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Cross the Line 4 - OP81

pairing: dom!op81 x oc

genre: romance, friends-to-lovers, power dynamic

warnings: this story contains 18+ content (mdni), dom!oscar, sub!oc, explicit sexual content, power imbalance, consensual bdsm elements, spanking, choking, orgasm control, fingering (f receiving), cunnilingus, blow job, p in v, unprotected sex (pls be safe!), masturbation, public fingering

wc: 18k+ (one, two, three)

It had been exactly seven days since Oscar left, and her desk at the library was a chaotic monument to her misery. Three empty coffee cups, a half-eaten protein bar, and a mountain of highlighted tax code printouts.

She rested her forehead against the cool surface of her laptop. Her thesis, The Socio-Economic Impact of Corporate Tax Avoidance in Emerging Markets felt like it was written in a dead language. Without Oscar’s steady, grounding presence in the apartment, her energy had turned into a restless, anxious fog. She missed the way he’d pull her away from the screen when her eyes got glassy, she missed the way he’d reward her for finishing a chapter.

Her phone buzzed, vibrating against the table. It was a message from her group's chat.

Marcus: Hey, I just saw the Zoom recording from last week. Who was that guy? And does he know he's a legend in the group now?

She felt the heat rush to her face, remembering the mortification of Oscar’s morning "interruption." Before she could type a frantic, embarrassed reply, a notification from a delivery app popped up.

Notification: Your courier is 1 minute away.

Frowning, she gathered her things and walked toward the heavy oak doors. Standing there was a courier holding a sleek, weighted box wrapped in silver paper, topped with a small, professional-looking card.

She retreated to a quiet corner and opened the card. The handwriting was unmistakable. Oscar’s precise, neat print.

"I saw your progress declining. You're getting distracted, sweetheart. Open the box. It’s a reminder of who’s waiting for you to finish. — OP."

With trembling fingers, she opened the silver box. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a high-end, noise-canceling headset with the McLaren logo subtly etched on the side. But beneath the headset lay the real motivation: a small, luxurious leather-bound planner.

She flipped it open to today’s date. Oscar had written in it.

10:00 PM (Bahrain Time): Check-in call. If you’ve finished 2,000 words, you get to tell me exactly what you're wearing under that dress. If you haven't... I'll be choosing your 'punishment' over the video call. Focus, baby. Daddy’s watching the clock.

Attached to the page was a polaroid. It was Oscar in his race suit, leaning against his car in the Bahrain paddock. He wasn't smiling, he was looking directly into the camera with that dark, possessive intensity that made her core throb. He was holding a small piece of paper that simply said: "WORK."

A week of brain fog vanished in an instant. The exhaustion was replaced by a sharp, pulsing need to please him, and a terrifying thrill at the thought of what he might do if she failed.

She sat back down at her desk, put on the new headset, and opened her document. The brat was gone, the obedient student was back. She had 2,000 words to write, and she wasn't going to let him down.

—

The clock on her laptop screen flickered to 8:00PM, 10:00 PM in Bahrain. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair was a bird's nest of stress, and the word count sat mockingly at 1,450. She was 550 words short, fueled by three espressos and a growing sense of frantic desperation.

When the FaceTime ringtone echoed through her quiet bedroom, she jumped, nearly knocking over a cold mug of coffee on the bedside table. She hit 'Accept,' and Oscar’s face filled the screen. He was sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, still in a team polo, looking sharp and infuriatingly composed.

"Hey, baby," he murmured, his voice deep and smooth, cutting through her caffeine-induced haze. He didn't waste time. "Turn the screen. Let me see the document."

She bit her lip, her hands shaking as she flipped the camera to show the word count. The silence from his end was deafening. She watched his eyes scan the number, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

"One thousand, four hundred and fifty," Oscar read out loud, his voice dropping into that low, flat tone that signaled he was shifting from best friend to Daddy. "That’s not two thousand, is it?"

"Oscar, I tried!" she suddenly burst out, her voice cracking. The coffee-fueled adrenaline finally hit the wall of her exhaustion, and she felt a tantrum bubbling up. "The corporate tax legislation is a nightmare! I had to rewrite the entire section on incentives, and Marcus kept messaging me about the group slides, and Noodle wouldn't stop meowing at the door, and I miss you, and—"

"Stop," Oscar commanded. It was a soft word, but it had the weight of a physical hand over her mouth. "No excuses. We had a deal."

"It's not fair!" she cried, throwing her pen across the desk. She slumped back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest, her bottom lip trembling. "You're over there in Bahrain driving cars and being a legend, and I'm here dying over spreadsheets! I stayed up all night! I don't care about the word count anymore! I'm going to sleep!"

Oscar watched her through the screen, his expression unreadable. He didn't get angry, he just watched her spiral. "You’re throwing a tantrum, baby," he noted calmly. "And we both know what happens when you act like a brat."

"You're not even here!" she snapped, sticking her tongue out at the camera in a moment of pure, sleep-deprived defiance. "What are you going to do? Send me a mean email?"

Oscar’s expression shifted, his eyes darkening with a predatory edge as a slow, wicked smirk pulled at his lips. "I don’t need to be in the room to make you feel me, baby. Put the phone on the stand. Stand up."

"No," she pouted, her voice small but defiant.

"I said stand up. Now," he countered, his tone dropping into a low, lethal calm. "Or the call ends, and I won’t answer for the next forty-eight hours. No check-ins, no messages. Total radio silence. Do you really want to find out if I’m bluffing?"

The threat of his absence was the only thing capable of snapping her rebellion. Sniffling and grumbling under her breath, she propped the phone up on the nightstand and stepped into the center of the room, feeling small and exposed in nothing but one of his old, oversized race-team t-shirts.

"Turn around," Oscar commanded, his gaze tracking her every move through the screen. "Bend over the edge of the bed. I want to see exactly where I’d be marking you if I were there right now."

"Oscar..." she whimpered, a hot, prickling flush creeping up her neck.

"Do it. Since you couldn’t hit your word count today, you’re going to give me twenty minutes of absolute silence. You’re going to stay in that position while I talk to you, and every time you fidget or try to complain, I’m adding five minutes to the clock. And because you’re being a brat... you’re going to hold your own cheeks open. I want to see exactly how much you’re blushing for me."

Her jaw dropped, her breath hitching. "That’s... that’s so mean!"

"The clock is ticking," he reminded her, his focus locked onto her through the lens.

With a soft, frustrated whimper, she turned her back to the camera and bent over the mattress. The hem of the shirt rode up to her waist, leaving her completely vulnerable. With shaking hands, she followed his command, exposing her flushed skin to his digital gaze. The weight of the humiliation, and the sharp spike of arousal that came with it, made her heart hammer against her ribs.

"Good girl," Oscar rasped, his voice sounding dangerously intimate despite the thousands of miles between Bahrain and home. "Now, stay perfectly still."

She couldn't see him anymore, but she could feel his eyes on her like a physical touch. For her, it was a grueling test of endurance, for him, it was a championship win. The rustle of fabric reached her through the speaker as Oscar, fueled by the sight of her submission, began to rub his hardening length through his shorts.

"Jesus fuck," he groaned, his voice thick with a raw, desperate need. "You have no idea how much I want to fuck you like that right now, baby."

She felt her face burn, her inner walls clenching at the gravelly heat in his voice. The sound of shifting fabric intensified as he adjusted his position, the friction audible over the line. He freed himself from his shorts, his breath hitching as he began to pump his shaft slowly, his thumb grazing over the tip.

"What... what are you doing, Oscar?" she whispered, the curiosity getting the better of her. She began to turn her head, her eyes searching for the phone screen.

"Don't fucking look," Oscar barked, his voice ragged.

She caught only a fleeting glimpse before his command stopped her, the blur of his hand moving, the intense, focused look of pleasure on his face. The realization hit her fully. He was touching himself to the sight of her, his pleasure entirely dependent on her stillness and her shame.

"Eyes back on the bed, Princess. I didn't give you permission to look," Oscar growled, the command cutting through the static of the call with a sharpness that made her spine straighten instantly.

She pressed her forehead against the cool duvet, her fingers trembling as she maintained her hold, feeling more exposed than she ever had in his physical presence. The sound of his rhythmic, heavy breathing filled the quiet of her room, a low, steady friction that told her exactly how much her submission was affecting him.

"That's it. Stay just like that for," he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, descriptive hum. "If I were there right now, I wouldn't even take that shirt off you. I’d just bunch it up in my fists until I could feel your skin heat up under my palms. I’d lean over you and I’d whisper in your ear exactly how much trouble you’re in for being a fucking brat."

She let out a shallow, shaky breath, her eyes fluttering shut as his words painted a picture more vivid than the screen could ever provide.

"I’d wrap one hand around your throat, just enough to feel your pulse jumping against my thumb, and I’d use the other to trace every inch of what you’re showing me right now," Oscar continued, his pace audible over the line, growing faster, more desperate. "I’d bite that little sweet spot on your neck until you cried out my name, and then I’d fuck you so deep you’d forget how to breathe. I wouldn't be gentle. Not after you spent all day being a brat."

A soft, broken sob escaped her lips, her knees feeling weak as her body reacted to the mental image of his weight pinning her down. The distance between Bahrain and her bedroom felt like a physical ache, a void that only his voice was currently filling.

"You’d be shaking just like you are now, but it would be because I’m hitting every spot that makes you come apart," he groaned, the sound of his own pleasure reaching a fever pitch. "I’d make you stay in this exact position, holding yourself open for me, while I took everything I wanted. I’d mark you so clearly that everyone at the track would know exactly who you belong to."

The sound of his hand intensified, a wet, frantic sliding that signaled he was nearing the edge. Oscar’s breath hitched, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he spoke his final, jagged thought.

"I’m going to cum just looking at you, baby... and when I get home, I’m going to make sure you can’t walk for a week. Do you hear me? You’re going to be so marked up you won't even think about breaking my rules again."

"Oscar... please," she whimpered, her voice cracking as the friction of the shirt against her sensitized skin became an unbearable tease. Her hips rocked instinctively, a desperate search for friction. "Can I... please, can I touch myself? Please, daddy."

The only response was the sound of a sharp, dismissive huff of air, not a 'no,' but a total disregard for her comfort. He didn't even grant her the dignity of a verbal denial. He simply ignored her, his focus entirely consumed by the visual feast of her vulnerability.

Oscar’s breathing was no longer controlled, it was a series of jagged, predatory hitches. Through the speaker, the sound of his hand became frantic, a wet, slapping rhythm as he gripped himself tighter, his knuckles likely white as he pumped his fist with a punishing speed. He was picturing it now. The way her body would be jolting under him, the way he’d let go of the shirt to wrap his fingers into her hair, pulling her head back so he could see the exact moment her eyes rolled back.

