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internetgremlin-writes · 2 years ago

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Flat Spin [Chapter Six]

Summary/Prompt: Flat Spin

1. A spin in which an aircraft descends in tight circles whilst remaining almost horizontal

2. A state of agitation or panic [informal]

As the only female driver on the grid, you’re fighting a constant need to prove yourself, however sometimes the line between accepting help and hand-outs is more blurred than you think

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Female Reader

Word Count: 7,100

Warnings: no you're not insane, yes I already published chapter six; this is the *extended* edition featuring the Champions for Charity football match and a smutty treat at the end [and marginally less sloppy editing]

*Mi Cielito = my [little] heaven

*Cariño = Spanish term of endearment, similar to Dear or Love

*Pillock = English slang for an idiot, used in the same way as dickhead or asshole

Previous Parts: one || two || three || four || five

It was cooler when you woke up.

The windows were open, white linen curtains fluttering with a gentle breeze. The sun was creating a small pool of golden light on the wooden floorboards a few feet from the bed and bathing the rest of the room in a soft glow.

You stretched, arching your back and straightening your legs, stretching your toes to find a cool spot in the sheets. Carlos registered your movement with a low, sleepy grunt. The arm he had thrown over your waist tightened, pulling you closer so that your back was pressed flush against his chest, his legs tangling with yours. You couldn't stop the lazy smile from making its way onto your face as you absentmindedly traced through the dark hairs on his forearm. He was warm and surprisingly soft in a way that made you feel safe.

You felt the rumble of his chest as he spoke. You'd never heard Carlos talk in the morning and his voice carried a heavy, husky accent that made you shiver.

“Good morning, mi cielito,”

Carlos pressed kisses along the line of your bare shoulder, your fingers tangling with his as he did so. You hummed in appreciation, your own good morning barely a whisper on your lips. He pulled you close again, rocking his hips forward and pulling you back into him as he did so, allowing you to feel the way he was already hard against your thigh.

“Mhm, it is a very good morning,” you could hear the smirk on his face from behind you. You wiggled your hips from where you were still pressed tight against him, enjoying the way he groaned into your neck. “Don't tease, Cariño,”

Warmth pooled in your stomach at his words and you turned in his arms so you could face him. Carlos was squinting at you, the bright light making his eyes more like honey than their usual dark cocoa. There was a small, toothy smile tugging at his full lips.

“Hi,” you murmured, brushing a piece of hair out of his eyes. In one smooth motion, Carlos had you on your back, his forearms bracketing either side of your head as he caught you in a sweet kiss.

More than an hour later you finally stumbled out of bed, giddy and stupid. Carlos pushed into the shower and, despite your protests, did not join you. He handed you a big fluffy towel and left to make coffee with a lingering kiss. You sat in amicable silence at the kitchen island, so close your hips were pressed together. An old radio was crackling in the corner, just about tuned into a local station in rambling Spanish. The song stopped and you recognised by the tone of the presenter that it was a news reading.

“What time is it?” You managed sleepily from where your head was resting on Carlos’ shoulder, enjoying the way the smell of his soap mixed with coffee. Carlos paused as the newsreader finished his segment. He huffed a short laugh, pulling you closer to him as he did so.

“Close to eleven,” you groaned, trying to hide further into his body, closing your eyes against his soft t-shirt and the smell of his washing powder.

“My flight is at one,”

Carlos refused to let you set foot in another taxi. Instead, your bags were meticulously packed Tetris-style into the back of the Ferrari that was definitely not designed for airport runs. The ride over was fairly quiet, Carlos’ hand resting on your thigh as he pointed out occasionally details in the rapidly evolving landscape around you.

“Why do you have to leave today?” He pouted in a quiet corner of the airport check-in desks. You were in his arms again, his thumbs rubbing smooth circles along your hip bones. You tried to avoid looking at his face because he was giving you some spectacular sulky looks that were making you question even boarding the plane.

“Not all of us get to do promo for private jets who can fly whenever they want,” you shot back, slapping his chest playfully. Carlos grinned at you, looking almost proud of himself.

“Not all of us get to drive for Ferrari,”

He swept you into a kiss before you got the chance to argue back and you could feel your brain turning to mush as he released you and sent you on your way.

