Page 54 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

The walk around theImolatrack was supposed to be routine—something every driver did before a race weekend. It was a chance to reacquaint yourself with every corner, every bump, every nuance of the asphalt. A ritual, arecalibration.

But Imola was no ordinary track.

It was a shrine to the beauty and brutality of racing.

Tamburelloloomed ahead, and the same weight I felt every year hung in the air.

Ayrton Senna.

His name echoed in my mind like a whispered prayer. The man who had inspired me to chase this impossible dream. Every time I walked this track, I thought of him—of the legacy he left behind, of the price he paid to carve his name into history.

I stopped atTamburello, the gravel crunching beneath my boots.

The corner didn’t look like it should hold so much significance, not anymore. The layout had changed. The gradual, unforgiving curve had been replaced with two sharper turns. But standing here, knowing what had happened, I felt the gravity of it anyway.

I remembered sneaking out of bed as a kid to watch Senna’s Monaco race on VHS. My father had recorded it years prior, and I wore that tape out, studying the way he made it look effortless. In his hands, the car wasn’t a machine. It was a live extension of him.

Then came the race that changed my life and the one that ended Senna's. His crash.

I was too young to understand at first—how something so magical could be gone in an instant. It made me question whether the dream was worth it. But in the end, it only strengthened my resolve. If I was going to chase this, I’d do it in a way that honored him.

A figure ahead caught my eye.

Her golden hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her posture was poised, arms crossed as she stared out at the track. She looked out of place among the solemnity—yet somehow, she belonged.

A modern driver, walking in the footsteps of legends.

Our last conversation left things up in the air between us. Me, ready to chase her to the ends of the earth, and her pulling back.

The way she’d said it in Miami— I can’t let a scandal happen —was clipped, clinical. Not what she meant, not with the way she’d tilted her head, searching for the right words and coming up short. She had more to say, but maybe she was too hungover to say it in English.

I’d watched her in that moment, not unlike how I watched her now, fascinated by her in every which way.

Andnow I couldn’t stop my brain from remembering the way she’d looked underneath me, sprawled and breathless, whimpering my name, begging me?—

Fuck.

Not. Now.

Please.

The scent of asphalt and freshly cut grass mingled in the warm breeze. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the worn tarmac, framingAurélielike a goddamn portrait. My feet carried me forward before I could second-guess myself.

She turned, hazel eyes unreadable. The wind dragged a strand of hair across her cheek, and she swatted it away with that same impatient flick I’d seen a dozen times.

My fingers twitched at my sides, remembering the feel of her soft hair in my hands, itching to tilt her head back and claim her mouth, swallowing her sweet moans.

I swallowed, shoving the memory away. It wasn’t. Fucking. Helping.

“Fraser.”

Her tone was neutral.

And she wasn’t looking at me. That frustrated me.

“Dubois.” My voice was rougher than I intended. “Taking it all in?”

She nodded, shifting slightly to the curve ofTamburello. “It’s… sobering.”

“It always is.” My voice dropped lower. “Senna was…” I trailed off, because how the hell do you describe everything?

At the mention of his name, her expression softened. For a fleeting second, I saw something unguarded in her. Something real.

“He was your hero, wasn’t he?”

“Still is. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him. Watching him race on old recordings… it made me believe it was possible. Even when everyone else told me it wasn’t.”

“It’s strange, isn’t it? How someone you’ve never met can shape your entire life.” Something about the way she said it made me study her. There was something there. Something pointed. She wasn’t just talking about Senna.

“Who shaped yours?” I asked, my voice quieter now. I stepped closer without thinking, just wanting to be near her.

For the first time in almost two weeks, I had her attention—but she hesitated. Her gaze dropped to the ground. “I’ll hold those cards close.”

I frowned, but she continued.

“The easy answer is my brother.” She was quieter now, almost distant. “He was always the fearless one. The one who made me believe I could be more than…” She shook her head. “More than what the world expected of me. But he broke the rules.”

I nodded. “And you?”

Her fingers tapped lightly against her crossed arms; a subtle rhythm, like she was keeping herself in check.