"Nearly there," he gritted out through clenched teeth, his voice vibrating with a raw, carnal intensity.

He shifted, the sound of his weight hitting the hotel mattress audible as he arched his back, thrusting his hips upward into his own palm. He was imagining the friction of her skin, the heat of her walls clenching around him just like they were clenching now in the air. His thumb dug into his glans, mimicking the pressure he’d apply if he were buried deep inside her, driving home a rhythm that was fast, hard, and utterly relentless.

"Daddy, please," she sobbed, her fingers trembling where she held herself open, her own need a physical ache that he was intentionally leaving unaddressed.

He didn't care. He was selfish in his pleasure, a king claiming his prize from across the ocean. His movements reached a fever pitch, his breath coming in short, explosive bursts.

"Don't move," he hissed, a final, desperate command as his body finally succumbed.

“Fuck, I’m cumming…” With a low, guttural roar that sounded more like a growl than a moan, Oscar came undone. She heard the sharp catch in his throat, the sound of his hand slowing as he spent himself, his breath hitching in a series of long, shuddering exhales. The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the fading echoes of his climax and the static of the long-distance connection.

She stayed frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs, the weight of the punishment, the forced stillness and the denial of her own release, settling over her like a heavy shroud while he basked in the afterglow of his victory.

Through the speaker, she heard the rustle of a bedside tissue, the click of a water bottle, and then the heavy thud of him falling back against his headboard in Bahrain.

"Still haven't told you to move, Princess," he reminded her, his voice returning to that calm, terrifyingly composed baseline. The gravelly heat was gone, replaced by the cool authority of a man who had already gotten exactly what he wanted.

"Oscar, please," she sobbed, her voice small and trembling. "I’m... I’m hurting. Can I just... finish?"

"No." The word was flat, final, and lacked even a hint of sympathy. "You missed your word count. You were a brat about standing up. And then you had the audacity to interrupt me to ask for a favor? You’re lucky I’m letting you go to sleep at all."

She let out a frustrated whimper, her forehead pressing harder into the mattress. The denial felt like a physical slap. He was miles away, likely cooling down in a luxury hotel suite, while she was left wound up and vibrating with a tension he had no intention of breaking.

"This is your last lesson for the night," Oscar said, his tone almost conversational now, which somehow made it worse. "Just because I’m satisfied doesn't mean you get to be. You’re going to stay exactly like that for five more minutes. I’m going to watch the timer. If you touch yourself, if you rub against the bed, or if you even move your hands... I’m deleting the flight I have booked for your graduation."

Her heart plummeted. He wouldn't. But the cold precision in his voice told her he absolutely would.

"Do you understand me?" he prompted.

"Yes, Daddy," she whispered, a tear finally escaping and soaking into the duvet.

"Good. Five minutes of stillness. Then you can get under the covers, alone, and go to sleep. You aren't touching yourself tonight. You’re going to go to sleep feeling exactly how much you need me. Every time you roll over and feel that ache, I want you to remember that I’m the only one allowed to fix it."

He went quiet then, the video feed still active, his dark eyes locked onto her exposed, trembling form. He watched her struggle, watched the way her thighs shook and her breath hitched in desperate, shallow gasps. He was perfectly content, settled, and in total control.

He didn't need to be in the room to break her, he just needed her to know that his word was law, no matter the coordinates.

The silence of the room felt deafening the moment the call disconnected. Oscar hadn't even given her a "sweet dreams", just a final, chilling look through the lens before the screen went black, leaving her trembling and utterly wrecked in the center of her bed.

She collapsed onto her side, pulling the duvet up to her chin, but the friction of the fabric against her sensitized skin was a cruel reminder of the ache he’d left behind. Her body was humming, a frantic, rhythmic pulsing that demanded a release he had explicitly forbidden.

"God, he’s such a prick," she hissed into her pillow, her voice muffled and thick with frustration.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force her mind to go blank, but all she could hear was the gravelly authority in his voice. Her hand instinctively drifted toward her hip, but she snapped it back to her chest as if the mattress were rigged with a sensor. The fear that he’d somehow know, that he’d check the flight and cancel his trip home, was the only thing keeping her fingers still.

"He’s so mean," she grumbled, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling. "Twenty minutes of silence? Holding myself open like a... like a trophy? And then he just leaves me like this?"

She shifted again, her thighs rubbing together, sending a sharp spark of need through her that made her back arch. She let out a jagged breath, a whimper escaping her throat.

"I’d rather he just punish me physically," she whispered to the empty room, her face heating up at the honesty of it. "I’d take a dozen slaps to the face and a red ass over this. At least then I’d feel him. At least then there’d be an end to it."

The psychological weight of his "no-touch" rule was a far more effective cage than any physical restraint. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the smirk he’d worn while he watched her struggle. He wanted her to be miserable. He wanted her to spend the next eight hours tossing and turning, her mind consumed by the thought of his hands, his voice, and the sheer power he held over her from a different time zone.

She curled into a ball, clutching his oversized shirt to her nose, inhaling the fading scent of his skin. It was a poor substitute for the man himself.

"Graduation," she reminded herself, her voice a broken thread. "Just be good until graduation."

—

The next five weeks became a blurred montage of flickering cursor icons, empty caffeine cans, and the unrelenting glow of a laptop screen. Her thesis was a mountain that refused to be climbed, and the higher she got, the thinner the air felt. Her room, once a sanctuary, had transformed into a war room of scattered research papers and half-finished outlines.

Every few hours, her phone would buzz with a lifeline, a text from Oscar, usually brief and grounding, though never quite enough to bridge the distance.

The stress bled into their message threads, a chaotic stream of consciousness that Oscar navigated.

Her: I hate this. I hate academia. I hate word counts. I am deleting the entire third chapter and moving into a cave. Don't look for me.

Oscar: The third chapter was good, baby. Drink some water. Eat something that isn't toast. I’m heading to the paddock. Focus.

Her: My advisor just gave me three pages of corrections. I’m going to cry. I am crying. Tell me you’re coming home soon, or I’m dropping out to become a professional hermit.

Oscar: Your graduation's booked. I wouldn’t miss seeing you in that cap for anything. Keep going. You’re almost there.

Despite the crushing weight of her deadlines, there were three hours every weekend that were non-negotiable. No matter how many citations were left to format, the laptop screen was hijacked by the roar of F1 engines.

She watched his Qualifying sessions with her heart in her throat, her fingers flying across the keys in the breaks. When he took a podium in Saudi Arabia, she was screaming at the screen, her thesis stress momentarily eclipsed by the sight of him spraying champagne.

Her: PODIUM!!! You looked so fast in Sector 2. Proud of you, Daddy!! Now come home so I can celebrate properly. (And by celebrate, I mean sleep for forty hours).

But it wasn't always celebration. During the Australian GP, when a mistimed pit stop and a subsequent clip to his front wing sent him spinning into the gravel, the silence in her room was deafening. She didn't care about her word count then, she only cared that he climbed out of the car unhurt.

Her: I saw the replay. It wasn't your fault, Oscar. Don't let the engineers get in your head. You were brilliant until that moment. Take a breath. I love you.

Oscar: Hard day. Really needed to see that message. Back to the sim tomorrow to figure out what went wrong. How is the conclusion coming?

By week five, she was a ghost of herself, surviving on spite and the countdown app on her home screen. The "No-Touch" rule had technically expired after that first weekend, but the sheer exhaustion of the final edit had turned her into a monk by default. Oscar remained her anchor, and his voice over the phone during his late night drives back to the hotels being the only thing that kept her tethered to reality.

The final email to her professor, the 'Final_Thesis_V3_DEFINITELY_FINAL.pdf' was sent with a shaking hand.

Her: It’s submitted. It’s done. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.

Oscar: Good girl.

—

The morning of the thesis defense arrived like a cold, gray weight. The months of isolation, the thousands of miles between her and Oscar, and the sheer intellectual exhaustion of the final edit had finally converged into a perfect storm of anxiety. She sat at her desk, dressed in her formal blazer but still wearing pajama bottoms, her hands shaking so violently she could barely click the link to join the virtual lobby.

She dialed Oscar’s FaceTime, her vision blurring with tears the second his face appeared on the screen. He was in the McLaren motorhome, the bright lights of his surroundings a stark contrast to the dim, panicked atmosphere of her bedroom.

"I can't do it, Oscar," she sobbed, a stray tear landing on her keyboard. "I’m going to forget everything. My data is flawed, I know it is. They’re going to realize I’m a fraud and I’m going to fail, and all of this, the late nights, the stress, the distance, it’ll be for nothing."

Oscar leaned in closer to his camera, his expression instantly shifting from pre-session focus to total, unwavering presence. He didn’t offer a platitude or a "don’t worry." Instead, his voice dropped into that low, grounding register he used when he was talking her down from a ledge.

"Baby," he commanded, his eyes boring into hers through the lens. "Breathe. Deep breath, right now."

She hitched a breath, trying to match his steady rhythm.

"You’ve lived and breathed this research for months. You know more about this topic than anyone in that room," he said, his voice firm and certain. "You’ve survived my punishments, you’ve survived the pressure of the races, and you’ve survived six weeks of hell on your own. This? This is just a conversation. You’re going to walk them through your work, and you’re going to be brilliant. I’m not asking you to be perfect, I’m telling you that you already are. Now, wipe your face. Put on that professional mask I know you have, and go show them why you’re mine."

"What if I stumble?" she whispered, sniffing and reaching for a tissue.

"Then you recover," Oscar countered with a small, confident smirk. "Like a champion. I’ll be right here. I’m leaving the phone on mute in my pocket during your slot. I’ll be listening to every word. You won’t be alone."

Three hours later, the world felt lighter than air. The adrenaline was still humming in her veins, but the crushing weight on her chest had evaporated. She burst back into her room, fumbling for her phone to redial the one person who had been her silent witness.

When the call connected, she didn't even wait for him to speak.

"I did it!" she shrieked, a manic, happy laugh bubbling out of her. "Oscar, I actually did it! They didn't even tear my methodology apart. One of the professors said my conclusion was 'insightful and robust.' I think I actually impressed them!"

Oscar appeared on the screen, his racing suit unzipped to the waist, a celebratory grin lighting up his face. He looked relieved, the tension in his jaw finally easing.

"I heard the whole thing," he rasped, his eyes warm with pride. "You sounded so confident. I told you they wouldn't stand a chance against you. How does it feel, Graduate?"

"It doesn't feel real yet," she said, flopping back onto her bed, the sheer relief making her limbs feel like jelly. "I’m just waiting on the final marks now, but they basically told me I passed. All that’s left is the ceremony... and you."

"And me," Oscar echoed, his voice dropping into a more intimate, suggestive tone. "Six weeks of being a good girl. Six weeks of working hard while I watched from the sidelines. I hope you haven't forgotten our little deal, baby."