*****

Your parents' flight was landing an hour after yours, giving you just enough time to go and collect your car for the weekend before you were due to pick them up. You couldn't deny how excited you were to see them; in your rookie year they came to nearly every race with you and they were screaming in the crowd of Budapest where you took your maiden victory last year. Still, as you'd grown and settled into Formula One they'd not needed to attend the entire calendar. Fortunately, Monaco being one of the most prestigious races on the calendar meant that you were given free rein on personal Paddock Invites and your parents always sat top of the VIP list.

You found a piece of cardboard and wrote out their names to hold up at the arrivals gate, Love Actually style. Maybe writing your surname in block capitals wasn’t the smartest idea, because it took you taking photos with everyone and their great aunt’s dog to get to the gate and you ended up almost late to meet them. Typically, your mum burst into tears when she saw you, pulling you into a crushing hug that you just knew was going to be plastered all over the internet in the next hour as she babbled about how much she missed you. Your dad pulled you into a quiet hug. You could feel his chuckle in your ear as your mum wetly relayed every thought she’d had during the last race at you, regardless of the very public attention currently on the three of you.

Apparently worrying about you driving racecars was not where your mother’s concerns ended. You soon learnt that it extended to giving your parents lifts in supercars. Your poor father found himself tucked in the back alongside all the bags as she packed herself into the front seat beside you and clung on with white knuckles.

“Careful, Y/N!” She cried out as you rounded a corner onto the hill to take them up to the hotel the three of you were staying in. You couldn’t help but laugh and roll your eyes at your dad in the backseat, who was trying hard to control himself.

“I’m below the speed limit and off the racing line,” you grumbled as you pulled into the car park and handed the keys to a valet. You didn’t think you’d ever get over the little things like that that showed just how much your life had changed in the last few years. “Where is Amelia, anyway?” You checked into the hotel and handed your dad the keys to your parent's room. Your mother was ignoring you from where she was standing off to the side totally absorbed in her pocket diary.

It wasn’t until you’d bundled them into the lift that your mum finally spoke again.

“Mexico!” You looked at her, slightly startled with an eyebrow raised. “Your sister is jumping in Mexico this week. For the GCL,” You nodded. The GCL, or Global Champion’s League was probably best described as the equestrian solution to Formula One. Countries presented teams of up to three riders who competed in fantastic locations all across the world for points towards the final championship. You had to admire your mum and her general sense of calm with two kids competing across the planet in sports far too dangerous for their own good.

The restaurant you’d picked for lunch was a third-hand recommendation that you didn’t really want, but also you didn’t know the first thing about Monaco or what the city had to offer. You’d visited the principality twice before; both on the Grand Prix weekends. It wasn’t that you had anything against the city, you just had never found yourself drawn to the built-up, glamorous, celebrities-all-over lifestyle. You’d been having a coffee break with Carlos when you’d mentioned that you had no idea where you could take them out. Lando, who had just bought an apartment in Monaco was only too keen to help you - almost falling over himself as he flooded you with suggestions.

If Carlos hadn’t been looking at him like he was speaking the gospel, you would have probably ignored Lando’s suggestions, after all his fussy-eater habits were not exactly uncommon knowledge. In the end, you settled on a place he called “really posh” that had originally been suggested to him by Max.

As it turned out, Lando-through-Max had excellent taste. You found yourself in a beautiful gilded conservatory with the floor-to-ceiling panelled windows thrown open to let in the scorching afternoon sun. The drinks were cold and the seats comfortable, so naturally it was your favourite kind of place. You’d forgotten to book a private area in advance, but one of the waiters had recognised you and had been kind enough to find you a table a little distanced from the other diners in the room.

You made it all the way to your starters arriving with your meal-plan-approved Caprese salad when the pleasant catch-up switched tracks.

“Aren't you hungry dear? Surely you need more than a salad?” Your mum pursed her lips, eyeing your plate as if it were about to leap up and bite her.

“Andrea, don't-” your dad tried to weakly interject.

