Chapter 26
Scott blocked Cam’s number.
Not because he wanted to. God knew he didn’t want to.
But after leaving Cam’s hotel room the previous night, after everything that had happened between them, he’d come to a painful realization: he wasn’t strong enough—not where Cam was concerned.
If Cam texted him again—if another message appeared on his screen saying I need to see you—Scott knew exactly what would happen.
He would go. He would always go. No matter how little Cam gave him back.
No matter how many times Scott reminded himself that a one-sided love for a closeted, famous athlete could never end well.
So he’d blocked the number before he could change his mind.
The act had felt strangely final, like amputating a limb.
It didn’t make sense—he and Cam had barely texted lately—but there was a difference between leaving a line of communication open and cutting it off completely.
It made him feel a little bit sick. And he hated that some small part of him still hoped Cam would find a way around it.
By morning, he’d seriously considered leaving Vegas altogether.
The temptation had been strong. Getting on a plane and disappearing sounded infinitely preferable to spending an entire weekend watching Cam from a distance and pretending he meant nothing to him.
Unfortunately, leaving would create questions, and questions were dangerous after that Daily Mail article.
Scott Palmer suddenly abandoning the race weekend after publicly appearing in the paddock for the first time in weeks would attract attention, and attention was the last thing Cam needed.
So Scott stayed. Because apparently, even heartbroken, he couldn’t stop putting Cam’s needs above his own.
The thought made him smile bitterly into his coffee.
Years ago, he’d heard someone say that true love wasn’t selfish, that if you genuinely loved someone, their happiness and well-being mattered more than your own. Scott had always dismissed the idea as sentimental nonsense.
Look at him now. If it were nonsense, Scott wouldn’t be sitting in the Ferrari garage watching a qualifying session he had no desire to watch for the sake of the man who’d broken his heart. If this was true love, it fucking sucked.
But when qualifying started, Scott forgot all about his depressing thoughts.
There was something wrong with Cam. Scott noticed it almost immediately.
At first it was small things—a missed apex, a correction mid-corner, an unusually scruffy exit—nothing dramatic on their own.
But Scott had watched enough Grand Prix over the last year to recognize when Cameron Richter wasn’t driving like Cameron Richter.
Cam’s greatest strength had always been consistency.
Even on bad weekends, he was precise and controlled, incredibly clinical.
Today he was reckless. Sloppy.
Scott frowned at the timing screens.
“That’s odd,” he murmured.
One of Ferrari’s strategists glanced up. “What?”
“Richter.”
The strategist followed his gaze.
On the screen, Cam dipped a wheel onto the dirty part of the track exiting Turn Six. The car twitched violently.
The man shrugged. “Everyone has bad sessions.”
Scott didn’t answer. Because this wasn’t one mistake. It was mistake after mistake. In Q1, Cam ran wide. In Q2, he locked up into a corner Scott had seen him navigate perfectly dozens of times on his simulator. Twice he abandoned flying laps entirely, barely managing to squeak into Q3.
By the start of Q3, Scott’s concern had grown into a sick knot in his stomach. The championship battle was too close for this. Hunter was just fifteen points behind. One bad qualifying result could completely reshape the title fight.
During the short break between Q2 and Q3, the television cameras zoomed in on Cam’s eyes, visible through his helmet. There was something dark in them. Something furious and barely contained. Cam looked like a man on the verge of throwing his steering wheel.
The final runs began, and everyone in the Ferrari garage focused on the timing screens. Hunter immediately found time. Purple sector one. Purple sector two. P1.
The Ferrari garage erupted in cheers.
Scott barely heard them. His eyes were fixed on Cam’s lap. Sector one. Messy. Sector two was somehow worse. Then came the final corner. Cam carried too much speed. The rear stepped out.
The correction cost him precious tenths, and when Cam crossed the line, he was just P8.
P8.
Silence settled over the Ferrari garage for all of half a second before the room exploded again.
Hunter had taken pole while Cam Richter had just produced his worst qualifying performance of the season.
The broadcast immediately switched to the championship standings.
The commentators were already talking about momentum and pressure, wondering whether the championship leader was beginning to crack.
Scott barely heard them.
Because the cameras had returned to Cam, who was removing his helmet. And for one brief moment, before Cam noticed he was being filmed, Scott saw his expression clearly.
