Chapter 6
Virtual Velocity
~AURORA~
Sunrise bleeds through the gaps in the blackout curtains like liquid gold, thin rays of light that find their way into the bedroom with determined persistence.
One particular beam lands directly across my face, warm against my closed eyelids in a way that would be annoying if I weren't so thoroughly, deliciously sated.
I'm still wrapped in Cale's arms.
We're both naked—gloriously, unapologetically naked—the sheets tangled around our legs in evidence of last night's steamy shenanigans. My body aches in all the right ways, the kind of pleasant soreness that comes from being thoroughly fucked by someone who knows exactly what they're doing.
His chest is pressed against my back, one arm slung possessively over my waist while his hand rests on my hip.
His other arm is tucked under my head, serving as a pillow that probably cut off circulation hours ago but he hasn't moved.
His breathing is soft and even against the nape of my neck, each exhale stirring the short hairs there in a rhythm that's become as familiar as my own heartbeat.
His scent is everywhere.
Burnt cedar and dark coffee and raw amber, mixed with the musk of sex and sweat and something purely us.
It's soaked into the sheets, into my skin, into my lungs with every breath I take.
My Omega instincts are practically purring with contentment, drowsy and satisfied in a way the suppressants usually prevent.
For a moment—just one perfect, crystalline moment—I let myself enjoy it.
The warmth of his body against mine.
The weight of his arm anchoring me in place.
The safety that comes from being held by someone who knows every secret I'm hiding and hasn't run away yet.
But reality is a persistent bitch, and she's currently manifesting as the knowledge that I need to get up early to prep for work.
I sigh, the sound barely audible, and carefully begin the extraction process.
Cale's a heavy sleeper after sex—one of the few times his Alpha instincts actually let him relax completely—but he's also got reflexes that would put a cat to shame. I have to move slowly, deliberately, sliding out of his embrace inch by careful inch.
His arm tightens reflexively when I start to move, and I freeze.
"Mmph," he grumbles into my hair, still mostly asleep.
"Shhh," I whisper, running my fingers along his forearm in soothing strokes. "Still early. Go back to sleep."
He makes another incoherent sound, but his grip loosens, and I seize the opportunity to slip free. The cool air of the bedroom hits my naked skin like a shock after the warmth of his body, raising goosebumps across my arms and back.
I grab my phone from the nightstand—somehow it survived the night despite being tossed aside in favor of more interesting activities—and pad toward the bathroom on silent feet.
The marble floor is cold against my bare soles, and I can feel the sticky evidence of last night between my thighs.
My inner thighs are marked with fingerprint bruises that will fade in a day or two.
My neck has a particularly spectacular hickey that I'm going to have to cover with makeup before work.
Worth it.
So fucking worth it.
I close the bathroom door behind me with a soft click and immediately attend to the necessities. Pee, because sex is great, but biology is biology. Wet wipes to clean up the mess we made. A moment of staring at myself in the mirror, taking inventory of the damage.
My hair is an absolute disaster—sticking up in seventeen different directions, product-free and natural in a way it never is when I'm being Rory.
My lips are swollen and slightly chapped from kissing.
There's a faint red mark along my collarbone where Cale bit down hard enough to leave an impression.
I look thoroughly debauched.
I also look happy as fuck.
The realization makes something warm and complicated bloom in my chest, and I quickly shove it down before I can examine it too closely.
I grab my toothbrush—the electric one that cost more than it should because apparently my parents believe in premium oral hygiene—and start the process of making myself feel human again.
The brush hums against my teeth as I open my phone with my free hand, thumb swiping through notifications with practiced efficiency.
Seventeen new emails since I went to sleep.
Most of them are the usual—team updates, supply chain confirmations, a passive-aggressive note from Pemberton about "professionalism in the workplace" that I'll ignore with extreme prejudice.
But one catches my eye.
Subject line: URGENT: ONLINE USER NEEDED
I pout around my toothbrush, tapping the email open with growing curiosity.
The message loads, and I scan it quickly while continuing to brush in slow circles.
