Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
“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?
Chapter 27
P8.
Three hours from now, Cam would be starting the Las Vegas Grand Prix from eighth on the grid.
The thought should have worried him. It certainly would have worried the version of himself that had existed a few months ago. Not only was P8 unthinkable for him, but his worst qualifying effort in years had arrived at the worst possible moment of the season. Hunter’s Ferrari looked quick. The championship gap was already shrinking. And now Cam was going to spend the race fighting his way through traffic while his main championship rival enjoyed clean air at the front. Objectively, it was a disaster. Cam should have been stressed about damage limitation. He was stressed—just not for the reasons he should have been.
You’re the best mistake I’ve ever made. Have a good life, darling.
Cam stalked through the paddock with long, impatient strides, his eyes scanning the crowds automatically, just like he’d done yesterday after qualifying. Hospitality entrances. Media areas. VIP sections.
I’m done. We’re done.
“Cam!” A fan had called his name.
Cam barely registered it. Another voice followed, then another. People wanted photos, autographs, a wave. Normally he would have obliged. Normally he was good with fans. But he couldn’t focus on any of them.
He couldn’t see him anywhere. Had Scott already left?
The mere thought sent an immediate spike of anxiety through him, his hands twitching at his sides restlessly.
For fuck’s sake.
For the past two days, every thought had circled back to Scott, and every emotion he felt had curdled into frustration: frustration with Scott, with the circumstances, with the PR teams, with the championship standings, with the entire fucking world.
But most of all, with himself. He was fucking losing it. Daniel and the engineers were being diplomatic about his disastrous qualifying effort. They blamed setup issues, traffic, track evolution, tires not being the right temperatures. All of that could be true.
None of those were the actual reason.
The actual reason was that Cam had spent all qualifying thinking about a man who had blocked his number. About a man who’d said he was done. Done with Cam—with what they had. During qualifying all he’d wanted was to find Scotty and prove that what he’d said was bullshit, that Scotty still wanted him, cared for him—that he was still his. His. His his his.
Fucking hell.
He’d never felt like this with anyone. The mere possibility of Scott leaving, of him cutting him out of his life for good and moving on—it made his hands shake and his heart beat so fast he almost thought he was on the verge of a heart attack. It made him want to punch something. It made him want to find Scotty and bruise him all over with his marks, as if he were a wild animal marking his territory.
Christ, this was insane. More than a little disturbing. He really was losing his fucking mind. Or maybe he’d already lost it. Otherwise he wouldn’t have jerked off another man a few feet away from the paparazzi snooping around the paddock. He was beyond lucky that no one had seen them yesterday. He definitely shouldn’t tempt luck again.