“No, Micheal, I'm allowed to be concerned. I know you have dieticians but are you sure it's enough?” You suppressed a sigh and bit back the snarky retort on the tip of your tongue. Getting into racing young meant you'd spent nearly all of your teenage years carefully researching and religiously sticking to athletic diets before you were finally signed to a big enough contract that you were assigned a dietician. You also didn't want to mention how frequently you'd broken said diet recently, between fancy restaurants and wine tasting and street food with a certain Spanish coconspirator.

“It's only the starter,” you muttered, which earnt you a withering look. “And I'm not like, starving myself - it's just athletic stuff. Y'know nutrient balance, strength, energy: that kind of thing,”

Andrea sighed and pursed her lips as if she wanted to say something else, but let the topic lie. You knew she had issues with your weight and body type - driving a Formula One car wasn't exactly conducive to her idea of ‘feminine’, but you’d never really cared. You'd always felt comfortable in your skin and it wasn't like you'd ever really struggled romantically; the brief string of short-term boyfriends that had decorated your earlier years in racing was evidence enough.

“Anyway, Dad, what did you think of the new body upgrades? Seb seemed to look good yeah?” Unlike several of your peers, your dad had never been a racing driver, but he was your hero regardless. He’d grown up an avid Formula One fan and had an encyclopedic technical knowledge to rival some of your engineers. From the day he saw you bank a corner in your Little Tikes car, he had you enrolled in karting and the rest was history. You were instantly distracted, transported back to being a young girl, the pair of you crowded around the television as you carefully dissected every aspect of a race weekend.

You managed a solid twenty minutes before you were curtly informed that ‘shop talk’ was not appropriate at the dinner table. With identical expressions, you both gave your mother a sheepish apology.

“How are you though, Y/N?”

“I’m good, Mum,” you promised, working your way through the steamed salmon you’d ordered.

“Don’t you ever get lonely, always on the road?” You had to fight the urge to roll your eyes, an internal cry of here we go again ringing through your ears.

“Not really, you know how busy I am,”

“Everyone needs a friend, love,” you stabbed a potato.

“I have friends. I have Katie and I text Amelia all the time, there’s Seb and Mick-”

“Mick,” your mum mused, a dreamy look crossing her features. “Now, there’s a nice young man,”

“Ew, Mum! No!”

“What!?” You glanced helplessly at your dad, clearly begging him to go back to discussing the cars and not your colleagues. “Don’t you think he’s very handsome?”

“He’s like my brother,” you tried to keep the disgust out of your tone. You adored Mick, you really did, but not like that. It had never been like that, even when you were in the Academy together.

“That’s not what Hello Saturday said,” she grumbled, busying herself with the steak she’d ordered and apparently not noticing the way your stomach turned.

“So you believe the tabloids over me? It was never a date - Seb was at the bar getting the three of us drinks! And I’m seeing someone else anyway,” you snapped, the words clattering onto the table alongside your fork. You hadn’t even registered what you said until your ears stopped ringing and you realised your parents were staring at you with dumbfounded expressions.

“I don’t think you meant to say that, did you?” Micheal tried to soften the blow, the joke creasing in the corners of his gentle eyes. You hung your head, unable to remove your focus from the sad, squeezed-out lemon slice on the side of your plate as you gave a subtle shake of your head.

Andrea, of course, was delighted. Her cheeks were stained pink as she babbled about how happy she was for you and directed a thousand questions for you to deflect. She was desperate for a name, but you managed to stave her off under the guise of anyone in the seats surrounding you could be listening in. You didn’t have the heart to refuse her all details, so you made up some facial features and told some half-truths about a kind and gentle man you’d been on a couple of dates with.

“Well, if it’s not Mick I hope it’s not another driver. Imagine the PR nightmare that would be for you!”

“Yeah okay, thank you mother,” you refused the dessert menu being offered to you, instead requesting the bill. You loved your mother, you really did, but you’d had enough of a grilling for one day.

You paid and dropped them off at the hotel spa, claiming you had a meeting at the Paddock (you didn’t) followed by a workout with Katie (you did). Micheal managed to mouth an apology to you, which you shook your head at quietly. Your mum always meant well, her only wish was for her children to be happy in their lives. She just lacked the tact and you lacked the patience to have a proper conversation about it sometimes.