She felt a familiar heat rise to her cheeks, the academic victory quickly being overtaken by a much more carnal anticipation. "I haven't forgotten. I’m counting down the days and hours until your flight lands, daddy."

"Good," Oscar said, his gaze darkening as he took in her flushed face. "Get some rest. Celebrate tonight with your friends. And after graduation? You’re all mine. No more thesis, no more word counts. Just you, me”

—

The auditorium was a sea of black robes and mortarboards, the air thick with the scent of floor wax and nervous excitement. As she processed toward her seat, her eyes scanned the rows of faces, her heart skipping a beat every time she saw a flash of brown hair or a McLaren-branded watch. Then, she saw him.

Oscar was tucked between her mother and father in the fourth row, looking effortlessly sharp in a tailored navy suit that made him stand out amongst the sea of casual attire. He looked like he’d been part of the family for years, leaning in to whisper something to her father that made the older man chuckle and pat Oscar’s shoulder. When Oscar finally caught her eye, he didn't wave or cheer, he simply offered a slow, knowing nod and a wink that sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. He had made it.

The dinner was held at a quiet, upscale bistro, the kind of place with white linen tablecloths and soft jazz that Oscar knew she loved. Her parents were beaming, the pride in their eyes rivaled only by the smug, possessive warmth in Oscar's gaze.

"I have to say, Oscar," her mother said, lifting a glass of champagne. "We weren't sure you'd be able to make the flight with the turnaround from the last race. We know how grueling your schedule is."

Oscar smiled, his hand resting casually on the table near hers, though he didn't touch her yet. "I wouldn't have missed this for anything, auntie. She’s worked harder than anyone I know. After the nights I spent listening to her stress over those citations, seeing her walk across that stage was the highlight of my month."

"He was my rock," she added, her voice softening as she looked at him. "I don't think I would have hit that final submission button without his... encouragement."

Her father laughed, oblivious to the double meaning. "Well, you’ve always been driven, but it’s good to have someone in your corner who understands high-pressure environments. Now that the thesis is behind you, what’s the first order of business?"

"Sleep," she lied, her eyes flickering to Oscar. "And maybe a very long vacation."

"You’ve earned it," Oscar said, his voice dropping into a lower, more private register. "In fact, I have a very specific itinerary planned for her 'rest' period."

As the main course arrived and the conversation shifted toward her father's golf game, the weeks of deprivation finally boiled over. The sound of his voice, the scent of his cologne, and the memory of that long-distance "no-touch" rule made her blood feel like liquid fire. She couldn't wait until they were back at the apartment. She needed to know he was real, and she needed him to know she was ready.

Reaching down, she took Oscar’s hand. His fingers were cool, but his pulse was steady. She guided his hand off his lap and moved it toward her own, sliding his palm onto the bare skin of her thigh beneath the tablecloth.

Oscar took a quick glance at her but didn't miss a beat in the conversation. He continued to nod at her father’s story about a difficult par-four, but his fingers flexed against her skin, his grip tightening. She moved his hand higher, her heart hammering against her ribs, guiding him until his hand was deep under the silk of her dress.

She felt him stiffen slightly when her heat met his touch. He adjusted his position, spreading his fingers wide across her inner thigh. His pinky hooked just under the edge of her lace underwear, the tip of it grazing the damp, hot center of her through the fabric.

"The wind was catching the ball at the turn," her father continued, gesturing with his fork.

Oscar leaned forward, his eyes locked on her father, but his thumb began to stroke a slow, torturous circle against her clit. "Wind can be a real bitch," Oscar remarked calmly, his voice as steady as if he weren't currently exploring the most sensitive part of her in front of her parents. "It’s all about maintaining control when things get... turbulent."

She let out a sharp, hitching breath, masquerading it as a cough and taking a sudden, desperate gulp of water. Beneath the table, Oscar’s pinky pressed more firmly against her, rhythmically teasing the fabric into her.

He glanced at her, a wicked, triumphant glint in his eyes that said, I told you I’d make up for lost time.

As her father detailed the intricacies of a recent business merger, Oscar’s hand became a silent, ruthless predator. With the surgical precision he usually reserved for a high-speed apex, he hooked two fingers under the elastic of her lace underwear, sliding the fabric aside until there was nothing but hot, damp skin meeting his calloused palm.

She nearly choked on a piece of roasted asparagus, her fork clattering against the fine china. The sensation of his bare skin against hers after weeks of digital static was like a physical shock to her nervous system.

"Everything alright, dear?" her mother asked, tilting her head with a look of mild concern. "You look a bit flushed. Is it too warm in here?"

"I... I think the champagne went to my head a little fast," she managed to stammer, her voice an octave higher than usual. Her fingers gripped the edge of the mahogany table so hard her knuckles turned white.

Beneath the table, Oscar’s expression remained a mask of polite, attentive interest. He was the picture of the perfect best friend, the professional athlete, the disciplined gentleman. But under the shroud of the tablecloth, he was being anything but. He found her center with agonizing accuracy, his thumb circling her clit while his middle finger pressed against her entrance, testing her wetness.

"It’s the adrenaline coming down," Oscar offered smoothly, his voice a calm, rich baritone that betrayed absolutely nothing. He didn't even look at her, he kept his gaze fixed on her mother. "A thesis defense is a massive physical toll. She’s probably just finally letting go of all that tension."

As he spoke the word tension, he drove his finger inside her.

The breath was punched out of her lungs. She let out a sharp, muffled "Oh!" and squeezed her eyes shut, her body jolting in the chair. The friction was perfect, slick, hot, and devastatingly deep. He wasn't being gentle, he was reclaiming his territory with a blunt force that made her head swim.

"Is the food not sitting well?" her father asked, leaning forward, his brow furrowed. "You’ve barely touched your sea bass."

"She’s fine, uncle," Oscar said, his tone authoritative yet kind. He began to move his finger in a slow, relentless curl, hooking upward to find the spot he knew would break her. "I think she just needs some fresh air and a proper night's sleep. Right?"

He punctuated the question with a sharp, heavy thrust.

She let out a low, shaky whine that she tried to disguise as a cleared throat, her hips twitching uncontrollably against his hand. She felt a drop of sweat roll down her spine. The sheer audacity of it, him penetrating her while her father discussed the wine list, made her walls pulse around him in a desperate, rhythmic squeeze.

"Oscar’s right," she gasped out, her eyes flickering open to see him watching her now. His gaze was dark, heavy with a silent promise of the carnage he was going to wreak once they were alone. "I think... I think I need to head back. The excitement was just... a lot."

"Of course, we'll just see you tomorrow," her mother said, reaching for her purse. "We don't want to keep you if you're exhausted. Oscar, thank you for taking such good care of her while we were at the hotel."

"It’s my pleasure," Oscar replied, finally withdrawing his hand. He didn't wipe it, he simply tucked it back into his lap, his smirk widening just a fraction as he felt her shudder beside him. "Believe me, I’ve been looking forward to taking care of her all month."

As they stood up to leave, the cool air of the restaurant hit her damp skin, a stark reminder of what he had just done. She could barely walk straight, her legs feeling like leaden weights. Oscar stepped behind her, placing a firm, possessive hand on the small of her back, his fingers dipping just slightly below her waistline.

"Say goodnight to your parents, baby," he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and smelling of expensive wine. "Because once we get through that door, you won't be making another sound that isn't my name."

—

The heavy oak door hadn't even clicked shut before Oscar’s composure shattered. One hand slammed against the wood beside her head, the other snaking around her waist to hoist her up and pin her against the doorframe. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, but the sound she made was a ragged moan of pure relief.

"Oscar—"

"Quiet," he growled, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

He didn't go for her zipper or her lace. Instead, he stayed fully clothed, the rough fabric of his suit trousers pressing directly into the center of her heat. He braced his feet and began to grind against her, a slow, heavy, and punishingly deliberate dry hump. He was hard, a solid bar of tension beneath his slacks, and he used his entire body weight to crush himself into her.

"Two months," he rasped, his voice a jagged edge against her skin. "Two months of watching you through a screen. Two months of hearing you whimper and not being able to do a goddamn thing about it."

He didn't stop. He established a rhythm that was relentless, his hips driving upward into her with the same precision he used to take a corner at 200mph. Every time he thrust, the friction of the dress and his suit fabric created a searing, white-hot heat that made her vision blur. She wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to get closer, trying to bridge the gap that clothes still provided, but Oscar gripped her thighs, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

"You were so obvious at dinner," he murmured, his breath hitching as he felt her walls clenching through the layers of cloth. “You think because your parents were there, I wouldn't take what’s mine?"

He bucked his hips harder, a guttural groan escaping him as he felt her slickness beginning to soak through the silk of her dress. He was dry humping her with a raw, desperate hunger, his hands moving to her hair to pull her head back so he could see her face, flushed, desperate, and completely undone.

"I’m going to ruin you tonight," he promised, his eyes dark with a terrifyingly beautiful intensity. "I’m going to make you forget every word of that thesis. The only thing you’re going to remember is how it feels when I’m actually inside you."

He let out a low, frustrated growl, his own need reaching a breaking point as he continued to grind against her, the friction driving them both toward the edge of a cliff they had been standing on for two months.

Oscar didn't give her the mercy of a slow undressing. His hands, usually so calculated and steady on a steering wheel, were frantic as they hooked into the hem of her graduation dress, bunching the expensive fabric up past her waist until it was a silken rope around her ribs.

He didn't waste time with her lace, either. He reached down, his fingers hooked into the side of her underwear and yanked it to the side, baring her completely to the rough, dark fabric of his suit trousers. The contrast was electric, her slick, sensitive skin meeting the coarse wool of his slacks. When he pressed back into her, the direct friction against her clit made her back arch off the door, a high-pitched keening sound escaping her throat.

"That's it," he hissed into her ear, his teeth grazing her lobe. "Feel that? That’s months of me thinking about exactly this. No screen between us. No time zones. Just me taking you like I said I would."

He began to grind again, but now that she was bare beneath him, the sensation was a thousand times more intense. Every upward thrust of his hips smeared her own moisture against his zipper and the heat of his thigh. He was humping her with a rhythmic, brutal force, his hardening length a solid, unyielding pressure that seemed to hit every nerve ending at once.

"You've been such a good girl for me, haven't you?" he whispered, his voice dropping to a filthy, gravelly rasp that vibrated in her skull. "Sitting there so still at dinner while I had you on my finger. Did you like it? Did you like knowing I could make you come right in front of your parents?"

He shifted his weight, pinning her legs wider with his knees and driving his pelvis home with a sharp, heavy buck.

"I can feel how much you want it," he groaned, his eyes shut tight as he buried his face in her hair. "You’re so tight, so wet... you’re not touching yourself tonight. I’m doing all the work. You’re just going to stay pinned against this door and take every bit of me until you break."

