Page 6 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

The lavender-scented breeze swept through the open window, mingling with the soft hum of cicadas. I leaned against the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of tea I hadn't taken more than a sip from, letting the stillness of home seep into my bones.

After weeks of the relentless noise and nonstop motion ofpre-season, this quiet felt almost foreign.

I should have been relieved, but I wasn't. I'd spent so much time atLuminisHQ lately, drowning in telemetry data, endless strategy meetings, back-to-back simulations. It had been so easy to focus on the work, to push aside everything else. But now?

Now there was just the memory ofCallumFraser's voice in my head.

He said my name differently from everyone else. Aur-elie rather than Aur-aylie . His accent clipped the second syllable short. Didn't draw it out like the French. Didn't soften the sound. My name was sharper, tighter in his mouth, as though he was biting it back.

I scowled at my tea. Absolutely not.

Except… he was a distraction on his own, and I was recovering from a heartbreak that still felt a little too fresh, four months later. And I'd rather be thinking about how my stomach had bottomed out wh en his pale blue eyes locked onto mine than about the ex who'd fucked with my head.

étiennestood across from me, his dark hair still a mess, a faint smile playing at his lips as he fiddled with the edge of his mug.

He looked better. Healthier than the last time I'd seen him.

He still moved gingerly, one arm in a sling, but the shadow that loomed over him since the crash was starting to fade.

I wanted to believe that meant he was okay.

“Did you meet many drivers at testing?” he asked, tone casual. But I knew him too well to miss the real curiosity behind the question.

“Some.” I shrugged. “Most of them were polite enough.”

“Most?” étienne raised an eyebrow. “Someone wasn't?”

“It's not that,” I said, shaking my head. “They were all… professional. Polite.” I winced, because some of them were definitely not polite. “Surprised, I think. ButCallumFraser?—”

My twin brother groaned instantly, cutting me off with a roll of his eyes. “What did he do?”

“Nothing!” I protested, gripping my mug a little tighter. “He was perfectly professional. Kind, even.”

“So why are you blushing?” he asked, leaning forward with a knowing smirk.

“I'm not.” Except I totally was. Heat flooded my cheeks as the memory of his low, too-confident voice flashed through my mind. Or the way he smelled, something so distinctly male and expensive and— ugh. Fuck.

“Right,” étienne said.

I gave him a dirty look. “It was just… weird. Talking to him.”

étienne'sbrow furrowed, the teasing momentarily replaced by genuine concern. “Weird how?”

I hesitated, the words catching in my throat.

This wasn't exactly something I wanted to discuss with my brother.

I mean, what was I supposed to say? That Callum's Scottish accent was a massive turn on and that when he spoke, it was disarmingly warm?

That when he'd slid onto thebarstoolbeside me, so casual and cool, like it was the most normal thing in the world, all I could think about was that I was in the presence of greatness?

I had been trying not to full-on fangirl .

It wasn't just that he was gorgeous—unfairly, sinfully gorgeous.

It was the way his presence seemed to fill the room.

How effortlessly he'd made me feel like I belonged, when I'd spent my whole life vying for the attention of those who were supposed to uplift me.

The way he smiled with genuine admiration, the way he made me feel seen, the way he'd admitted to watching me race before.

My brain had shorted out. This four-time champion had noticed me before?

“He was nice,” I said finally, setting my mug down and shaking the interaction from my thoughts. “Professional, like I said. A little… flirty, maybe. But nothing inappropriate.” Unfortunately. I would've climbed him like a koala if I weren't adamant about not sleeping with anyone on the grid.

Okay, that wasn't true in the slightest. I had flirted way more than he had. I initiated contact, which, in hindsight, was probably not the wisest idea.

étienneraised an eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.

“Really, it's nothing. I was just a little starstruck.”

He huffed a laugh as I shuffled to the seating area just off the kitchen. “Sounds like someone got under your skin.”

I groaned, flopping dramatically onto the couch. “I hate you.”

“No, you don't.” He sat beside me, stretching his legs out with a wince. “Look,Ray, you're going to be around these guys all season. It's natural to get close to some of them. But be careful with Fraser. He's… well, let's just say he's not exactly known for staying out of trouble.”

I scowled. “You act like I don't have self-control.”

“You? Self-control?” He snorted. “Ray, I love you, but you've got the patience of a?—”

“I'm not a goddamn schoolgirl in need of a lecture,” I snapped, cutting him off. “I don't have a crush on him. End of story.”

Silence.

Then my brother arched an eyebrow, smug as hell. “No? Not even a little?”

I threw a throw pillow at him. It hit him in his good shoulder, and he laughed.

I hated him.

That night, I sat on my bed, a book open in my lap, and stared in absolute horror at the poster on my wall.

The worst possible poster.

Of Callum Fraser.

It wasn’t even a conscious choice. I’d been collecting race memorabilia since I was a kid—posters, paddock passes, old press badges, the occasional magazine spread and newspaper clippings.

This one was a Vanguard promo from his first championship win.

He was twenty-three. Same age as me now.

Helmet off, race suit unzipped to his waist, sweat-damp hair falling into his sharp blue eyes like a fucking cinematic shot.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face.

Of course I had a Callum Fraser poster with a fake autograph at the bottom. I had lived and breathed racing my whole life. Posters of champions were normal. They were aspirational.

Right?

This was ridiculous. It wasn’t a crush. It had never been a crush.