“I followed the rules. Until I didn’t.” There was more to that statement.

I could feel it. Just like I knew there was more to her , but she only let me in so far before shoving me out again.

I didn’t push her. She’d come to me eventually, even if the waiting killed me. She hadn’t spoken to me since the marina in Miami, and I wasn’t about to scare her off now.

“Looks like he was right,” I said, quirking my lips. “You’ve proven everyone wrong.”

Her eyes snapped back to mine, and for a moment, the tension between us crackled like static electricity.

“Have I?” she murmured, her voice laced with challenge. “Or am I still fighting to prove it?”

That hit me harder than they should have. I took a step closer. She did, too, her shoes scraping the ground.

Aurélie liked fighting me. She liked losing to me even more, though she would never admit that.

But I knew by the way she’d fought me that night in Miami.

Fought our connection the whole damn time and thought she’d escaped me until I showed up at her door.

That's when she showed me just how much she liked losing when she melted into me and came apart when I rubbed her clit.

Christ. Get it together. Focus on something else.

She looked calm here, serene, even, but I’d spent enough time around her to know better. The faint crease between her brows, and—fuck, nope, it wasn’t working. I was distracted as hell.

Her lips? Ugh. Glossy. Pink. Kiss-bruised still, if I let myself believe it. I remembered how they tasted, how they looked wrapped around my name, how they felt—soft and sinful and all mine.

My body was not listening to me.

She exhaled, shifting slightly. That faint scent of something floral wrapped around me. “I’ve always known I was sleeping next to a loaded gun,” she said, then tilted her head. “Wait, is that a real phrase in English?”

I didn’t give a shit what the phrase was. I just wanted to hear her saying it again. In French this time. I nodded, grinning, still reeling. “Yes, but I don’t care if it is. You say shit like that and I’m already half hard. ”

Aurélie’sface turned pink, and yeah, my heart tumbled a little at the sight. “I’m… sorry I haven’t responded.”

She’d made it seem like it was a mistake when she kicked me out. Like she could erase me—us—that easily. But I’d been inside her now, had felt every ridge and detail of her, had seen the way she looked undone, heard the way she fucking begged.

I just want you.

So why the actual fuck was she still running?

“You’re good at running,Dubois.” My voice was lower than I intended, rougher, grittier. “But we both know what happens when you stop.”

Her pupils dilated. If I leaned in just a little more, I could taste her again. We were alone. No press, no eyes, no ears. It would be so easy. She smirked, and it was something between a challenge and utter mischief. Fuck, she was dangerous to my health.

I really needed to?—

“There you two are.” Marco’s voice crashed through the moment like a goddamn wrecking ball.

I clenched my jaw, my fingers curling at my sides.

He glanced between us, crossing his arms over his chest. The breeze carried the smell of his cologne, overpowering her feminine scent and making me want to throttle him. “Looking cozy. Again.”

Aurélierolled her eyes, her posture stiffening. “It’s called a conversation, Marco. You should try it sometime.”

He snorted. “Right. Conversation. Just don’t forget we’ve got obligations. The media’s waiting, and they’re itching for their next story.”

Auréliemuttered something under her breath and turned to leave. I wanted to stop her, or say something, but I didn’t. I just gaped at her heart-shaped ass, because apparently my too-male brain was incapable of anything else.

Marco turned back to me. “You okay, mate?”

“Fine.”

“Right. Well, focus on the car, not on her.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You’re not just fighting for points, Fraser. You’re fighting to control the narrative at this point.”

It would be a hell of a lot easier if I didn’t think about her all the goddamn time .

“You fucking sound like Tessa, mate. It’s annoying.”

“All that PR training has paid off, don’t you think?”

“Piss off.”

“Seriously, Fraser. Right now, someone else is writing your story for you.”

I glanced at him, his words sinking in. It wasn’t just about racing anymore. Every move I made—on and off the track—was scrutinized, dissected, and repackaged for public consumption.

But maybe it was time to let myself picture something else in my life. And maybe, for the first time in too long, I wanted the story to be about more than just the racing.