The way Oscar was talking was the final straw. Combined with the relentless, heavy friction of his suit against her most sensitive spot, she felt the familiar, terrifying tension of a climax beginning to coil in her gut. Her toes curled, her fingers digging into his shoulders, tearing at the fabric of his blazer.

"Oscar... Daddy, please, I'm—"

"I know you are," he grunted, his pace becoming frantic, his hips moving in a blurred, punishing circle that caught her perfectly. "Give it to me, baby. Cum for me right now. Let me feel exactly what I've been missing."

The world narrowed down to the heat of his breath and the friction of his trousers. With one final, devastatingly hard press of his hips, she came. Her vision went white as her walls pulsed in a violent, uncontrollable sequence, her body shuddering against his as she sobbed his name into the quiet of the apartment.

Oscar didn't pull away. He held her there, groaning into her neck as he felt her climax ripple through her, his own body shaking with the effort of holding back as he continued to grind slowly into her afterglow, making sure she felt every last vibration of her own release.

He didn’t give her a second to recover. While she was still limp and trembling from her release against the door, he unlatched her legs from his waist and scooped her up into his arms, his stride long and predatory as he stalked toward the bedroom. The graduation dress, still bunched around her waist, flapped against her thighs.

He dropped her onto the center of the mattress, but before she could reach out for him, he was already reaching into the bedside drawer. The metallic clink-clink of steel sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through her. He pulled out a pair of heavy, fur-lined handcuffs and a silk blindfold, tossing them onto the duvet beside her.

"I told you I was going to make you pay for every minute I spent watching you through a lens," he rasped, his voice dark and promising.

He caught her wrists, snapping the cuffs onto the headboard with a finality that made her breath hitch. Then, he leaned over her, his shadow eclipsing the room’s dim light as he tied the blindfold. Darkness surged in, sharpening every other sense, the scent of his cologne, the heat radiating off his body, and the sound of his suit jacket hitting the floor.

"Sit up," Oscar commanded, the mattress dipping as he shifted his position. He guided her bound hands until she was kneeling, then maneuvered himself beneath her. "Sit on my face. I want to taste you."

She froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. Even through the blindfold, she felt the sheer intensity of him beneath her. "I’m scared… daddy," she whispered, her voice trembling. “You... you won't be able to breathe."

A low, dark chuckle vibrated through the bedframe. Oscar’s hands came up, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, anchoring her. "I’m an F1 driver, sweetheart. I handle five Gs of pressure for a living. You think your weight is going to kill me?" He pulled her down firmly, his thumbs stroking the creases of her thighs. "I want to be smothered by you. I want to struggle for air while eating you out. Now, sit. That’s an order."

Reluctantly, she shifted, her knees shaking as she hovered over him. She lowered herself inch by inch, the heat of his breath hitting her sensitive skin before she finally made contact. The moment she settled her weight, she let out a long, broken moan. Sitting on him, feeling the solid structure of his jaw and the heat of his skin directly against her core, felt infinitely better than lying down. The elevation and the angle allowed her to feel the full breadth of him.

"Fuck," she cursed, her head falling back. The bridge of Oscar’s nose was pressing perfectly against her clit, creating a steady, blunt pressure that sent sparks through her nerves.

Oscar didn’t hesitate. He began to lick her with a primal hunger, his tongue making out with her wet, swollen lips as if he were trying to devour her. He used the flat of his tongue to lick her folds, then flicked her clit with a precision that made her hips jerk.

Because she was sitting upright, she found she could grind down against him. She leaned forward, using her hands on the headboard to brace herself as she ground her weight into his face. Every time she pushed down, Oscar let out a muffled, guttural groan, the sound vibrating through her own body. He loved the pressure, he thrived under the weight. He wrapped his powerful hands around her thighs, his fingers bruising her skin as he pulled her down even harder, forcing her to engulf him.

He grew bolder, his tongue pushing past her lips to enter her, mimicking the act of the sex they both craved. The sensation of him deep inside her while his nose continued to provide that steady, hard friction on her clit was too much. Her walls began to spasm, the tension coiling so tight she could barely breathe.

"Oscar! Daddy, please!" she screamed his name, the sound echoing in the quiet room. She was on the precipice, her entire body vibrating as she felt the first waves of a massive climax beginning to crash over her, fueled by his relentless tongue and the desperate, wet sound of him pumping himself beneath her.

The scream of his name was still echoing when the first wave of her climax hit, more violent and all-consuming than anything she had experienced over the phone. Blinded and bound, she had no choice but to surrender entirely to the sensation of him.

As her internal walls began to pulse in sharp, rhythmic spasms, she ground her weight down with a desperate force, her hips locking as she tried to merge with him. Oscar didn't flinch under the crushing pressure. Instead, he met her intensity, his tongue driving deep inside her again and again, drinking in the sudden, frantic rush of her release. He was relentless, refusing to give her a second of peace, his face becoming a blurred mask of heat and wet friction against her.

"That's it, baby," he groaned against her skin, the sound muffled but vibrating through her very bones. "Give it all to me."

He used his grip on her thighs to anchor her, pulling her down so hard that she was practically suffocating him, just like he’d asked. She was sobbing now, her head thrashing against the headboard, the fur-lined cuffs clinking rhythmically with every shudder of her body. Every time she thought the peak was over, Oscar’s tongue would flick across her clit with a sharp, expert precision that sent a fresh jolt of electricity through her, prolonging the climax until her legs felt like they were made of water.

Beneath her, the sound of his own pleasure reached a fever pitch. She could hear the frantic, wet sliding of his hand on his shaft, his breathing coming in jagged, desperate hitches. He was feeding off her, his own climax triggered by the sheer, unadulterated power of her coming on his face.

With one final, guttural roar, Oscar spent himself. She felt his body arch beneath her, his chest heaving as he finally slowed his tongue, leaving her sensitive and throbbing. He didn't move her immediately, he stayed there, his breath hot and ragged against her damp skin as they both spiraled down from the height of the mountain they’d been climbing for weeks.

Oscar didn't stay down for long. He shifted beneath her, his powerful hands sliding from her thighs to her waist to gently but firmly lift her off him. She collapsed back onto the mattress, her breath coming in shallow, uneven hitches as the cool air hit her damp skin.

The mattress creaked as Oscar stood up, the sounds of his movements sharp and deliberate in the darkness of her blindfold. He reached for the hem of her dress, his fingers brushing against her ribs as he hiked the silk up and over her head, discarding the expensive fabric onto the floor without a second thought. He didn't unbolt the cuffs, he left her stretched out, arms pinned to the headboard, a vulnerable, pale silk landscape in the dim light of the room.

"I’m not done with you yet," he rasped, his voice regaining that low, predatory edge.

He started planting slow, lingering kisses that tasted of salt and heat on her collarbone, moving with a torturous pace, his lips grazing the slope of her shoulder before migrating downward. He captured one breast in his hand, kneading the soft tissue with a firm, possessive grip before taking the peak into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the hardened nub, tugging and sucking until she was whimpering, her back arching off the bed in a desperate search for more.

His other hand didn't stay idle, he found her other nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, syncing the pressure with the rhythm of his mouth.

"Daddy, stop teasing," she whispered, her voice broken and breathless. She was vibrating with a need that felt like it was going to shatter her bones. "Just... do it already. Please."

A low, dark chuckle vibrated against her skin. "I told you, baby. You’re on my time now. I’ve spent months imagining every inch of you. I’m going to savor it."

He trailed his lips down the center of her stomach, his tongue darting into her navel before he reached the junction of her thighs. He didn't go for the kill immediately. Instead, he planted soft, agonizingly light kisses on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, moving closer and closer to her core until she was begging. Finally, his lips met her clit, his breath hot against her wet folds as he kissed her there, soft, butterfly touches that made her hips buck uncontrollably.

He moved back up, his body hovering over hers. She could feel the weight of him, the heat radiating from his chest. He returned to her breast, his mouth hungrily claiming her again while his hand slid down. He didn't enter her yet. Instead, he took his hardening shaft and began to rub the tip against her wetness, the friction of skin-on-skin sending a fresh wave of electricity through her. He was teasing her, marking her with his scent, his thumb reaching out to squeeze her nipple in time with the rhythmic friction below.

"You like that?" he murmured against her skin, his voice thick with a raw, carnal satisfaction. "Knowing exactly how much I want you?"

“Yes, daddy… please.”

Oscar’s movements remained agonizingly slow, a sharp contrast to the frantic pace of the race car he piloted. He was in total control, and he clearly intended to enjoy every second of her desperation.

He continued to drag the head of his shaft along her length, over and over, coating himself in her slickness but never giving her the full weight of the penetration she was screaming for. Each time he reached the top, he’d circle her clit with a bruising pressure before sliding back down, a torturous, rhythmic slide that had her heels digging into the mattress.

"Oscar, please," she sobbed, her head thrashing against the pillow. The darkness of the blindfold made the sensation feel ten times larger, every twitch of his muscles magnified. "I can't... I need you inside. Right now. Please."

"You need what, baby?" he murmured, his voice a dark, velvety purr near her ear. He stopped the friction entirely, hovering just at her entrance, the heat of him teasing her but offering no relief. "I can’t hear you over the sound of you being a brat."

"I need you!" she cried out, her voice breaking. "I need you to fuck me. Please, Daddy, I'm begging you."

A low, guttural hum of approval vibrated through his chest. He reached up, his hands wrapping around her pinned wrists, his fingers interlacing with hers against the cold metal of the cuffs. He leaned down until his chest was crushing her breasts, his weight finally pinning her into the bed.

"That’s my girl," he rasped, his breath hot and smelling of the champagne from dinner. "Two months of waiting, and you still have such a beautiful voice when you're desperate."

Instead of giving her what she asked for, he shifted his hand down, sliding two fingers deep inside her with a sudden, sharp thrust that made her gasp. He began to hook them upward, mimicking the rhythm he knew she wanted, while his thumb maintained a relentless, heavy pressure on her exterior.

"Is this what you want?" he teased, his pace picking up until she was a sobbing, shivering mess beneath him. "Or do you want the real thing? Tell me exactly how much you want me to fill you up."

He was pushing her to the absolute limit, waiting for her to completely unravel before he finally surrendered his own control.

Oscar’s fingers continued their relentless, shallow rhythm, teasing the very edge of her entrance but refusing to give her the depth she was starving for. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice dropping into a dark, graphic whisper that made her toes curl against the sheets.

"You’re shaking, baby," he murmured, his thumb grinding a slow, heavy circle against her. "And I haven't even started. I want you to tell me exactly what you want me to do to you. Use your words. If you want me to stop this torture, you have to earn it."

