Chapter 34 Aurélie
aurélie
If she looked at me like that one more goddamn time, I was going to do something I couldn’t take back. -Callum
It reminded me of my Porsche back home: sleeker, smoother, rebuilt from the ground up with my own hands. This one bit back. I loved it.
As we climbed out of the cars, our faces were flushed, our breathing heavy. The cameras were immediate, capturing every angle. It was supposed to be lighthearted—a vintage exhibition race for the cameras—but my frustration simmered just beneath the surface.
My mind was still spiraling. Still reeling, playing a cruel joke on me.
He had called me love.
Love.
Love.
Love.
Not Dubois. Not Auri. Love.
And he'd said it in that accent, in a tone that burned hotter than the Miami sun.
Like it had just slipped out. And the way he'd looked at me when he said it?
The way his gaze had lingered, scorching, something unreadable flickering in his expression as his veiny hands tightened the straps on his helmet?
Fucking porn.
I was already so far down this path, and he made sure I kept going. I could still hear it. Could still feel it in the way my heart pitter-pattered against my sternum. Still wondering how much filthier it would sound in a different setting.
I needed to snap out of it.
“You had the inside line,” I accused, my voice low and sharp as I yanked off my helmet and tightened my ponytail.
Callum tossed his helmet onto the roof of his car with a smirk that was too fucking cocky for my mood right now.
He ran a hand through his sweaty waves—an action that should immediately be banned for the sake of the female species.
“And you nearly clipped me in Turn 4. You're lucky I didn't spin out.”
“Lucky?” I shot back, stepping closer, catching a whiff of his sweat and expensive cologne. Fuck, I hated that I liked it so much that my thighs rubbed together involuntarily.
“You were so slow through Turn 8, I could’ve slipped inside with my eyes closed.”
I blinked. Slipped inside. Into what? Where? Why did I suddenly forget how to breathe? The tips of my ears grew hot and beads of sweat gathered on the nape of my neck. I reached behind me to lift my heavy ponytail. It had to have been from the Miami heat, not from dirty talk.
His eyes dragged over me, clearly catching the shift. He smiled casually, maybe a little taunting, and added, “Relax. I meant the corner.” A pause. “Unless your mind’s somewhere else?”
“Fuck. Off,” I snapped. “You blocked me like it was bumper cars, Fraser.”
He laughed, the sound tinged with frustration. “It's called defending, Dubois. Maybe take notes.”
I stepped even closer, the space between us disappearing as my anger flared. “Maybe learn to fight fair.”
His grin faltered, his blue eyes narrowing. “You think this is unfair? Welcome to F1, princess. This isn't F2 anymore.”
Princess hit me like a slap, and my breath caught in my chest. My fists clenched at my sides, and for a moment, I considered saying something that would cross every line.
Except he got there first.
“Careful with how you respond, love,” he murmured, voice dipping into that lethal, velvet register that made me swallow nervously and forget we were surrounded by cameras. “You keep talking back to me like this and I might bend you over the car and show you how I really take the inside line.”
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again… and absolutely nothing came out. I was speechless, and for me, that was a fucking miracle.
He was playing dirty, and you know what? I’d be damned if I didn’t throw it right back.
I shoved a finger into his chest, but he didn’t budge. Fuck him. “Say whatever you want, asshole. You’re a sore loser because you’re not used to losing to a woman. You played dirty.”
Callum’s eyes narrowed. “I have never had a problem with the fact that you’re a woman. In fact, I think it’s hot as fuck that you challenge me the way you do.” He let that land for a moment, pursing his lips. “But you’re in the big leagues now, so act like it.”
Scoffing, I tilted my head to the side, vividly aware of the encroaching camera crew. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”
He smiled and fucking purred, “I’m better than you, and I’ll still hold the door open after I destroy you.”
My brain short-circuited. I made a noise that couldn’t possibly be English—maybe not even French.
I should have said something, but he just winked and turned to the sea of cameras before I could respond.
Lenses clicked, microphones were shoved in our faces, and the tension between us snapped back into something performative.
“Great race,” Callum said smoothly, his public mask sliding into place as he turned toward the reporters.
