CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
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Mia
The door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the neon hum of Vegas.
The room was dim—only the low glow of the bedside lamps and the city lights filtering through half-drawn curtains.
Lucas didn’t rush. He let go of her hand and stepped back just enough to look at her, really look, as if memorising the way she stood there in the quiet.
Mia felt the air shift between them, thick with the time spent apart.
She reached up first, fingers brushing the zipper of his hoodie, sliding it down slowly.
The fabric parted with a soft rasp. Underneath, just a plain black T-shirt stretched across his chest, still carrying the faint scent of champagne and adrenaline from the podium.
She pressed her palm flat over his heart—steady, strong, racing just a little faster than hers.
He caught her wrist gently, brought her hand to his lips, kissed the inside of her palm.
Then her knuckles. Then the pulse point at her wrist. Each kiss deliberate, unhurried.
“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured against her skin.
“Every version of this. But never like it could actually happen again.”
She stepped closer, closing the last distance.
His hands found her waist, thumbs tracing slow circles over the thin fabric of her blouse.
He didn’t pull her in—he waited until she rose on her toes and kissed him.
Soft at first, exploratory, like rediscovering a language they used to speak fluently.
Then deeper. Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly; his arms tightened, drawing her flush against him.
They moved toward the bed without breaking apart, a slow dance of steps and touches.
He sat on the edge, pulled her between his knees.
She stood there while he worked the buttons of her blouse, one by one, eyes never leaving hers.
When the fabric fell open, he leaned forward, pressed open-mouthed kisses along the soft skin of her stomach, tracing the delicate line just below her ribs, then higher to the underside of her breasts.
She shivered, hands gripping his shoulders, fingers tightening as his mouth moved with deliberate care.
“Still so sensitive here,” he whispered, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
She laughed softly, breathless. “You remember.”
“I remember everything.”
He slid the blouse off her shoulders; let it pool on the floor.
His hands roamed—up her spine, down her sides, learning her again like she was new and familiar all at once.
She tugged his T-shirt over his head, palms smoothing over the warm skin of his chest, the faint scar from boarding school, the newer ones from Barcelona still pink at the edges.
She traced them with her fingertips, then with her lips, slow and reverent.
He groaned low in his throat when her mouth found the spot just below his collarbone.
His hands slid to the clasp of her bra, unhooked it with careful fingers.
The lace fell away. He cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they tightened under his touch.
She arched into him, head tipping back, a quiet moan escaping.
They shed the rest slowly—jeans, underwear, every layer peeled away like unwrapping something precious.
When they were bare, he pulled her down onto the bed with him, rolling so she was beneath him, then shifting until they lay side by side, facing each other.
Legs tangled. Hands exploring. Mouths meeting again and again.
He kissed his way down her body—sternum, ribs, the soft plane of her stomach—pausing to nuzzle the dip of her hip, the inside of her thigh. When he settled between her legs, he looked up at her, waiting. She nodded, fingers sliding into his hair.
His mouth was slow, deliberate. Tongue tracing lazy spirals, then firmer strokes, then sucking gently until her hips lifted off the bed.
He held her thighs open with gentle pressure, forearms braced, savouring every hitch in her breath, every quiet sound she tried to swallow.
When her fingers tightened in his hair and her back bowed, he didn’t rush her toward the edge—he drew it out, coaxing her higher, letting her tremble there until she shattered with a soft, broken cry.
He kissed his way back up her body while she caught her breath, settling between her thighs again. She wrapped her legs around him, heels pressing into the small of his back. He reached between them, guided himself to her entrance, paused.
“Look at me,” he said, voice rough.
He settled back between her thighs, guided himself to her entrance once more, and pushed in slowly—inch by inch—until he was seated fully inside her. They both stilled, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
“God, Mia,” he whispered. “You feel…”
She kissed him before he could finish, hips rocking gently, urging him to move.
He did—slow, deep rolls at first, every thrust measured, drawing out the friction.
Her hands roamed his back, nails grazing lightly, then digging in when he found the angle that made her gasp.
He kept the rhythm steady, sensual, building gradually.
Their mouths stayed close—kissing, breathing each other in, soft words murmured between thrusts.
“I missed you,” he said against her lips. “Every day.”
“I missed you too.”
He shifted, hooking one of her legs higher over his hip, changing the angle just enough to make her moan louder. She tightened around him, breath hitching.
“Lucas—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Let go again. I want to feel it.”
She did—head thrown back, body arching, pulsing around him in long, shuddering waves. He followed moments later, hips stuttering, burying himself deep as he came undone with a low groan, face pressed to the curve of her neck.
They stayed like that—tangled, breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other—until the aftershocks faded. He eased out slowly, rolled to his side, pulled her against his chest. She curled into him, cheek over his heart, legs entwined.
He kissed her temple, her forehead, the corner of her mouth. “Stay,” he said again, quieter this time, voice thick with everything unsaid.
She didn’t answer. Just pressed closer, her hand resting over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm slow as sleep began to claim them both.
Mia lay awake a little longer, cheek against his chest, listening to the gradual softening of his breathing.
His arm stayed heavy around her waist, warm and sure, and the quiet of the room wrapped around them like a held breath.
Her body still tingled—soft echoes of pleasure, the faint ache between her thighs—but her mind wouldn’t settle.
She could feel the steady thump of his heart under her palm, the rise and fall of his ribs, the way he’d relaxed completely against her. Safe. Familiar. Terrifying.
Her own pulse hadn’t slowed. It fluttered in her throat, unsteady, like it knew something she didn’t want to admit.
She should leave. Slip out now, while he slept.
Protect the fragile thing they’d just rebuilt.
Protect him—one race from the championship, one clean drive away from everything he’d chased for years.
But his warmth anchored her. His hand, even in sleep, curved protectively over her hip. She remembered the way he’d looked at her earlier—open, pleading, like she was still the only thing that could steady him.
She wasn’t ready to walk away again. Not tonight.
She let her eyes close, let her breathing match his—slow, deep, deliberate. Tomorrow she’d leave. Tomorrow she’d rebuild the distance. Tonight… tonight she let herself stay.
* * *
Lucas
Lucas woke to pale desert light slipping through the curtains. The room was quiet. Too quiet.
He reached across the sheets instinctively. Cool. Empty.
Mia was gone.
No note. No lingering scent of her perfume on the pillow. Just the faint indentation where her body had been, already fading.
He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, the ache settling somewhere deep and familiar. Not anger. Not even surprise. Just understanding.
She’d come to him last night—open, honest, giving everything she could in that moment.
And she’d left before dawn because the morning would bring questions, complications, the weight of the final race pressing in.
She needed space to breathe, to think, to keep her own narrative intact. He got it. He hated it, but he got it.
He sat up slowly, rubbed a hand over his face. The championship was still there—Abu Dhabi waiting, one clean race to seal it all. Top three. That was all he needed.
He wouldn’t lose hope. Not about the title. Not about her.
He’d race like he always had: focused, relentless, his own. And if she found her way back—if the silence between them ever broke again—he’d be ready.
For now, he had a car to prepare. A championship to win.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood, and started getting ready for the day.
The fight wasn’t over.
Neither was he.