"Oscar... please, just... I want you inside," she whimpered, her hips lifting off the bed in a futile attempt to force him in. "I want to feel how big you are. I want you to hit everything."

"Not good enough," he gritted out, his own breathing becoming a series of jagged, shallow hitches. He was reaching his limit, his own restraint fraying to a thin, dangerous wire. "Tell me how I’m going to claim you. Tell me what I’m going to do to that pretty pussy of yours."

"You're going to... you're going to stretch me open," she sobbed, the words tumbling out in a rush of desperation. "You're going to fuck me so hard I won't be able to think about anything else.”

"Exactly," Oscar rasped, his hand finally leaving her core to grip his own length, rubbing it one last time against her damp skin to coat himself. "I’m going to fuck you so hard, you’ll feel it in your chest and I’m going to take every single bit of that 'good girl' act and break it. I’m going to make sure that the next time you look at a screen, all you see is this moment. All you feel is me."

He moved his hands back to her thighs, spreading them wide until she was completely vulnerable. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his shaft finally pressing firmly against her.

"One last time, baby," he commanded, his voice trembling with the effort of holding back. "Beg for it. Tell me you belong to me."

"I'm yours!" she screamed, the sound muffled by the blindfold and the sheer weight of her need. "I’m yours, Oscar. Please, just fuck me! Please!"

The words were still hanging in the air when Oscar finally snapped. With a low, primal growl, he buried himself inside her in one singular, devastatingly deep thrust.

The impact of his first thrust was so profound it felt like a physical shock to her system. Oscar didn’t just enter her, he invaded her, claiming every inch of the space he’d been denied for over a month. He stayed buried deep for a long, vibrating second, his chest heaving against hers as he felt her internal muscles clenching around him in a desperate, welcoming squeeze.

"God, you're so tight," he rasped, his voice sounding broken.

He began to withdraw, but only just enough to drive back in with a sharp, punishing snap of his hips. The headboard rattled, the metal cuffs clinking like a frantic metronome against the wood.

"Oscar, please... don't stop," she sobbed, her head thrashing against the pillow. The blindfold made every sensation feel ten times larger, she couldn't see him, but she could feel the heat of his skin, the sweat dripping from his chest onto her shoulder, and the sheer, unyielding power of his thighs pinning her down.

"I’m not stopping," he grunted, his pace quickening into a relentless, driving rhythm. "I’m going to make sure you feel every single mile I had to fly to get back to you."

He shifted his grip, reaching up to wrap his fingers through the links of the handcuffs, pulling her arms taut so her back arched even further off the mattress. Every thrust was a statement of ownership. He hit her deep, bottoming out with a blunt force that forced the air from her lungs in a series of high-pitched whimpers.

"Say it," Oscar commanded, his breathing becoming a series of jagged, predatory hitches. He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear as he enters again. "Tell me who owns this. Tell me who you were thinking about every night you were alone in this bed."

"You," she wailed, her fingers curling into fists within the restraints. "It was always you, daddy. Only you. Please, fuck me harder... break me."

"Careful what you wish for, Princess," he growled.

He adjusted his angle, hooking his legs over hers to pin her wider, exposing her completely to his assault. The sound of their bodies meeting was a wet, heavy rhythm that filled the quiet of the room. He was pushing her to the very edge of the bed, his movements becoming blurred and frantic. He wasn't just chasing his own release, he was trying to consume her, to leave a mark on her soul as clearly as he was leaving them on her skin.

"Look at what you do to me," he gasped, his voice thick with a raw, carnal desperation. "I spend all day in a car, focused, in control... and then I get to you, and I can't even think. You’re the only thing that breaks me, do you hear me? Just you."

He let go of the cuffs to cup her face, his thumbs brushing over her wet cheeks beneath the silk blindfold. He began to thrust with a final, desperate speed, his breath hitching in his throat. The tension in the room was a living thing, coiling tighter and tighter until the air felt electric.

"Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum baby... I’m right there," he groaned, his teeth gritting together as he felt the first tremors of his climax beginning to take hold. "Cum for me again. Right now. I want to feel you break while I’m deep inside you."

The command was all it took. With one final, devastatingly deep surge, she shattered, her walls pulsing in violent, rhythmic waves that triggered his own release. Oscar let out a low, primal roar, his body locking as he spent himself inside her, his forehead dropping to her chest as they both spiraled down into the quiet, exhausted reality of finally being together.

The room was thick with the scent of sex and the heavy, humid silence of their joined breathing. Oscar remained heavy on top of her for a long moment, his heartbeat thundering against her ribs, a mirror to her own frantic pulse. Finally, he shifted his weight, propping himself up on his elbows. His chest was slick with sweat, his breath still coming in ragged, shallow hitches.

He reached up, his fingers slightly trembling as they found the knot of the silk blindfold. With a gentle tug, the fabric fell away.

The sudden influx of dim light made her wince, her eyes fluttering open and struggling to focus. When they finally cleared, she found Oscar staring down at her with an intensity that made her breath hitch all over again. He wasn't the cocky, composed driver the world saw on the podium; his hair was a dark, damp mess, his lips were swollen from her, and his eyes, usually so cool and calculating, were dark with a raw, terrifyingly soft devotion.

"There you are," he whispered, his voice a scorched rasp.

He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her cheek, brushing away a stray, salt-crusted tear. He looked at her as if he were memorizing her face after a lifetime apart, his gaze lingering on her flushed skin and the way her hair was splayed like a halo against the pillows.

"I missed you so much it felt like a physical ache," he confessed, his guard completely down. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, then each of her eyelids. "Every lap, every briefing... I was just counting down the seconds until I could look at you like this."

She looked up at him, her wrists still held by the cuffs, her body feeling heavy and beautifully used. "You're back," she breathed, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips. "You really made it."

"I told you I would," he murmured. He reached for the nightstand, fumbling for the key. The click of the metal releasing felt like the final seal on the last five weeks. He moved her arms down, massaged her wrists with tender, slow circles to bring the circulation back. "I’m not going anywhere for a while. You’ve got me all to yourself."

He pulled her into his chest, tucking her head under his chin as he finally collapsed beside her, the two of them tangling their legs together under the covers. The "no-touch" rule felt like a lifetime ago.

She stayed tucked against his side, her skin still humming from the friction of his weight. The room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. Now that the adrenaline had faded into a warm, heavy glow, a slight shyness crept over her. She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip, her voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper.

"Oscar?"

"Yeah, baby?" he murmured, his eyes closed as he breathed in the scent of her hair.

"I... I liked it," she admitted, her face heating up as she thought back to the darkness. "The handcuffs and the blindfold. I mean, I hated that I couldn’t touch you, and not being able to see your face was torture, but..."

Oscar opened his eyes, shifting slightly to look down at her, his interest piqued. "But?"

"But it made everything else so much louder," she confessed, her voice gaining a bit more confidence. "Because I couldn't see, I felt the weight of you more. I could hear every time your breath hitched, and the way you were whispering to me... it felt like you were inside my head. Every touch felt like it was ten times more intense because I was just... waiting for it. I was completely at your mercy."

A slow, predatory smirk spread across Oscar’s face, one that told her she had just handed him a very dangerous piece of information. He took her hand, the one he had just freed from the metal, and kissed the faint red mark the cuff had left on her wrist.

"Is that so?" he rasped, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. "You liked being a prisoner?"

"I liked that it was you holding the key," she corrected softly. "Even when I was begging you to stop teasing, a part of me loved that I couldn't do anything but wait for you to give in."

Oscar leaned over, pinning her with his gaze, his hand sliding down to the small of her back to pull her flush against him again.

"Well," he whispered, his lips hovering just an inch from hers. "It’s good to know you have such... particular tastes. Because if you think I’m letting you go now that I know how much you enjoy being restricted, you’ve got another thing coming. We have a lot of lost time to make up for, and I have plenty of other ideas for how to keep those hands of yours busy, or still."

He kissed her then, a deep, slow, possessive claim that promised the night was nowhere near over.

—

When the morning light hit the room, it felt different. The "Good Girl" duties were fulfilled. The degree was earned. The silence was no longer a void between time zones, but a warm, heavy blanket.

She groaned as her eyes flickered open, her body feeling like it had been dismantled and put back together by someone who didn't quite follow the manual. Every muscle in her thighs ached with a deep, dull throb, and her lower back felt like it had fused with the mattress. She tried to roll onto her side, but a sharp, localized sting between her legs made her let out a soft, pathetic whimper.

"Don't try to move yet, baby."

Oscar’s voice came from the doorway. He was already dressed in a simple black t-shirt and shorts, looking annoyingly refreshed for a man who had stayed up until 4:00 AM making sure she remembered his name. He walked over, setting a tray with a steaming mug of tea and a bowl of fresh fruit on the nightstand.

"I have to... I have to get up," she croaked, her voice raspy from a night of vocal appreciation. "I need to... the bathroom..."

"I've got you," he murmured.

He didn't let her struggle. He swept the duvet back, exposing the map of faint bruises and marks he’d left on her skin, his signature written in red and purple. He slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, hoisting her up.

She let out a sharp hiss as her hips shifted. "Daddy... it hurts. I feel like a newborn giraffe."

"That's because you spent half the night with your legs over my shoulders," he reminded her, a wicked, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You wanted the reward for graduating. This is the physical receipt."

He carried her into the bathroom, setting her down gently on the edge of the vanity while he prepped a warm bath. When he tried to help her stand so she could step into the tub, her knees immediately buckled. She let out a small squeal, clutching his forearms as her legs turned to jelly.

"Whoa, easy," Oscar chuckled, catching her easily and tucking her against his chest. He lowered her into the warm water, his hands lingering on her waist to steady her. "I think I might have overdone it. Just a little."

"You think?" she pouted, though she leaned her head back against the porcelain, a long, shaky sigh of relief escaping her as the heat began to soothe her aching muscles. "I can't even stand up, Daddy. My parents invited my grandparents for a celebratory dinner tonight. How am I supposed to go?"

Oscar knelt on the bathmat beside the tub, picking up a sponge and lathering it with her favorite vanilla wash. He began to slowly, methodically wash her arms and shoulders, his touch tender and domestic, a stark contrast to the man who had been pinning her wrists to the headboard hours earlier.

"You aren't going anywhere for a few hours," he decided, his tone brookering no argument. "I’ll call your dad. I’ll tell him you’re 'exhausted' from the stress of the ceremony. He’ll believe it because he thinks I’m the responsible one who’s making sure you rest."

"You are the reason I'm exhausted," she muttered, though she closed her eyes as he began to wash her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp with a firm, expert pressure that made her toes curl.

"I'm the reason for a lot of things," Oscar agreed, his voice dropping into that low, possessive register. He leaned forward, kissing her damp temple. "But today, you don't have to be anything. You just have to be mine. I'm going to carry you back to bed, I'm going to feed you, and I'm going to make sure you can walk by dinner. Understood?"