“Yes,” I said, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes. “Great race.”
Liar.
We both turned away, appearing so goddamn casual.
And then he opened his fucking mouth. “You know, when you call me an asshole and then moan after… it really fucks with my self-control.” A beat. Then, deadlier, “Kinda makes me wonder what you’d sound like with your legs over my shoulders.”
My soul left my body, my brain was static, and my knees were weak. I stopped walking, and he glanced over his shoulder at me. With a parting wink, he walked off to our respective changing areas while I stood there, still stunned, turned on, and burning.
I was going to murder him. Then maybe fuck him. Possibly in that order… later. After I got out of this goddamn fire suit and remembered how to function like a human being.
The media tent was buzzing with energy. A sleek, black backdrop featuring the Miami GP logo framed the interview stage, and rows of photographers and reporters jostled for position like they were cars on the track.
Callum and I were ushered to our seats at the front of the stage, the overhead lights hot and unforgiving.
I adjusted my polo—back in my civilian clothes—crossing my legs and offering a tight-lipped smile to the crowd. Callum dropped into his chair beside me, annoyingly relaxed, his grin making it clear he was enjoying himself far too much.
“Callum, Aurélie,” the moderator began, leaning into his mic, “the two of you have been at the center of a lot of media buzz lately—both on and off the track. Fans are calling your rivalry one of the most exciting in years. How do you feel about that?”
I kept my face neutral, glancing at Callum, letting him take the lead. For now.
“Well, I’d say the fans aren’t wrong. Aurélie’s a force to be reckoned with. Every race with her is a battle,” he drawled, his Scottish accent doing its usual damage to the crowd. And also to me.
I scoffed softly, enough for the mic to pick up. “You mean every race you lose is a battle.”
The crowd erupted into laughter. “Fair enough. But I’d argue it’s the close calls that keep things interesting, wouldn’t you?”
“Close calls?” I shot back, arching a brow. “If I remember correctly, I finished five seconds ahead of you in Jeddah. Hardly close.”
The moderator grinned, clearly thrilled with the banter. “It sounds like there’s no shortage of competitive spirit between you two. Do you think this rivalry pushes you to be better drivers?”
Callum glanced at me, his expression softening just enough to make my stomach twist. “Absolutely. Aurélie’s one of the most talented drivers I’ve ever raced against. She doesn’t just push me; she pushes the whole grid.”
It wasn’t the response I’d expected, and for a moment, I faltered. “Well,” I said, clearing my throat, “I suppose I should say the same. You’re not too bad yourself, Fraser, for a four-time world champ. When your car’s behaving, that is.”
The crowd laughed again, but the tension between us was palpable. Callum’s eyes lingered on mine, his earlier words settling heavily in the space between us.
The moderator pressed on, unaware—or maybe all too aware—of the subtext. “And what about off the track? The fans are dying to know—what’s the dynamic like when the cameras aren’t rolling? Are you friends, rivals, frenemies?”
I hesitated, unsure how to answer. Callum beat me to it.
“I’d say frenemies sums it up,” he said, leaning back in his chair casually. “We fight like hell on the track, but off it… well, let’s just say we’re figuring it out.”
Bastard.
Figuring it out.
Like the bickering, the kissing, the flirting were considered figuring it out.
Like him calling me love was figuring it out.
Like me getting off to fantasies of him was figuring it out.
The vague response left room for interpretation, exactly what the FIA and PR teams wanted.
I forced a smile, nodding along. “Figuring it out,” I echoed, my voice clipped. “That’s one way to put it.”
The setup for the social media shoot was a blend of sleek professionalism and chaotic energy. Bright ring lights cast an artificial glow on the makeshift set, and the faint hum of nearby activity in the paddock added a buzz of urgency.
“Alright,” one of the photographers began, gesturing toward us. “We’re going to start with some still shots of you two. Something playful, maybe a little competitive.”
Callum stepped closer. “Playful and competitive? Sounds like us.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. He was irritatingly charming, even when I wanted to stay annoyed with him.
“Let’s start with you two standing side by side, arms crossed,” the photographer directed.
We fell into position, our arms brushing slightly, but our height difference was staggering, and I was barely up to his shoulders.