*****

You woke up to your phone ringing, your head spinning with the speed at which you’d suddenly travelled from unconscious to conscious in your scramble to answer.

"Hullo?"

“Good morning!” You croaked out a laugh that turned rapidly into a groan.

“Jesus Christ, Carlos it’s like-” you pulled your phone away from your ear for a second to squint at the time “Seven am,”

“What time is your meetings today?” You groaned again, your heart hammering in your chest as you slowly started to come to and pick ineffectively at the crust in your eyes.

“In the afternoon, you great pillock,”

“Wow!” You had no idea how long Carlos had been awake in order to be able to laugh good-naturedly as you cursed him out down the phone line. “Someone is not a morning person, eh?”

“Not when you wake me up like it’s a fucking emergency,”

“Sorry,” You could hear the grin in his voice and you knew there was not a chance of him being anywhere close to sorry.

“Whaddyou want, anyway?”

“Be outside the hotel, at ten, okay?”

“Okay…?” The phone line clicked as he cut the call before your sluggish brain could formulate anything vaguely akin to a question. You shrugged to yourself, deciding whatever he wanted was a problem that could wait for at least another hour and several snooze buttons.

When ten o’clock rolled around you found yourself standing outside the hotel entrance. It was another scorching hot day in Monaco and in the few minutes you’d been standing in the sunshine you were already feeling sweaty. You just hoped the heat would pass before you had to drive the car, after the sweltering mess of Miami and then Barcelona it would be nice to be able to race and not feel like you’d been punched in the face by heat exhaustion by the end of it.

You were pulled from your musings over track temperatures and ice vests by a roaring engine that made you stop in your tracks. A sleek black Ferrari came screeching round the corner before pulling up with the passenger door lined up perfectly with your body. The car was an open-topped model and sat grinning at you in the driver’s seat with Ray Bans on his nose and windswept hair was Carlos himself. Even if he was totally smug, there was no denying the way your chest squeezed and your stomach fluttered at the sight of him. You thought he had to be one of the most handsome men on the planet as he leaned over to open the passenger door and beckon you into the smooth leather interior.

“Hello, this is very low-key,” you commented over the radio and the sound of the engine. Carlos just turned his head, a dogged grin on his lips.

“It’s Monaco, baby,” he tilted his glasses down to wink at you. You rolled your eyes at his ridiculousness.

“Oh my god, not you too,” he laughed. Loud and open and free as the wind whipped around you and he sped off. “Why is everyone so obsessed with this place?”

“Today, we are learning Monte Carlo. Fancy car, fancy shopping, fancy people,” you groaned, but there was no denying the secret bubble of excitement building up inside of you. “It’s the glamour, Y/N, that’s why people like it here,” he explained on seeing your expression change.

“That is literally the opposite of my thing,”

“I can be discrete,” you didn’t have it in you to point out that the car Carlos was currently driving you to the city centre in was the furthest thing from discrete you’d ever seen.

The shops Carlos took you to blew your mind. You had money, much more money than the average high-class citizen, you were certainly aware of that. But you’d grown up relatively middle class. Your parents both worked good jobs, full time to pay for the house and lifestyle you grew up in. Between your go-karting and your sister’s horses, it wasn’t exactly cheap and so blowing money on designer closes wasn’t something you’d ever been privy to. You’d always been ‘comfortable’, always had what you needed and been able to afford nice things. It was difficult not to sound like you were bragging - and the private school education had not helped - but you were always grateful for everything your parents had done to be able to give you the life you had.

After Gucci and Versace and Louis Vuitton, you started to lose track of the names. Shopping with Carlos was fun; it reminded you of the Saturday afternoons you used to while away with your best friend at the local shopping centre where you went to school. He would deliberately pick up the most outlandish, ridiculous things to make you laugh. If you were being entirely honest, you had never been one for understanding high fashion, in fact, you didn’t see a problem with your polo shirts at all. It wasn’t a surprise that after a lot of fun and several hours you hadn’t really bought anything.

Carlos dragged you into yet another shop, promising “Just one more, Cariño, this is the best one,” when you tried to protest on behalf of your aching feet and the 200-euro sunglasses now sitting atop your hair.

