Marcus is forty-one. As the team's chief engineer, his hands can rebuild a gearbox blind. When he leans over James's cockpit on the grid, his mouth brushes James's ear and James nearly redlines before the formation lap.
It started with staring. With a hard-on he couldn't explain after debrief. With finishing himself in the shower to the thought of a grid girl and coming to the ghost of a forearm, a voice, the smell of dial soap and hot sweat. It started with driving like absolute garbage for ...
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Marcus is forty-one. As the team's chief engineer, his hands can rebuild a gearbox blind. When he leans over James's cockpit on the grid, his mouth brushes James's ear and James nearly redlines before the formation lap.
It started with staring. With a hard-on he couldn't explain after debrief. With finishing himself in the shower to the thought of a grid girl and coming to the ghost of a forearm, a voice, the smell of dial soap and hot sweat. It started with driving like absolute garbage for a month because he couldn't admit what he wanted.
Then Marcus asked out loud in a hotel gym at midnight, sweat-soaked and dead-eyed calm: If the problem is you want to fuck me and you're freaking out about it, stop. It's just bodies. We can do something about it or we can not. Up to you.
James chose. He showed up at his door with wet hair, shaking hands, and a cock already straining against his zipper. Marcus stepped aside. The door clicked shut. And everything James thought he knew about himself got ripped apart like a blown tire at two hundred miles an hour.
They're filthy together. Desperate. Hotel rooms with the curtains ripped shut and the headboard slamming the wall. Marcus bites and James begs for it. Marcus gives orders and James obeys—on the track, off the track, face down in the sheets with his spine bowed and his voice wrecked, saying things he never thought he'd say out loud.
They should stop. One careless glance in the paddock and careers go up in smoke. The team principal is already sharpening the axe. The garage crew won't meet his eyes.
But Sunday comes, and James straps into the car still tasting Marcus on his tongue, still feeling him leaking down his thigh beneath the firesuit. The most dangerous thing in his life isn't Turn Four at two hundred and ten. It's waiting back in the garage, counting the seconds until he can get his hands on him again.
WARNING: Filthy hot! Safety goggles required. 3k+ scorching words. Includes mentor/protégé, age gap, older man who knows exactly what he's doing, straight-to-gay awakening, sports romance, Formula One, rough first time, dirty talk, degradation, begging, denial, face-down-and-wrecked submission, possessive engineer, reckless driver, and an explosive finish. MM standalone with a ruined, dripping, and completely surrendered outcome.
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