To: All Team Personnel
From: Richard Pemberton, Performance Management
RE: URGENT: ONLINE USER NEEDED
Due to unforeseen circumstances, our registered participant for this morning's Virtual Championship Qualifier has withdrawn from the competition. We require an immediate replacement with verified racing credentials to maintain our team's standing in the preliminary rankings.
The competition begins at 7:00 AM EST. Encrypted login credentials are attached. Any team member with relevant virtual racing experience should respond immediately.
This is a time-sensitive matter. Our reputation in both virtual and physical racing circuits depends on adequate representation.
I blink at the screen, toothbrush pausing mid-stroke.
Dante dropped out.
That cocky motherfucker actually dropped out of the virtual qualifier.
A small, vindictive part of me wonders if it was because of my comment yesterday about him sucking at the virtual leagues. The idea that my words actually got under his skin enough to make him rage-quit brings me an inappropriate amount of satisfaction.
I spit toothpaste into the sink and rinse, still staring at the email.
Virtual Championship Qualifier.
I haven't done serious virtual racing in months—not since the last time I competed with Auren and Wren, back when we'd spend entire weekends in VR, pushing each other to be faster, more precise, more ruthless in our pursuit of the perfect lap.
Auren was a fucking pro at virtual racing.
She could read the physics engine like it was written in her native language, could exploit every quirk and feature until she was shaving milliseconds off times that shouldn't have been possible.
Racing against her had made me better—sharper, more adaptable, more willing to take risks that seemed insane until they worked.
But that was before.
Before Auren's championship win. Before everything got complicated. Before I threw myself so completely into being Rory Lane that Aurora's hobbies got shelved in favor of maintaining the performance.
I check the time on my phone.
6:47 AM.
The competition starts in thirteen minutes.
My first instinct is to delete the email and pretend I never saw it.
I have work to prep for. Dante's mess isn't my problem. Let Pemberton scramble to find someone else or accept the forfeit.
But then I think about the team.
About Marco and Jenna, and the other techs who've had my back. About proving that we're not just a second-rate operation coasting on family money and lucky breaks.
Deep down, it’s about the fact that I'm actually good at this.
Good enough to beat professional trainers in virtual environments? Maybe…
But what do I have to lose by trying?
I finish rinsing my mouth and wipe my face with a hand towel, studying my reflection with narrowed eyes.
The question isn't whether I can compete.
The question is whether I want to.
And standing here, naked and marked with Cale's claiming bites, I realize the answer is yes.
Fuck it. Why not?
I walk back into the bedroom, moving quietly despite my sudden rush of adrenaline. Cale's still sprawled across the bed like a satisfied cat, one arm stretched out to where I'd been lying. His dark hair is mussed, his tattoos stark against his pale skin in the early morning light.
He's beautiful when he sleeps.
Younger, somehow. Less guarded.
I grab the spare blanket from the chair in the corner and drape it over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. His face relaxes further at the warmth, and he makes a soft sound that does dangerous things to my heart.
"Sleep well," I whisper, pressing a quick kiss to his temple before I can overthink it.
Then I'm moving, walking through the penthouse toward my gaming setup with purpose in my stride.
It's nothing like Auren's elaborate multi-monitor command center with its custom-built racing cockpit and force feedback steering wheel that probably cost more than a small car.
My setup is tucked into a corner of what was probably meant to be a formal dining room—a modest desk with a single ultrawide monitor, a decent gaming chair that's seen better days, and a VR headset that's a generation behind current technology.
It's a corner I visit once in a blue moon, usually when I need to decompress by tinkering with the latest mechanical design software or checking out new tech launches. A space that's just for me, for Aurora, without the weight of being Rory or maintaining the Lane family image.
The desk is cluttered with scattered papers—technical specs for engine modifications I've been conceptualizing, a half-finished coffee mug from three days ago, a stress ball shaped like a tire that Wren gave me as a joke.
I clear a space and wake the computer, listening to the tower hum to life while I stretch. My body's still loose from last night and this morning's activities, but I need to get my head in the game. Need to shift from post-sex contentment to competitive focus.
The coffee machine in the kitchen calls to me like a siren song.