"Yes, Daddy," she whispered, the familiar title feeling sweeter now that the distance was gone.

He spent the next hour doting on her, drying her skin with a heated towel, rubbing soothing lotion into her sore muscles, and eventually carrying her back to the freshly made bed. He tucked her in, propping her up with pillows, and sat beside her with the breakfast tray.

As he fed her pieces of mango, Oscar looked at her with an expression that was softer than anything she’d seen in the paddock. The two months of discipline had paid off, she was radiant, successful, and entirely his.

"You did so well," he said quietly, his thumb brushing a stray crumb from her lip. "I'm proud of you, baby."

She reached out, her hand finding his, her fingers tangling with the man who had guided her through the hardest two months of her life. "I couldn't have done it without the 'motivation' packages."

Oscar grinned, a flash of the boy she’d known her whole life peeking through the dominant man he’d become. "Don't get too comfortable. Now that you're graduated, I don't have to worry about your study schedule anymore. That means I have a lot more free time to think of new ways to keep you in this bed."

She felt a thrill of familiar heat despite her soreness. "Is that a threat, Mr. Piastri?"

"It’s a promise," he promised, leaning in to seal it with a slow, lingering kiss.

—

"You realize the team is probably going to throw a parade the second I walk into the hospitality suite, right?" she joked, leaning against the kitchen island as she watched Oscar double-check his flight itinerary. She was in her "jolly" element, her eyes sparkling with a mischief that hadn't dimmed since her graduation. "They’ve definitely missed me more than they miss you. I’m the one who actually laughs at their jokes, Oscar. You just give them telemetry and one-word answers."

Oscar looked up from his phone, a slow, dangerous smirk tugging at his lips. "Is that so? I’ll have to remind Zak that my 'social coordinator' is getting a bit ahead of herself. Maybe I’ll have you sit in the garage during the debriefs since you’re so popular."

"I'd probably be better at it than you," she shot back, sticking her tongue out.

"Careful, baby," Oscar warned, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative register that made the hair on her arms stand up. "You’re graduated now, but the rules didn't retire with your degree. If you’re going to be a brat in the paddock, I’ll find a very quiet, very private corner of the motorhome to remind you who’s in charge."

She felt that familiar, delicious shiver. "Is that a promise?"

"It’s a guarantee. But first," he stood up, crossing the kitchen to catch her waist and pull her flush against his chest, "we have a reward to collect. You finished your thesis and survived my distance. I'll take you shopping."

The shopping trip was her graduation gift, but as they stepped into the sleek, high-end boutiques, her perspective shifted. While she was outwardly giddy, trying on silk trousers and tailored blazers that cost more than a semester of tuition, a quiet, terrifying realization was beginning to take root in her chest.

She watched Oscar from the dressing room mirror. He was sitting on a leather chair, looking at a dress the stylist had brought out. He wasn't just a boy she’d grown up with anymore. He was a man who moved with a terrifyingly calm power, a man who commanded a room without saying a word.

I'm in trouble, she thought, her fingers trembling as she zipped up a skirt. This isn't just about the rules or the fun or the 'Daddy' game. I’m actually, truly falling for him.

It was a cold, sharp fear. Loving Oscar meant giving him the power to utterly destroy her. If she gave him her heart along with her body, there would be no safety net.

"What do you think of this one?" she asked, stepping out in a minimalist, bone-colored silk gown that draped over her curves like liquid.

Oscar went silent. He stood up, walking toward her with a predatory slowness. He stood behind her, his large hands settling on her waist, his thumbs pressing into the silk.

"I think," he murmured, his eyes locking onto hers in the mirror, "that you look like you’re trying to hide from me inside your own head. Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?"

"I'm not," she lied, her voice a small thread of sound. "I'm just... it’s a lot of clothes, Oscar. You’re spoiling me."

"I'm not spoiling you. I'm equipping you," he corrected, his grip tightening just enough to be a command. "You’re going to be the most beautiful woman in that paddock. I want everyone to look at you and know that you’re the reason I’m fast. But you look scared. Tell me why."

She bit her lip, looking at their twin reflections. "I'm scared that once we get there, I won't know how to be just 'your girl' anymore. I’m scared of how much I need you."

I’m scared that if you ever leave, I’ll stop existing, she added in her head.

Oscar turned her around, his hands moving to cup her face. His gaze was so intense it felt like a physical weight. "I'm the one who needs you, baby. You’re my anchor. Do you understand? The paddock is loud, the racing is chaotic, and everyone wants a piece of me. But when I look at you, everything goes quiet. I’m not letting you go. Not now, not ever."

"You promise?" she whispered, her heart aching with the weight of her unspoken love.

"I don't make promises I can't keep. You’re stuck with me," he said, before leaning down to kiss her, a deep, grounding kiss that felt like a contract. "Now, try on the orange one. I want to see you in my colors."

As she laughed and headed back into the dressing room, the fear didn't leave her, but it was accompanied by a fierce, desperate joy. She was falling, yes, but she realized that Oscar was right there, waiting to catch her.

The afternoon sun began to dip. They had been at it for hours. Oscar was tireless, moving from one boutique to the next with a focused precision that mirrored his Sunday drives. Every time she thought they were done, he’d spot a specific pair of heels or a particular shade of lipstick that he deemed "essential for the European leg."

Her feet were beginning to throb, and the "jolly" energy she’d started the day with was starting to flag. She didn't have to say a word. She simply shifted her weight slightly and let out a tiny, barely audible sigh.

Oscar stopped immediately in the middle of a designer shoe department. He didn't even look at the rows of stilettos. He looked at her.

"We’re done for now," he announced, his voice a calm, final executive decision. "You’re fading."

"I’m okay, Oscar, really," she protested weakly, though her eyes were already scanning for a chair. "We still haven't looked at the travel bags you wanted—"

"I said we’re done," he repeated, his hand sliding down to interlace his fingers with hers, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles in a soothing, rhythmic motion. "I know that look. You’re about ten minutes away from a blood-sugar crash and a very grumpy attitude. We're going to Bellucci."

She blinked, a small smile breaking through her exhaustion. "How did you—?"

"I know you, baby," he murmured, pulling her toward the exit. "You’ve been craving those belgian waffles and thick hot chocolate since we passed the bakery three blocks ago. Don't even try to deny it."

As they sat in the cozy, sun-drenched corner of the cafe, she watched him. Oscar didn't look at the menu, he just ordered for both of them, remembering exactly how she liked her chocolate, extra thick, no whipped cream.

She leaned her chin on her hand, watching the way the light caught the sharp line of his jaw. A terrifying wave of affection washed over her, so strong it felt like it might bowl her over right there among the tita-crowd and the scent of baking bread.

He knows me better than I know myself, she realized. He doesn't just rule my world. He nurtures it.

"Why are you staring at me like I’m a particularly difficult set of data?" Oscar asked, his lips twitching into a smirk as he adjusted his watch.

"I’m just wondering how the McLaren engineers deal with you," she teased, trying to mask the vulnerability in her voice. "Do you tell them what they want for lunch, too? 'Lando, you’re fading, go eat a sandwich'?"

Oscar laughed, a genuine, warm sound that made her heart ache. "Lando is a different kind of handful. But you? You’re my priority. If you’re not fueled up and happy, I can’t focus. It’s a performance issue, really."

"Oh, so I’m just a 'performance variable' now?" she pouted, though her eyes were soft.

"The most important one," he said, reaching across the table to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was so light, yet it felt like a brand. "You're the only part of my life that isn't a calculation. You're just... you."

She looked down at her hot chocolate, her throat tightening. Every time he said something like that, something so grounded and sincere, the fear of falling for him doubled. He was so oblivious to the chaos he was causing in her chest. He was just being Oscar, he didn't realize that every small act of care was a hammer blow to the walls she had left.

"You're going to be so bored of me," she whispered, half-joking but mostly terrified. "I’m going to be the one tripping over cables and asking where the snacks are while you're trying to win a Grand Prix."

Oscar reached out, taking her hand and squeezing it firmly. "I’ve spent twenty-some years not being bored of you. I think I can handle more race weekends. Besides," he added, his eyes darkening with that secret, dominant glint she loved, "if you get too restless in the garage, I’ll just have to find a way to keep you occupied in the hotel room. I hear the acoustics in the Monte Carlo hotels are excellent for... vocal feedback."

She choked on a laugh, her face turning crimson. "Oscar! We are in public!"

"And you're a graduate," he reminded her, his smirk widening. "You can handle a bit of adult conversation. Now, eat your waffles. We have three more stops before I take you home and check if those silk pajamas I bought fit as well as I think they will."

She bit into the soft pastry, the sweetness comforting, but her mind was miles away. She looked at him, so confident, so steady, so completely unaware that she was currently drowning in her love for him. He was her best friend, her "Daddy," and her future, all wrapped into one stoic Australian package.

I'm so far gone, she thought, watching him scroll through a technical email with one hand while holding hers with the other. And he has no idea that he already has everything I am.

—

The calm of the morning was interrupted by the persistent chime of her phone on the nightstand. Still tangled in the sheets and the warmth of Oscar’s side, she reached out for it, blinking against the brightness of the screen.

It was a text from Marcus, a guy from her thesis cohort who had spent many late nights in the library with her over the last few months.

Marcus: Hey! Huge congrats again on the defense. We actually survived. Now that we’re officially free, we should grab that coffee we talked about. Maybe dinner? I feel like I haven't seen you outside of a library cubicle in years.

She smiled, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard. She liked Marcus, he was kind, and they’d bonded over the shared trauma of academic stress. To her, it was purely a friendship forged in the trenches of research.

Her: Thanks, Marcus! I’d love to, but I’m actually heading out of town today. Not sure when I’ll be back. I’m traveling for the next race in Japan.

Marcus: Japan? Wow. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask... what’s the deal with you and Piastri? I saw him at the graduation. Are you guys... together?

Her: Oscar? Nooo haha. We’ve been best friends since we were kids. He’s like family. He just came to support me because he knew how much I was struggling with the thesis.

She locked her phone and set it back down. She didn’t see the need to mention the text to Oscar. It was just Marcus being friendly, and Oscar was already busy double-checking their passports. Besides, explaining her "best friend" dynamic to Marcus was easier than explaining the complicated, heated reality of what had happened on this bed only hours ago.

The transition from the quiet of the apartment to the frantic energy of travel was seamless. Oscar was in "race mode" now, focused, efficient, but with a new, protective edge. Throughout the long-haul flight to Tokyo and the subsequent trip to Suzuka, he kept her close. Whether it was his hand resting on her knee under the travel blanket or the way he guided her through the swarming fans at the airport, he was silently marking his territory.

