Page 65 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

“ Mon Dieu, qu’est-ce que je fais ici? ” The words slipped out, low and shaky.

“Tu fais ce que tu veux, enfin.” His voice filtered through the door. Calm. Casual. But fluent. Perfect.

I froze. My spine snapped straight, my stomach dropping. That wasn’t a tourist’s phrase or something fumbled for effect. That was fluent, practiced, natural French. FromCallumFraser.

What the fuck?

Earlier, I assumed it was some party trick he threw around in bed. Butnooooo, because he couldn’t just be one of the bestF1drivers in history and one of my idols, he was fluent in my native language too?

My throat went dry. I hated that it stirred something deeper in me.

Heat bloomed in my chest—shock, confusion, and the tiniest flicker of something else. Something that scared me more than it should have. He spoke my language. Not just the words, but the meaning buried inside them.

The last layer of my defenses.

I turned toward the mirror, not ready to face the version of myself still blinking in the reflection. My fingers gripped the sink basin as my heartbeat climbed again—not from the afterglow, but from something darker clawing its way to the surface.

My gaze caught on a faint mark on my shoulder. A bite. I should’ve been embarrassed, but all I could think was how much I wanted another from him.

This isn’t who you are.

That voice—sharp, cold—wasn’t mine. It hadn’t spoken in a long time.

But God, it still knew how to hurt me.

The memory cracked open before I could stop it.

It had been cold in that office. Not physically—there’dbeen enough heat in the air to suggest something had just happened—but emotionally? It was ice. His cologne still lingered. So did the scent of liquor and skin and sweat.

I stood there, in the fresh wake of infidelity—if it could even be called that because we were just a tryst, and why should another woman matter?—staringat him across a desk I used to feel wanted on. Now it felt like a slab between a predator and prey.

His parting words were crystal clear.

“You’re too much,Aurélie,” he said. Dismissive. Harsh. “Demanding. Dramatic. Always needing something. What were you expecting from this? That I’d take you seriously? You’re a distraction, nothing more. A convenience.”

My chest tightened, the first fracture forming like a hairline crack in a carbon chassis. I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. I just stood there, choking on disbelief.

“You try so hard to be perfect. Smile, body, performance. But it’s exhausting. You’re exhausting. You’ll never be enough.” My hands curled into fists, nails biting into my palms. “You’ll never beétienne.”

Fuck. That blow landed.

“You’ll never be good enough. Not on track, not off it. You’re just some loud little girl clinging to relevance because your twin stole the spotlight. The extra kid no one wanted.”

My throat closed up, choking me on my own shame.

I didn’t cry until the door slammed behind him.

Not until I was alone .

The memory began to fade, bringing me back into the present where I found myself pacing as if I were physically reliving the moment. When I finally blinked it away, my chest ached, panic converging down like it was a personal mission, but I steadied my breathing.

It still hurt. Even all these months later, his words tried to root themselves in my skin, sinking like hooks into flesh. But I dug my nails into the cool porcelain of the sink.

No. Not tonight.

He doesn’t get to live here anymore. He doesn’t get to own this. That man? That past? It had no claim over this present.

Not whenCallum’svoice was still echoing in my ears, filthy and reverent. I haven’t tasted you yet.

I wasn’t going to shrink. I wasn’t going to fold. Not again. Instead, I clung to the challenge in his words. I was a competitive spirit, after all.

If he wanted all of me—he’d get it. But on my terms.

I peeled off the rest of my clothes, one piece at a time. Not rushed or ashamed. I folded my skirt and kicked aside the ruined tank top. A final glimpse in the mirror told me I was raw, but I wasn’t broken.

Not even close.

The door creaked as I opened it, the cool air biting my bare skin. I stepped out slowly, my pulse hammering again—but not with fear.

He wasn’t where I left him.

Callumsat at the edge of the bed, shirtless, head bowed over his phone. The screen cast soft light across his face. He looked up as the door clicked, and when his eyes landed on me, the phone dropped from his hand without a sound.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t so much as move. Just stared.

“I didn’t know you spoke French. I thought you were just throwing it around earlier,” I said, breaking the silence. My voice was steadier than I felt. Measured. A little breathy. A little defiant.

His mouth curved. Not his usual smirk—a warmer smile.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he replied, his smirk softening, and then he cleared his throat. “I’ve lived in Monaco for years. Felt it was worth knowing the language.”

My heart tumbled .

Not because of what he said. But because it felt real. Thoughtful. Intimate in a way I realized I desperately wanted.

He stood slowly, the mattress creaking beneath his weight. His bare feet padded across the rug, unhurried. And then he was in front of me, deliberately not touching me. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him.

His eyes swept over me, reverent and filthy all at once. I didn’t shy away, just soaked it in as he brushed a piece of hair behind my ear, fingertips grazing my jaw.

“You’re breathtaking,” he murmured, his voice laden with raw desire. The words landed somewhere deep inside me, somewhere fragile. I swallowed hard, willing away the heat behind my eyes.

“Merci,” I said softly, meaning it more than I wanted to admit.

“Pasdequoi,” he murmured back, the phrase melting in his mouth as if he’d been born speaking it.

Something about this exchange lodged deep inside me—deeper than the sex, deeper than the bites, deeper than anything he could say in English. It was understanding. Respect. The rarest kind of intimacy.

He didn’t even know what it meant to me yet. He hadn’t just met me in the dark. He’d met me in my mother tongue. My roots. My soul. His eyes still hadn’t left mine, even as I stepped closer. The tension between us sparked again—electrifying, magnetic.

I wanted him to touch me.

I wanted to be the one to touch him first.

So I reached for him, fingers brushing his chest, his heart thudding steady beneath my palm.

“Still think I’m just a distraction?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

He kissed me instead.