He wasn’t wrong; it was a department store that put Harrods in London to shame in both the size and grandeur of the place. You were ID checked by bouncers on the door before they even let you in and you wouldn’t have really been surprised if they’d asked to see how much money was sitting in your bank account. The shop felt like a museum, with high marbled ceilings and thick carpet, more products in glass casing than available to touch, and displays so elegant they looked like historical set-ups. The way he navigated the store with ease was doing something for you. He looked like some kind of Netflix show prince, in his tight-fitting jeans and black polo shirt, hair a perfect mess with his sunglasses pushing holding it off his face, allowing it to fall in elegant waves. His brow was knitted as he was looking at each item with considered seriousness.

“Try this on,”

You turned from where you were absentmindedly filtering through a ‘sale’ rail to examine the item he was pointing at. As soon as you followed his gaze to the hanger he was holding out to you, you rolled your eyes.

“Oh Carlos, come on. No,”

He was holding a red dress. On the hanger, it looked nothing too special - a sleek floor-length gown with a designer's name you didn't know and far too many zeros in the price tag. You'd worn, and owned, a hundred of the like. You recognised the bratty expression that came across his face - one of someone who knew they were about to abuse their good looks to their advantage.

“Please? For me?” There was no way you could ignore him pouting like that, batting his lashes at you.

“Fine,” you huffed playfully, snatching the dress from him and making a show of stalking to the changing rooms with Carlos in tow. The second you’d taken the dress from him you realised it was made of heavy silk, luxurious even to the touch. The woman in the changing rooms (because you got a personal assistant when you went to change and a free drink) nodded at your choice and presented you with a gorgeous pair of black heels that matched perfectly.

It was only when you saw yourself in the mirror under the perfectly balanced lighting of the changing room that you realised this wasn’t just a red dress.

It was the exact fucking shade of Carlos’ car.

You stepped out of the changing room and into the… well you didn’t know what it was called because you’d never been in a shop so fancy. But in the centre of the fitting rooms was a stand surrounded by mirrors where you supposed designers, personal shoppers and whoever else the rich and famous took with them found themselves approving chosen items. For you, it was Carlos, who was sitting on a spindly golden-legged chair in the corner of the room, his legs spread and looking alarmingly at home amongst the plush grandeur as he messed with something on his phone as he waited for you.

He looked up when you cleared your throat, gently drawing his attention to you settled on the platform. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and you had to admit that you understood why Carlos was staring at you, mouth open and frozen in place.

You didn’t even look like you. Your hair had been pulled up, assistant in the room had helped pull out stands to give you a casual but classy updo. A glittering necklace had been placed around your neck and the heels meant the dress pooled on the ground at the perfect length. The deep red colour was foreign on your body, compared to your usual palate of greens and neutral tones. And the fit - you didn’t think you’d ever worn something that felt as if it was just made for you, the bias cut of the material stretching and hugging your body perfectly, the neckline plunging enough to make you feel sexy and the back - oh the back. It was backless, the delicate straps clinging to your shoulder blades and travelling all the way down to the small of your back before it met material once more.

Carlos let out a breath, standing slowly and walking towards you in a way that reminded you of an animal stalking its prey. He never broke eye contact with you in the mirror as he stood on the small platform behind you, his body pressed against yours to make himself fit with you. You could feel his breath on your neck and with the way your upper body was exposed there was no way he didn’t notice the goosebumps rising along your skin. You watched him in the central mirror in front of you as his gaze raked shamelessly up and down your body, his fingers tracing the point of your shoulder as he did so. His eyes looked almost black in the careful lighting.

“Perfect,”

You made a noise of agreement. As much as you wanted to tease him about picking out the one dress that happened to match his car, it was flawless. You’d never worn much red before and the way it complimented you was astounding (in fact you thought you liked it even more than green, although you’d never admit it to anyone) and you had to agree - the dress was the perfect fit for you. Not to mention wearing his colours… well, it was certainly doing something for you. You felt sexy and gorgeous and powerful and desirable and a whole host of other wonderful things that didn’t usually occur to you in your team polo and shorts. Maybe you did understand why Lewis put so much effort into his Paddock looks after all.

“I’m going to buy it for you,” his lips were on your neck, the words vibrating through your entire body.