Had I admired him? Sure. Had I watched every post-race interview? Maybe. Had I replayed certain team radio moments because his voice wasdistractinglyattractive? Okay. Fine. Had I saved an embarrassing number of edits and TikToks to a private folder in my phone? Shut up.

But that didn’t mean anything.

Except… maybe it did.

I flopped back onto my pillows, hating myself.

Because the truth was, I touched him. At the bar.

When I was feeling bold—when I'd let myself forget who he was.

I pressed my fingers into his shoulder, just enough to brand the moment into my bloodstream, as if I had any business touching him at all.

And then I whispered something ridiculous into his ear—something bold and too-close and entirely unprofessional.

Just to see what it felt like. Just to know I could.

I wasn’t dumb.

I knew how he looked at me.

And for one fleeting second, I had thought— what if?

This was exactly why you should never meet your idols.

Not because they might turn out to be assholes or disappoint you.

But because sometimes, your whole damn career plays out in the public eye and you find yourselfviolently attractedto someone you really shouldn’t be.

Someone you’ve seen a thousand times before—always from afar—only to end up face-to-face with them in a bar.

And suddenly you’re stuck in a sport where you have to be professional and serious and unfazed, and all you can think about is the fact that you’ve absolutely, without a doubt, masturbated to them before.

Fucking hell.

I blew air out of my lips in frustration, glancing at the poster again.

That photo was from four seasons ago. He’d already been in Formula 1 for years by then; one of the youngest drivers in the sport’s history, breaking records left and right.

Only a few years older than étienne and me, yet I was just now making my debut at the same age he was winning his first title.

I was older than most rookies nowadays, and with far more eyes on me for the wrong reasons.

While étienne had entered F1 as a late teen, I’d been stuck in F2. Promoted not long after he left the grid. I waited. I watched from the sidelines while teams took risks on younger, less experienced men. But now I was the risk. Luminis's gamble. The woman, the older rookie, the wildcard.

The worst part about my situation in that exact moment was that it wasn’t just a poster anymore. He wasn’t just a face on my wall. I’d touched him, spoken to him, felt the heat in his eyes and the way his voice dipped when he said my name in that stupidly sexy accent.

This wasn’t a fantasy anymore.

It was a problem because CallumFraser’s attention was fleeting. That was just who he was. I had to be okay with that.

I rolled over, grabbed my phone before I could talk myself out of it and pulled up his social media on my private account. Scrolled past the polished, PR-friendly posts—the podium celebrations, the sponsor deals, the curated image of a world champion.

At some point I wound up in his tagged photos and stumbled upon a different account. His private one. I hesitated. Would he notice? Would he care?

Before I could think too hard about it, I hit follow. A second later, my screen lit up.

Follow request accepted.

My heart flipped. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

I scrolled slowly. These pictures were different. Candid. The golden haze of a racetrack at sunset. A blurry photo of a night out. A black-and-white shot of Monaco from a balcony overlooking the marina, captioned with something sarcastic. It felt real.

And then, the worst part: a selfie. A completely unfair, sweaty, post-workout selfie. Messy hair—shorter than it was now, damp at the edges. A cocky smirk. Shirtless.

I froze.

His shoulders were broad and gleaming, veins visible down one bicep. His abs were so defined they looked carved out of marble, and his grey sweats hung so low on his hips it should’ve been illegal. I pinched the screen and zoomed in.

The waistband of his underwear was visible—Armani, of course—framed by that ridiculous V of muscle leading straight down. And then I saw it.

The outline.

Thick. Heavy. Pressed against the fabric like it was straining to be noticed.

Oh my God.

It was basically porn.

I blinked.

I probably gasped.

Hell, I might’ve sighed like I’d just read the steamiest smut scene of my life and accidentally starred in it.

My mouth went dry .

My skin burned.

My thighs clenched as though they had a mind of their own.

Heat was already blooming low in my stomach, thick and insistent.

Maybe I was ovulating. That had to be it. There was no other explanation for why my whole body had just thrown itself at the altar of this man’s groin like I needed to be exorcised.

I stared for another second. Maybe three. Okay, definitely longer.

Then I zoomed in again.

My hand tightened around the phone.

I tried to scroll. Really, I did. My thumb hovered, twitching like it wanted to behave. But then it dragged right back to the photo and zoomed in again.

I made a strangled noise.Alone in my bedroom of my fucking parents' estate.

This man was a menace. Temptation in human form.

If there was a God, He wanted me to sin.

My legs shifted again. The ache was unbearable now. Hot and steady and dangerous. Like every nerve ending had decided this wasthe hill to die on.

Then I thought about slipping my hand between my thighs. Just for a second.

Absolutely not. Be serious.

But that dangerous, traitorous ache between my legs said, Just once. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off.

I set the phone down, still angled so I could see it.

My hand slipped beneath the waistband of my shorts, fingers brushing over my already damp panties.

Fuck.

He'd said my name at the bar. He'd played with my hair. He'd let me touch him and— no. I came to my senses and yanked my hand out of my shorts as shame crept in.

I launched my phone across the bed like it had personally offended me. That was something I used to do, before this sport made him unavoidable.

This was a disaster. I was a disaster. I rolled onto my side and pulled the blanket up over my face, groaning .

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. We are not doing this today.

Because next week, the season would begin. I was facing enough scrutiny. There was enough doubt on my role and I still had to prove myself in this sport.

There couldn’t be distractions. Not now. Not even for Callum Fraser. No matter how good his abs looked in low-rise sweats.