The humidity of Japan hit them the moment they stepped out of the car at the circuit. The air was thick with the scent of high-octane fuel and the distant, high-pitched whine of pneumatic guns.

Walking into the McLaren garage felt like coming home. The clinical white floors, the glowing telemetry screens, and the orange-clad crew created a familiar, electric hum.

The moment they stepped inside, a few of the mechanics looked up from the car, their faces lighting up.

"Look who’s back!" Kim, one of the lead engineers, called out, wiping his hands on a rag. "Congratulations! We saw the photos. Glad you finally finished that paper so you could come back and keep this one in line." He jerked a thumb toward Oscar.

"We missed you around here," another mechanic added, offering her a high-five. "The garage is way too quiet when you're not here to stress-pace during Qualifying. It’s good to have the good luck charm back."

Oscar looped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side as he greeted his team. He looked down at her, a small, private smirk playing on his lips, the kind of look that reminded her exactly why she had told Marcus they were "just friends." It was a lie, but it was a lie that kept this world, and Oscar, all to herself.

"She’s not going anywhere this weekend," Oscar said to the crew, his voice firm. "She’s had enough time away."

The lighthearted atmosphere of the garage shifted the moment Oscar’s lead PR manager, a sharp-eyed woman named Sarah, caught his eye. She didn’t smile. She simply tilted her head toward the back of the hospitality suite, a silent command for a private word.

Oscar squeezed her waist one last time before stepping away. "Stay with Kim. I’ll be right back."

She watched him walk away, his shoulders tense under his team kit. She turned back to the telemetry screens, chatting with the engineers, but her eyes kept drifting toward the glass-walled office where Sarah was already pulling up her tablet.

Inside the office, the door clicked shut, cutting off the roar of the paddock.

"We have a situation, Oscar," Sarah began, skipping the pleasantries. She turned the tablet toward him. It was a mosaic of social media screengrabs from the graduation. "The fans saw you. More importantly, they saw the way you were looking at her. The way you were sitting with her parents."

Oscar crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. "I was supporting a friend. I told you I was going."

"And the fans aren't stupid," Sarah countered. "While the 'best friend' narrative we’ve pushed for years has been great for your image, it makes you look loyal, grounded, and sweet, these photos are crossing a line. Some fans think it's 'goals,' but the negative data is overpowering the positive. The speculation is getting invasive. People are digging into her life, her thesis, her family. It’s becoming a distraction for the team."

Oscar’s voice dropped, dangerous and low. "She isn’t a distraction."

"To the public, she’s a target," Sarah said firmly. "The brand needs you focused on the championship, not a 'secret' romance that’s leaking through the cracks. We need to stabilize the narrative immediately."

She swiped to a new slide, a portfolio of a high-profile Australian model, someone with a massive following and a clean, high-fashion image.

"We’ve already been in talks with her agency. We’re suggesting a 'cover-up.' A few public appearances, a couple of strategically timed pap shots at a dinner in Tokyo this week. It reinforces the idea that you and your 'childhood best friend' are exactly that, just friends. It protects her from the spotlight, and it protects your focus."

Oscar looked at the screen, a sick feeling churning in his gut. He thought about the handcuffs, the blindfold, and the way she had looked him in the eye and told him she belonged to him. Now, he was being told to stand next to a stranger and lie to the world just to keep the peace.

"I don't like it," Oscar bit out.

"It’s not a request, Oscar. It’s damage control," Sarah said, her tone softening but remaining professional. "If you want to keep her safe from the vitriol of the internet and keep the team's sponsors happy, you play the part. You stay 'best friends' in public. The model is the girlfriend. That’s the price of the seat."

Oscar looked through the glass at her, still laughing with the mechanics, blissfully unaware of the wall being built between them. He felt the weight of his contract, the weight of the car, and for the first time, the suffocating weight of the life he had chosen. He couldn't fight this, not yet.

While Oscar remained locked in the glass-walled office, his expression growing more stonelike by the second, her phone buzzed again in her pocket. She pulled it out, shielding the screen from the curious eyes of the mechanics.

Marcus: Just landed in Narita! Weird coincidence, but I’m actually here for a few days, my cousin is getting married in Tokyo. Since you're already in the country, any chance we could actually grab that catch-up? I'd love to see a friendly face in Suzuka if you can sneak away from the track.

She felt a flicker of relief at the message. After the intensity of the last twenty-four hours and the slightly overwhelming energy of the garage, the idea of a "normal" conversation with a friend from home sounded grounding. Marcus was easy to talk to, and he didn't treat her like a "VIP guest" or a distraction.

Her: No way! What are the odds? I’m mostly at the track, but I’m sure I can find some time. Oscar’s going to be busy with briefings and PR stuff anyway. Let’s do it! Just let me know when you’re near the circuit.

She tucked the phone away just as the office door opened. Oscar stepped out, his face a carefully neutral mask that she had learned to read as a sign of deep frustration. He didn't look at Sarah as he walked back toward her, but his hand immediately found hers, his grip almost bruisingly tight.

"Everything okay?" she asked, leaning into him.

"Fine," he said, the word clipped and tight. He didn't mention the model, the "cover-up," or the fact that his team was currently planning his public dating life. He just looked down at her, his eyes dark with a sudden, sharp possessiveness. "We're leaving for the hotel early. I need to get out of here."

She nodded, not questioning the sudden shift in mood. As they walked out of the garage together, her phone felt heavy in her pocket, a secret of her own, however innocent, held against the weight of the one Oscar was currently carrying.

—

The car ride back to the hotel was suffocating. The air conditioning hummed at a high blast, but it couldn't cut through the tension radiating off Oscar. He sat in the backseat of the team car, staring out the tinted window at the blurring Japanese landscape. His jaw was set so tightly she could see the muscle jumping in his cheek, and his hand, usually so gentle when it held hers, was gripping her fingers with an almost desperate, white-knuckled pressure.

"Oscar, you're hurting me a little," she whispered, shifting her hand.

He blinked, suddenly snapping out of his trance. He immediately loosened his grip, his expression softening into a look of pained regret. "Sorry. I just... I have a lot on my mind. The car setup isn't where I want it."

It was a lie. She knew it, and he knew she knew it, but in the world of F1, "the car" was the universal excuse for everything. She didn't press him. She knew Sarah and the PR team had a way of draining the life out of him, and she figured he just needed space to process whatever corporate nonsense they'd dumped on him.

"It's okay," she said softly, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Actually, since you’re going to be buried in telemetry and meetings tomorrow morning before Practice 1, I’m probably going to head out for a bit."

Oscar’s body went rigid again. "Out? Where?"

"Oh, remember Marcus? The guy from my cohort I told you about? It’s the craziest coincidence, he’s actually in Japan for a family wedding. He messaged me saying he’s near Suzuka and wanted to grab a quick coffee to catch up. Since you'll be busy, I figured it was the perfect time."

Oscar didn't move. He didn't blink. The mention of another man, especially one who had spent the last few months "studying" late into the night with her, felt like a physical blow, especially after being told by his manager that he had to pretend to date a stranger to "protect" his image.

The irony was bitter. He was being forced to push her away in public, and here she was, innocently stepping toward someone else.

"A friend," Oscar repeated, the word sounding like ash in his mouth.

"Yeah, just Marcus," she said, oblivious to the storm brewing behind his eyes. "He was really helpful during the final weeks of my thesis. It’ll be nice to talk about something other than G-force and tire deg for an hour."

Oscar’s grip on her hand tightened again, though he caught himself this time. He wanted to tell her no. He wanted to tell her about the PR cover-up, about the model, about how the thought of her sitting across from another man made him want to burn the whole paddock down. But Sarah’s voice echoed in his head: It protects her. It keeps her out of the spotlight.

"Fine," he said, his voice dropping to a low, hollow tone. "Just... stay safe. And keep your phone on."

He turned back to the window, his reflection in the glass looking like a stranger. He wouldn't tell her, not yet. He’d let her have her "friend," while he prepared to play the part of a man who didn't belong to the only woman he ever wanted.

—

The local cafe was tucked away in a quiet street of Suzuka, filled with the aroma of roasted matcha and the hushed tones of locals. The morning light was soft, but the atmosphere inside the booth was anything but.

Oscar had insisted on dropping her off. He claimed it was "on the way" to the circuit, even though the team car had to take a significant detour. He stood beside the table, still in his black-and-orange team kit, looking every bit the high-performance athlete, and every bit the territorial predator.

"Marcus, this is Oscar. My best friend since we were in diapers," she said brightly, trying to ignore the way the air seemed to thicken the moment the two men locked eyes. "Oscar, this is Marcus. I told you about him. He’s the reason I didn't fail my data analysis module."

Marcus stood up, offering a hand. He was tall, with a relaxed, academic charm that stood in stark contrast to Oscar’s sharp, coiled energy. "The famous Oscar Piastri," Marcus said, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "I’ve heard so much about you. It’s a pleasure."

Oscar took his hand. He didn’t shake it; he crushed it. "Is that so?" Oscar’s voice was like velvet over gravel. "She didn't mention much about you. Just that you were... helpful."

The word "helpful" sounded like an insult coming from Oscar. He didn't sit down, instead choosing to stand close to her, his hand resting firmly on the back of her chair, a silent, physical claim.

"Well, we spent a lot of late nights together," Marcus said, his eyes flicking to the way Oscar was guarding her. He wasn't backing down. In fact, he seemed to find Oscar’s tension amusing. "You know how it is. Coffee, cramped library desks, leaning over each other’s shoulders to check formulas. You get pretty close when you’re the only two people awake at 3:00 AM."

Oscar’s jaw tightened so hard the muscle jumped. He felt the heat of last night, the handcuffs, the way she had screamed his name, and the thought of this man anywhere near her at 3:00 AM made his blood boil.

"I'm sure," Oscar replied, his eyes narrowing. "She’s always had a habit of being too nice to people who hang around her."

Marcus chuckled, leaning back into his chair, purposely testing the boundary. "She’s more than nice. She’s special. I was actually surprised she decided to come all the way to Japan just for a race. I thought after the thesis, she’d want to celebrate with someone... closer to home."

Marcus let the word "closer" hang in the air, a direct challenge. He looked from Oscar to her, his gaze lingering on her lips for a second too long. "But then again, childhood friends have a special bond, right? Like a brother-sister thing?"

Oscar’s grip on the chair tightened until the wood groaned. He leaned down, his face inches from Marcus’s, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm whisper. "We aren't anything like siblings, Marcus. Don't let the 'best friend' label confuse you. I’ve known her longer than you’ve known how to read. I suggest you remember that while you’re having your 'catch-up' coffee."

The tension was a physical weight. She looked between them, her eyes wide. "Oscar, you’re going to be late for the briefing," she intervened, sensing the situation was seconds away from a disaster.

