Page 45 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Craving

Violet

Our first points in a decade.

I barely keep it together as I navigate through reporters, and dodge Dominic’s backhanded compliments.

My face aches from the professional smile I’ve maintained for hours, and now for all the tears I’ve shed.

Only when I shut my office door at the motorhome do I allow myself to breathe, to feel the weight—or lack thereof—of today’s triumph, and the heat of another, more troubling sensation taking root inside me.

I sink into the small sofa across from my mobile desk, kick off my heels, and close my eyes. Earlier today, I cried. Actual tears. Like some dam inside me burst, releasing years of pressure in one overwhelming flood. Colton Racing scored points. We’re moving forward. William delivered .

William.

His name alone sends a ripple through me that has nothing to do with professional satisfaction.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to force away the images that keep surfacing—his smile as he climbed out of the car, sweat-slicked hair plastered to his forehead.

The way he brushed his lips against my neck, him holding my hand.

The way his race suit clung to his body.

How he picked me up and spun me around in a moment of pure joy.

“Fuck,” I whisper to the empty room.

Friends; that’s what we labeled this thing between us. Am I wrong? A friendship born from initial irritation, smoothed with his groveling, tempered in Barcelona, solidified in Birmingham.

But friends don’t think about friends the way I’ve been thinking about William.

Friends don’t imagine their friends naked, pressed against them, hands exploring—

I snap my eyes open. This is getting out of hand. I'm like a horny teenager right now. Where has my control gone?

The fluorescent lights in my office suddenly seem too harsh.

When was the last time I felt this way about anyone?

Years. Way before Dad and Mom passed away.

Before I stepped into this role and buried every personal desire beneath mountains of responsibility and expectation.

Most of that, self-imposed. Now, it’s all rushing back, and it’s centered on the one person I absolutely should not be fantasizing about.

My team's F1 driver.

My employee .

My friend.

I’m feeling needy for the first time in a while.

I remember our conversation at that dingy pub in Birmingham after the show. The way the colored lights played across his features, how he leaned in close, so I could hear him over the noise.

“Sometimes, we just need human connection,” he’d said, eyes locked on mine. “No strings attached.”

Was he offering something even then? Or am I reading into it, projecting my own growing desires?

It would be simpler if this were just physical frustration.

A body’s natural response after too long without touch.

I could rationalize that, compartmentalize it.

But there’s something about William specifically that sets me on fire—his irreverence, his passion, the way he sees through my carefully constructed walls.

I check my phone. The team dinner starts in an hour. I should go back to the hotel, change, and prepare to be the composed, professional Team Principal celebrating our success.

Instead, I’m wondering what William will wear. If he’ll sit next to me. If he’ll lean in close again. If I'll feel those lips on me again.

I’m so fucked .

The restaurant buzzes with celebration when I arrive.

Our mechanics, engineers, strategists—all wearing grins that mirror the one I’ve plastered onto my face.

Blake spots me first, raising his glass in my direction before returning to some animated story he’s telling.

I scan the room, pretending I’m not looking for anyone specific.

Then, I see him.

William stands near the bar, dressed in black jeans, and a simple button-down shirt that stretches across his shoulders.

He’s laughing at something an engineer said, head thrown back, throat exposed.

His eyes find mine across the room, and his laughter softens into something else.

Something that makes my stomach flip with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

I weave through the crowd, accepting congratulations with nods and brief replies. By the time I reach him, he’s already ordered me a drink.

“For the boss,” he says, passing me a glass of champagne. His fingers brush mine, and they’re electric against my skin.

“Not drinking?” I nod at his water.

“Staying sharp.” He leans closer, his voice dropping. “Figured one of us should keep a clear head tonight.”

I take a larger sip than intended. “Implying I won’t? ”

“Implying you deserve to relax.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You’ve been carrying this team on your shoulders. Let someone else do the heavy lifting for once.”

“Is that an offer, Foster?” I tease.

His smile shifts, becoming something hungrier. “Depends what needs lifting.”

We fall into easy conversation with others who join us, but William stays close. Too close. His shoulder brushes mine when he laughs. His hand finds the small of my back when we move to the dinner tables. Each touch feels deliberate, intent on testing my resolve, on making me burn for him.