“You can’t-” you gasped.

“I can,”

“No - I don’t even need a new dress and I have enough money to get it myself if I wanted it. Which I don’t,” You argued back. You had never spent this much money on any clothing. Even when you could afford to something in you was holding back, it was excessive and unnecessary.

“You don’t want it?” Carlos raised an eyebrow at you in the mirror, his gaze making you almost squirm. He had a hand on your waist and you could feel the heat from his fingers seeping straight through your skin and clouding your mind. It didn’t help that his other hand was sneaking through the leg slit on the opposite slide, gently grazing your bare thigh.

“I don’t need it,” you clarified. Carlos clicked his tongue disapprovingly. He gazed at you through the mirror as he pressed a kiss against your shoulder, then the base of your neck and finally the point of your jaw before his mouth was on your ear and he was speaking lowly.

“I am going to buy this dress. And you are going to take it home. You don’t need it, but you want it. I want you to have this, this is a thing that is only something you want, it is expensive and beautiful and you love it. I believe everyone should have something like this. And I am going to buy it for you because when you wear it I want you to think of me,” His voice dropped lower as he spoke, velvety smooth. The way he was holding you was intoxicating and you felt like you were drunk. You were genuinely considering dragging him into the changing room and letting him ravish you in the stupidly stunning dress right there and then. You’d be willing to put money on the store assistants having signed Non-Disclosure Agreements just to be employed there.

Just as you were about to give into him Carlos stepped away, casually adjusting the front of his jeans and looking quite pleased with himself. The coolness of the air conditioning hitting your exposed back was enough to pull you out of the trance and you nodded mutely, making your way back to the changing room with legs like lead and a face on fire. You needed to get out of this shop before the low lighting and expensive perfume haze made you make any more questionable decisions.

Carlos did buy the dress. And the little shit handed it to you in the Ferrari gift bag he seemed to always carry on race weekends as if he couldn’t afford the branded bag the clerk offered him.

“To meetings?” He asked you, hand slipping into yours as you left the shop and he collected the keys from the valet with a “Thank you, Sir,” that made you have to look the other way and think of very sensible, neutral things. Part of you was screaming internally that you were out in broad daylight, holding hands with and getting into the Ferrari of Carlos Sainz. Part of you was so happy you simply didn’t care.

You thought Carlos was going to drop you off at the hotel to allow you to pick up the DB7 you’d been driving that weekend, but instead, he turned off towards the circuit. You turned to look at him questioningly.

“What? We can arrive together, no?” You dropped your head gently onto his shoulder, the sun warm on your face with the feeling that nothing in the world could touch you.

Seb smirked at you when you walked into the garage. His eyes were trained on the bag with the prancing horse emblazoned on the front of it as you placed it in your driver's room and made your way up to the offices together.

“That's not very subtle, Y/N,” he told you in a sing-song voice, before changing the subject to the upcoming weather forecast and the potential storm on Sunday as you walked up to your afternoon of meetings.

*****

The last thing you wanted to do after a long afternoon of headache-inducing meetings was watch football in the rain. However, when Carlos Sainz is your lift home, it appeared there wasn't much choice in the matter.

You still put up a good argument the whole drive to the stadium. The rain was pattering on the soft top of the convertible Ferrari but Carlos just shook his head at you.

“You are English, Cariño. I know you can live in rain,” he informed you with a wink and a pat on the leg as he pulled into the car park.

“Just because I can doesn't mean I want to,” you complained, checking the stairwell below the stadium was clear before you gave him a quick kiss. “At least make it entertaining for me,” you told him as you left him to head down to the changing rooms and took yourself to the viewing stands.

You had a seat in a VIP box along with a couple of other famous faces. No other F1 drivers were there because they were either competing in the charity match or keeping up with their excuses to avoid playing. You'd already been collared by a couple of journalists asking why the only woman in F1 didn't want to be the only woman playing football. You'd given them your prepared statement that had been written by Katie and learnt by you - something about a knee ligament injury you were preserving, so you were just there to make a donation and support your friends.

The rain was starting to come down heavier as the poor excuse for pre-match entertainment started. You pulled the hood of your waterproof coat closer around your ears, the ‘luxury’ box already springing a few leaks. You decided to take out your frustrations on the group chat.