The air between us felt charged, his presence far too close for comfort—or maybe too close for me to ignore the way it made my panties dampen.
My arm brushed against his again as I adjusted my stance, and I caught him glancing at me from the corner of his eye.
“Perfect,” the photographer said, snapping a few shots. “Now, can we get some eye contact? Something intense to really highlight this rivalry.”
Callum turned to face me fully, his blue eyes locking onto mine.
It was like staring into a storm—steady yet electrifying, holding me captive.
I straightened my posture, refusing to let him get the upper hand, but the intensity of the moment was undeniable.
My skin prickled, the heat of his gaze leaving me breathless.
He licked his lips like he might say something, his stare dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk. But my entire body was humming uncomfortably.
My clothes too tight, my bra suddenly feeling scratchy against my sensitive nipples, my pussy pulsing every few seconds like she was desperate to be filled with a dick.
Oh, I was so fucked.
“Wow, the chemistry here is incredible,” the photographer murmured, breaking the spell. “You two are naturals.”
“Or just competitive,” Callum quipped, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
I elbowed his ribs when I turned back to the photographer, but he only grinned, and my stupid heart did a little pitter-patter when it should absolutely not be doing that.
Once the stills were done, the content team set up for a TikTok segment. A phone mounted on a tripod was aimed at us, the crew buzzing with energy as they explained the concept.
“Alright, we’re going to ask you some rapid-fire questions,” the coordinator said. “Answer quickly, and keep it fun. Let’s show the fans your personalities.”
We both nodded, and the first question came.
Coordinator: “Favorite track on the calendar?”
Callum: “Spa. The elevation, the history—it’s iconic.”
Aurélie: “Suzuka. It’s brutal, but there’s nothing like it.”
I caught the faintest flicker of approval in Callum’s expression. It was rare for us to agree on anything. But there was something else in his eyes, a gleam like he carried a secret only he knew.
Coordinator: “Pre-race ritual?”
Aurélie: “Stretching, then sitting alone with my playlist. No distractions.”
Callum: “Caffeine. Lots of it. And a pep talk with my engineer.”
I arched a brow. “Pep talks, Fraser? How cute.”
He chuckled, leaning closer as if to share a secret. “You should try it sometime, Dubois. Might help with those nerves.”
I rolled my eyes, though the playful jab made my cheeks warm. “I have other ways to settle my nerves. You should try it sometime, Fraser,” I whispered with a wink, just to get under his skin.
His hand flexed against the table. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to—I knew what he was thinking.
And for once, I hoped he stayed there. I calmly turned back to the camera for the next question.
Coordinator: “Dream destination?”
Callum: “Scotland. Home is where the heart is. Or Greece. Never been, but would like to.”
Aurélie: “French Polynesia. I’d love to spend days on the water, away from everything.”
The crew murmured approvingly, clearly eating up the contrast in our answers. Callum shot me a look, something unreadable flickering across his face.
Coordinator: “What’s the most annoying thing about each other?”
Callum: “She’s too competitive. Won’t let anyone have a moment of peace.”
Aurélie: “He’s too smug. Can’t let anyone forget how many championships he’s won.”
The crew burst into laughter, but the undercurrent of tension remained, both of us hyperaware of the way our answers danced around the truth and how it was all a deflection from the sexual chemistry brewing between us.
“Okay, last one,” the coordinator said. “Describe each other in one word.”
I hesitated, the question catching me off guard. Callum answered first.
“Relentless,” he said, his voice softer than I expected. He looked at me, and for a moment, it felt like we were the only two people in the room.
I swallowed, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “Unpredictable.”
The word hung between us, and the crew exchanged knowing looks, clearly thrilled with the footage.
“Alright, that’s a wrap!” someone called, and the crew dispersed, leaving Callum and me alone in the charged silence.
“That was… something,” he said, his voice low as he turned to me.
I nodded, my pulse still racing. “Yeah. Something.”
Our eyes met, the unspoken tension crackling like a live wire. But before either of us could say anything more, we were pulled in opposite directions by our respective PR teams, the moment slipping away like sand through my fingers.