The dinner stretches on, course after course. William sits beside me, his knee occasionally pressing against mine under the table. When he reaches for the salt, his arm grazes my shoulder. When I speak, his eyes never leave my face.

It’s torture. Exquisite torture. I'm hyper aware of him.

“You know,” he murmurs as dessert is served, “I’ve never seen you this relaxed.”

“I’m not relaxed.” The words come out too quickly.

His eyes darken. “No?”

I take another sip of champagne—my third glass of the night—and yet, I’m not drunk. I guess all these meetings with plenty of alcohol in the mix have affected me. Now, alcohol does nothing to me. And I need it to do something. “No.”

“What are you, then?”

Wound tight. Ready to snap. Desperate for something I shouldn’t want .

“Proud,” I say instead. “Of the team. Of you.”

“Just proud?”

The challenge in his voice makes my pulse quicken. Under the table, he finds my knee. His hand is a warm weight that sends heat spiraling through me.

“William.” It’s half warning, half plea.

He leans in closer, his lips brushing my ear.

“I’m trying not to be a disrespectful asshole here, Violet.

So help me out. There’s something between us, and it’s been building since we arrived in Australia.

Maybe before—hasn’t it?” His breath is warm against my skin.

“If I’m reading this wrong, tell me now, and I’ll back off.

No hard feelings. Just wanna know where I stand. ”

I should tell him. Should set boundaries, maintain professionalism, protect both of us from potentially career-ending complications.

Instead, I turn my head slightly, our faces inches apart. “You’re not reading it wrong.”

His pupils dilate. “So, what do we do about it?”

“We could…” I swallow hard, knowing that what I'm going to propose is… unconventional within an F1 team. “We could get it out of our systems.”

“Out of our systems,” he repeats, testing the words.

“Not as Team Principal and driver,” I clarify, voice barely audible over the restaurant noise. “Not even as friends. Just as two people who—”

“—want each other,” he finishes.

A chill runs down my spine, and a nod is all I can manage. Around us, people are beginning to leave, the celebration winding down. William squeezes my knee once before retreating.

“Your room or mine?” he asks, face deceptively casual as he stands.

“Mine.” The decision comes instantly. “Fifteen minutes.”

He nods, making a show of saying goodnight to several team members. I do the same, keeping my distance, maintaining the illusion that we’re simply colleagues ending a successful day, and not two people craving company, contact… release.

The elevator ride to my floor is silent torture. I'm wary of cameras, so I don't move an inch. I count heartbeats, seconds, floors. When the doors open, I step out deliberately, not looking back to see if he follows.

He does. His footsteps are quiet behind me as I approach my door, fumble with the keycard, and push it open. Only when I hear the soft click of it closing do I turn and let my shoulders relax.

William stands just inside, taking in my hotel room—larger than standard accommodations, with a sitting area where I’ve been working, and a king-size bed at the center. His gaze catalogs everything before returning to me.

I’ve already shrugged off my suit jacket, tossed it over a chair.

The air between us is charged with an electric tension, as if every breath we take is thick with words we've been keeping from each other for weeks, and unfulfilled desires.

My heart races at the subtle dilation of his pupils, the slight clenching of his jaw, and a warm flush spreads across my cheeks, betraying the intensity of my own yearning.

“Just to get it out of our systems, okay?” I say, needing the boundary even as I prepare to cross lines.

He nods once, eyes never leaving mine. “Okay.”

I cross the room in three strides, place my hands on his chest, and shove him backward onto the bed. He goes willingly, a smile playing at his lips as I climb over him, straddling his hips.

“Been thinking about this,” he murmurs as I lean down, my hair creating a curtain around our faces. “About you.”

“Shut up,” I breathe, and then I’m kissing him.

His lips are soft but insistent, opening under mine, the kiss languid and gentle. He grips my hips, pulling me closer against him. He hardens beneath me, and it sends a rush of power through my veins.

I kiss him again and again, each one deeper than the last. I explore his torso, slowly caressing him. He’s compact but strong, all lean muscle and heat. I trace his neck, thick and corded with tension, and he moans into my mouth.