You: Can't believe you bailed. I do not know anyone here and the reporters have it out for me

Track Dad: I'm too old for sitting out in the rain

Mick: Don't drink the stadium coffee!

You: I hate you both

Track Dad: Make some new friends

You: No x

Luckily, Carlos clearly understood the assignment when you told him to make the match entertaining. From the second he stepped out onto the pitch you couldn't rip your gaze from him for even a second. You knew he was a football fan, but you didn't realise how talented of a player he was. Admittedly, you had no eye whatsoever for football but it didn't take a genius to see that Carlos shone ahead of the other drivers playing. Watching him play was exhilarating and you found yourself clapping and shouting for the team along with the small crowd that had still turned up to watch despite the weather.

Between the rain and sweat, Carlos was completely drenched, leaving the strip sticking to his skin as he moved. His hair was a mess, most of it plastered down onto his face and he kept shaking his head and pushing his hand up through the dark locks to push it away from his face. There was just something about Carlos - he moved with a natural grace, a comfort on the pitch that was innately attractive and was only aided by the glistening skin on display and a dark, determined look on his face. You never usually got to see that side of Carlos' competitiveness; it was usually shrouded behind his helmet and you driving alongside him.

You had to admit, the way he set his jaw when he had eyes on the ball was downright sexy. You were used to a much softer version of Carlos, steady and quiet, well-spoken and calculating. As he carried his team, the dangerous glint in his eyes was something new. You were starting to feel uncomfortably warm in your zipped-up coat.

By the time the game was over and he'd received the Man of the Match award and recovered from a brief ankle injury, you were fidgeting in your seat, your body uncomfortably warm despite the rain dripping down the back of your neck for the last twenty minutes. Most of the drivers and a couple of the other celebrities were hanging back after the pitch had emptied, making their way to the stands in order to take photos and sign merch with the fans loyal enough to stick the weather out. Even watching Carlos shake his head like a dog, water flying everywhere was enough to set you on edge. It felt like you'd swallowed hot coals and he was just casually stroking the fire, consistently stirring something up in you.

Carlos was slowly directing himself towards the tunnel, preparing to head back to the changing rooms. There was a half-baked idea in your mind as you slipped out of the viewing box and made your way down the stairs. With a flash of your paddock ID, you were allowed back into the changing rooms and you made your way forward towards the tunnel, waiting for Carlos.

He didn't spot you as he passed, not until you reached out and grabbed his wrist, making him yelp in surprise. Before there was time to second guess you yanked him, forcing him to follow you into the storeroom you’d conveniently placed yourself by. The door swung shut behind him, the pair of you cloaked in the sudden darkness.

“Y/N?” now that he was so close, you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“Shut up,”

You grabbed him by the soaked front of his football shirt and pulled him down into a searing kiss. Carlos responded instantly, his hands fumbling in the dark until he found your cheeks, palms impossibly warm as he gripped you with a muffled noise against your mouth. The lights flickered on. They must have been motion-activated, triggered as you pulled flush against each other. His hands fell to your shoulders, moving you back. In the soft light, you could see every detail of him. The front of your top was wet. You watched a single raindrop fall from his hair, run down his forehead and drip right off the tip of his nose.

“What are you doing?” Carlos murmured as you pushed yourself close to him once more. It was like he was exuding some kind of drug, your mind fogged and narrowed down until he was the only thing in your sights. You shook your head, pulling him back into another heated kiss, this time his hands falling to your hips and gripping tightly as you whined into his mouth.

“Hey,” he chuckled against your neck “What is it?” You failed to answer, only succeeding in placing frantic kisses on any part of exposed skin you could reach.

“You,” it came as a gasp as Carlos threaded a hand through your hair, watching you with almost clinical fascination.

“Me…?” He was teasing you, eyes shining. You shook your head, your face pressed in the damp of his neck, breathing in deeply as if the smell of his sweat would help still your swimming mind.

