeper, holding there a second. “Come,” he rasped—half plea, half reverence. “Let me feel you.”
The orgasm rolled in slow—warm waves spreading outward, cresting gently as she rode it out with deliberate rocks of her hips.
She clenched tight around him, crying out softly, nails biting into his shoulders.
He followed right after—hips snapping once, then burying deep as he spilled inside her with a low, shuddering groan, body shaking against hers.
They stayed locked—sweaty, breathless—foreheads touching, hearts slamming in time.
Long minutes later he eased out, kissing her softly now—tender, almost careful. He lifted her gently, carried her to the sofa. They collapsed there—her curled into his chest, his arms wrapping tight like he couldn’t bear space between them.
Neither spoke at first. Just breathing, skin cooling, the fight drained away.
Finally he murmured into her hair, voice quieter. “I hated today. Seeing him near you.”
She pressed her lips to the scar on his collarbone. “I hated her touching you.”
A beat. Then, softer, almost to himself: “I don’t want anyone else touching you like that. Ever.”
She didn’t answer with words—just shifted closer, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him down for a slow, lingering kiss. It lingered longer than necessary, soft and unhurried, like she was answering the only way she could right then.
The sun dipped lower, painting the room in warm oranges and pinks. They stayed tangled, quiet—the unspoken hanging between them like promise rather than pressure.
The summer wasn’t over.
And neither were they.