The sight made his stomach drop. Cam still looked furious. Furious and something else, his dark eyes glinting feverishly with something raw. The expression vanished almost immediately, replaced by the usual carefully controlled mask, but it was already imprinted into Scott’s mind.
It’s none of your business, Scott reminded himself sternly. Stay strong. He is none of your business.
***
Scott had just left Ferrari’s building and was heading toward the parking area when a hand clamped around his arm.
Before he could react, he was yanked sideways into the narrow service passage between the Ferrari and Mercedes hospitality units.
“What—”
The rest of the sentence never made it out. He was pushed against the wall and kissed forcefully.
Cam. It was Cam kissing him like he was trying to devour him, like Cam had been holding himself together by a thread and that thread had finally snapped.
“Cam…” Scott tried weakly, his mind quickly becoming foggy with want.
Cam kissed him again before he could finish speaking.
“Someone might see—”
“I don’t care.” The words came out rough and harsh.
Gathering all his willpower, Scott put a hand on Cam’s chest and pushed at it, breaking the kiss.
His lips felt the loss immediately, but he knew it was the right thing to do.
They were hidden between two hospitality buildings, but not well enough.
People were nearby. Teams were packing up.
Journalists were still wandering around the paddock. Any of them could walk past.
“You don’t mean it. Your career will be ruined if people see us.”
Cam stared at him with dark, feverish eyes. “Yes,” he said, cradling Scott’s face with his capable, strong hands. His thumb stroked Scott’s bottom lip. “It would be.”
Scott shivered, barely resisting the urge to suck it into his mouth. “Then snap out of it,” he said hoarsely. “People can’t see us together, not like this.”
“Snap out of it,” Cam repeated in a strange tone of voice. He gave a harsh chuckle. “You think I didn’t try?”
Before Scott could say anything, Cam leaned in for another hard, greedy kiss.
The intensity of it stole the breath from Scott’s lungs, but it wasn’t even just the kiss. It was the way Cam couldn’t seem to let go.
Every time Scott managed to create a few inches of distance, Cam closed it again immediately, his hands gripping Scott’s face, his waist, his hips, as if separation was unbearable, as if he needed physical proof that Scott was actually there with him.
It did terrible things to Scott’s heart, making him so fucking weak.
“Stop that,” he tried again as Cam trailed his hot, parted lips down his neck and started sucking hickeys into it.
God… Scott was gasping softly, his glazed eyes struggling to focus on the entrance to the passageway.
People kept passing by—they were insanely lucky the passageway was dark enough that no one bothered to take a closer look at them.
“You blocked me,” Cam said, biting his neck.
Scott swallowed a whimper. “That’s my prerogative. No one is entitled to text me whenever they want.”
Cam’s hands on his hips tightened. “I’m not no one,” he gritted out, sucking another nasty hickey into Scott’s neck. “You can’t block me. Or leave. Not ever.”
There was so much to unpack there, but Scott just couldn’t gather his thoughts, all his senses zeroed in on the heat of Cam’s mouth on his sensitive neck, on the way Cam’s hard thigh was grinding between his legs. He felt like a bitch in heat that wanted to be mounted right there.
“I already did,” Scott managed. “I’m done. We’re done.”
“No,” Cam bit off, cupping Scott’s aching cock and kneading it over his pants, his dark eyes fixed on Scott’s face unwaveringly.
Scott barely swallowed a whimper, looking at the mouth of the passageway in mild panic. He could literally see people passing it; one look and they’d be exposed. But the insane risk only turned him on more—how much Cam must have wanted him to risk it like this was heady.
Cam’s hand yanked his pants open and closed around his bare cock.
Scott moaned.
Cam covered his mouth with his, swallowing his moans as he started jerking him off roughly. Scott’s cock was already leaking and the sound of flesh rubbing against flesh was loud and wet. Obscene. God, what were they doing… this was insane. Career-ruining.
But Cam didn’t stop.
He brought Scott to a sharp, almost painful orgasm embarrassingly fast—and then he left Scott there, still flushed, panting, and utterly confused.
Scott fixed his pants with shaking hands, his mind a jumble of thoughts and feelings. Cam hadn’t even gotten off himself.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?