“It should be illegal,” your hands were roaming, grappling for purchase against wet polyester until you managed to slip in the small space between top and shorts, enjoying the way he shivered against your touch. “Looking that good chasing a fucking ball around,”

His chest swelled at the compliment, a dangerous glint in his eyes accompanied by a wolfish grin. He traced the curve of your jaw as if it was glass, studying your every move under the flickering electric light.

"And you even couldn't wait to go back?" His tone had changed, the gentle teasing swapped for something more urgent, laced with anticipation. You couldn’t. It was as simple as that. You felt feral, being driven by something almost animalistic that just needed and it needed now.

There was no way you could articulate how you were feeling, despite the way he was desperately searching your face for an answer. So you did the only thing that had been running through your mind for the last hour.

You sank down onto your knees.

“Wait, wait, I'm sweaty,”

You were well aware of his state, having watched him wind himself up like that over the last two hours in the pouring rain. Your knees were already starting to feel damp from where his clothes had dripped onto the floor. But you were beyond caring and besides you'd grown up surrounded by racing drivers - it would take more than a bit of sweat to make you shy away. The air in the small room was heavy with the scent of him, only adding to the growing sense of desperation within you to do something.

You ran your hand over the poorly concealed bulge in his shorts, relishing the way Carlos' breath hitched as you did so.

“Cariño…” he trailed off, distracted as you started to mouth around his thighs, tight and warm from the recent exercise. You pulled away, your hands resting in the dip of his hip bones as you blinked up at him.

“Please,”

The word was barely a whisper on your lips, but it echoed like a scream in the confined space.

“Shit,” Carlos swore, his head falling against the wall behind him with a dull thud as he pushed his shorts down his hips with trembling hands. “Shit. Yes, okay,”

It was quick, but it was always going to be. Carlos was tensing before you even had your mouth fully around him, the muscles in his legs fasciculating under your fingers. He hissed as you moaned, unable to stop the way his hips bucked forward. One of his hands dropped down, threading his fingers through your hair.

He stayed still, staring at you through blown pupils as if you were a gift from the gods as you took him in your mouth. The way he was watching you only spurred you on as you met his eyes, drawing out a heavy, shaky gasp from him and his legs began to tremble in earnest.

“Fuck, you're so good,” he praised as you relaxed, pushing as deep as you could take him. Your knees were sore, back aching, throat constricting and eyes watering. Nothing about it was comfortable, yet you were soaked, feeling yourself clenching around nothing as you poured your entire focus onto Carlos. Your entire universe in that moment consisted of him and him alone.

You felt him tense, twitching in your mouth and scrabbling at your shoulders as he managed to stumble out half a warning. You took that as a sign to hollow your cheeks, sucking and swallowing with everything you had, your entire body ignoring its natural reflexes for him. Carlos came with a muffled shout, a hand flung over his mouth, chest heaving and other hand twisting hard in your hair. You sat still, ignoring the way you weren't sure if the tears streaming down your face were from physical exertion or because you were so desperately close yourself.

You waited until his breathing steadied and he'd stopped making quietly broken noises before you released him, taking his hand gratefully as he helped you to your feet. Carlos watched you in rapture as you chased a stray dribble from the side of your mouth with you thumb and licking it clean without thought. The light had gone off at some point. You hadn't noticed at the time, it was only now as you became aware of your surroundings once more that you realised your eyes were straining, blinking as the lights stung unprepared pupils.

He didn't stop at the changing rooms, instead just grabbing his bag and your hand as you made your way back through the maze below the quietening stands to the car park.

The drive back to the hotel was quiet in the best way. Carlos took the scenic route; the rain had stopped and the lights of Monte Carlo were sparkling below you through the dark blanket of the sky. His palm was warm against your crossed legs and he kept stealing glances at you, sending you a stupid little grin when you met his eyes. The radio was blaring, the roof down and cooling wind in your hair. His football shirt was pulled back against his body, hair flying freely around his face. His eyes were shining, dancing with joyful freedom, whole body relaxed as if he and the leather seat below him were one shared entity.

You wished that drive lasted a lifetime.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Read Chapter Seven Here!

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Yeah so this football scene was originally at the start of chapter 7 but then i realised it was going to be stupidly long and this chapter was short so I've done a bit of a reshuffle. Hope you enjoy and this cheeky little scene is enough to tie you guys over for now!

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