Oscar didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on Marcus for three more heartbeats, making sure the message was received. Finally, he straightened up, but before he left, he leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her temple, far more intimate than a "best friend" would ever dare.

"I'll have a car pick you up in an hour," Oscar said to her, his voice possessive. "Don't be late. I want you in the garage before I get in the car."

Marcus watched the door close behind Oscar, the bell’s chime still ringing in the tense silence. He turned back to her, a slow, calculated smile spreading across his face as he took a sip of his black coffee.

"He’s intense," Marcus remarked, his voice dropping the friendly academic facade. "Does he always mark his territory like that? It’s a bit... primitive for a world-class driver, don't you think?"

She felt a flush of heat creep up her neck, her hands tightening around her matcha latte. "He’s just protective. Like I said, we’ve known each other forever. He’s had a stressful morning with the team."

"Protective," Marcus repeated, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto hers with a sharpness that made her skin crawl. "Is that what we're calling it? Because from where I’m sitting, he looks like a man who’s terrified of losing something he doesn't officially own."

He paused, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table. "You know, it’s funny. You told us you were alone in your place those days we spent working. But I remember the day we were in a zoom call. The audio of the recording... let's just say, very high quality."

Her heart skipped a beat. A cold dread began to pool in her stomach. "What are you talking about, Marcus?"

"I heard him, we did," Marcus whispered, his voice smooth and dangerous. "I heard exactly how your 'best friend' talks to you when the cameras are off. I still have a recording of it, actually. For 'posterity,' you could say."

She felt the air leave her lungs. "You... you kept the recording?"

"I have an agenda, Princess," he said, using the pet name with a sickening sneer. "And Oscar’s PR team wouldn't be very happy if a recording of their 'grounded' star driver talking like a filth-mouthed animal went viral. But... we could make all of that go away. I’ve always liked you. If you agree to give me a real chance, start dating me, for real, that recording stays on an encrypted drive. If not? Well, Oscar’s career is about to get very complicated."

In the back of the team car, Oscar was vibrating with a silent, murderous rage. He slammed his fist into the leather armrest, the dull thud echoing in the cabin. The driver caught his eye in the rearview mirror and immediately looked away, sensing the storm.

Best friends. The lie felt like a collar choking him. He thought of the way Marcus had looked at her, the gaze of a man who wasn't just admiring her, but calculating her value. He could still feel the phantom heat of her skin under his hands from last night, and the thought of Marcus even breathing the same air as her made him want to rip his steering wheel out of the car.

He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Sarah’s contact. He wanted to tell her to go to hell with the model. He wanted to walk into the paddock, pull her into his arms in front of every camera in Japan, and tell the world exactly who she belonged to.

But then he remembered the way she had looked when she graduated, so proud, so happy, and finally free of the stress. If he went public now, the media would tear her apart. They’d call her a distraction, a gold-digger, a scandal. He was trapped between a PR team that wanted to erase her and a 'friend' who was currently sitting across from her with God-knows-what intentions.

"Drive faster," Oscar growled at the driver, his eyes dark and fixed on the road ahead.

He didn't know about Marcus’s recording yet, but his instincts were screaming. He felt like he was losing control of the race before it had even started, and Oscar Piastri hated losing more than anything in the world.

The color drained from her face, leaving her ghost-pale against the warm wood of the cafe booth. For a second, the sounds of the espresso machine and the muffled Japanese chatter around them seemed to vanish, replaced by the heavy, thudding beat of her own heart.

"You're joking," she breathed, her voice trembling with a mix of shock and sudden, sharp revulsion. "Marcus, that’s... that’s sick. You wouldn't dare."

Marcus didn't flinch. He just leaned back, crossing his arms with a casualness that made the threat feel even more real. Unlike her and Oscar, Marcus had no history with the driver. To him, Oscar wasn't a person, he was a barrier.

"Wouldn't I? Think about the timing," Marcus said, his voice cold. "Oscar is the 'golden boy.' Clean image, quiet, focused. If a recording of him speaking that... vividly... to a girl his team insists is just a sister-figure hits the tabloids, his sponsors will panic. The 'childhood best friend' narrative becomes a lie. It becomes a scandal. And he loses everything he’s worked for."

"He hasn't done anything to you!" she hissed, leaning over the table, her eyes flashing with a protective fire. "Why would you do this? I thought we were friends, Marcus. I trusted you."

"We were friends. I was the one there for you while he was halfway across the world, and now that he’s back, he thinks he can just show up at your graduation and mark you like a piece of property?" Marcus countered. "I’ve watched you pine for him for months. I’m not letting him just sweep in. You’re going to give me a chance. You’re going to tell him you want to see where things go with me."

She let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, her fear turning into a cold, hard anger. "You think you can force me to love you? You think if you ruin his life and I’ll just fall into your arms? You’re delusional. If you leak that, Oscar will destroy you."

"Maybe," Marcus shrugged, his eyes dead. "But he’ll be destroyed too. Is that a risk you’re willing to take? One click and his reputation is gone. All you have to do is say 'yes' to a few dates. Tell him you’re confused. Tell him you want to see me. Keep him at arm's length while he's here in Japan."

He pushed his phone across the table. On the screen was the video recording.

"I have the power here," Marcus whispered. "Don't test me. I’m not playing."

She stared at the video on Marcus’s screen, her stomach churning, but as the seconds ticked by, the fear began to sharpen into a cold, jagged edge of defiance. She looked Marcus dead in the eye, her voice dropping to a low, steady whisper that didn't waver.

"You think you’re the first person to try and take something from him?" she asked, a ghost of a smirk touching her lips. "You’re a coward, Marcus. If you leak that, you don’t just hurt Oscar, you prove to everyone that you’re a predator. Go ahead. Post it. See how fast your own career ends before his even flinches. Oscar has a team of the best lawyers in the world. You have a library card."

Marcus’s smirk faltered, his eyes widening as the confidence drained from his face. Before he could utter another threat, she stood up, grabbed her bag, and walked out of the cafe without looking back.

—

The humidity of the paddock hit her like a wall, but it was nothing compared to the shaking in her hands. She made it to the McLaren hospitality suite, her heart hammering against her ribs. She ducked into the private bathroom, splashing cold water on her face and staring at her reflection. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and her skin was splotchy.

Deep breaths, she told herself. Oscar can’t know. If he knows, he’ll lose his mind. He’ll hit Marcus, or he’ll lose his focus on the track, and Sarah will blame me.

She applied a thick layer of concealer under her eyes, bit her lips to bring some color back into them, and forced her features into a neutral mask. When she finally stepped out into the garage, the roar of the air guns was deafening.

Oscar was already by his car, his helmet sitting on the sidepod. The moment she entered his peripheral vision, he turned. Even from across the room, his gaze was like a laser, scanning her face with terrifying precision.

"You didn't wait for the car but you're late," he said, his voice echoing through his balaclava as he stepped toward her. He didn't care who was watching. He reached out, his gloved hand cupping the side of her neck, his thumb tilting her chin up so she had to look at him.

"I... left early cause I left something at the hotel and the traffic was bad," she lied, her voice sounding thin even to her own ears. She forced a smile, leaning into his touch. "How’s the car feeling?"

Oscar didn't answer. He narrowed his eyes, his thumb brushing over the skin just below her eye where the concealer was slightly too heavy. He could smell the stress on her, could see the way her pulse was jumping in the hollow of her throat.

"You’ve been crying," he stated. It wasn't a question. His grip on her neck tightened, not to hurt, but to anchor her. His entire aura shifted, the "calm" driver vanishing to reveal the man who had pinned her to a headboard thirty-six hours ago. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing, Oscar. Really," she pleaded, placing her hands on his chest, feeling the hard carbon fiber of his race suit. "Just academic stuff. I’m just tired. Please, just get in the car. Focus on the session."

Oscar looked toward the garage entrance, his expression so dark that a nearby mechanic actually stepped back. He knew she was lying. He knew Marcus had done something. But the green light for Practice 1 was about to flash, and Sarah was watching them from the pit wall with a hawk-like gaze.

"We aren't done with this," Oscar hissed, his voice dropping to a private, dangerous register. "Stay in my sight. Don't leave this garage until I’m out of that seat. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," she whispered.

He lingered for a second longer, his forehead dropping to hers in a brief, possessive moment of contact before he spun around and climbed into the cockpit, his jaw set in a line of pure, unadulterated fury.

—

Sitting on the back of the pit wall, the heavy telemetry headset felt like a weight pressing her into the ground. Through the earpiece, she could hear Oscar’s breathing, heavy, mechanical, and focused, as he tore through the first sector of the Suzuka circuit. The roar of the engines passing the pit straight was bone-shaking, but it couldn't drown out the sharp ping of a notification in her pocket.

She pulled out her phone, shielding the screen from the engineers.

Marcus: Bold move. But the lawyers won't be fast enough to stop the upload if I don't hear a 'yes'. Don't ruin his life over your pride, Princess. Just one date. That’s all it takes to keep the secret safe.

She felt a wave of nausea. Her eyes drifted to the monitors, watching the little purple dot that represented Oscar. He was setting the fastest lap, driving with a controlled violence that only she knew was fueled by his anger at Marcus.

The word "Princess" in the text made her skin crawl. Suddenly, her mind flashed back to the bedroom, to the cuffs, the blindfold, and the way she had whimpered the word Daddy against his skin.

A lump formed in her throat. In the heat of their private world, that dynamic felt like power, like a deep, carnal trust. But now, with a predator like Marcus holding their intimacy over her head like a guillotine, it felt tainted. It felt like a liability. Calling him that name suddenly felt "wrong,” not because she didn't want him, but because the purity of their secret had been breached. Their private language was now a weapon that could dismantle the career he had spent his entire life building.

I have to fix this, she thought, her fingers trembling as she locked her phone. I can’t tell him. He’ll go to Marcus’s hotel, he’ll get arrested for assault, and the recording will go viral anyway.

She began to pace the narrow space behind the pit wall, her mind racing faster than the cars.

She knew Oscar had McLaren’s legal team, but Marcus was right, leaks are instant. Once it's on the internet, the damage is done.

Her Mom was a data scientist. She knew people. Could she find a way to wipe his cloud storage? Or perhaps bait him into admitting he recorded her without consent in a text, making the evidence inadmissible and ruinous for him? But then she would know about his relationship with Oscar.

If she talked to Sarah, if she confessed everything, could the PR team spin it? Could they "leak" a fake version first to discredit the real one?

She looked up at the screen just as Oscar's car flickered past the finish line, jumping to P1. He was doing his job. He was being the champion. She couldn't let Oscar pay the price for her "friendship" with a snake.

a/n: i owe you all an apology 😭 part 4 took so long to come out, but i promise i didn’t abandon this fic!! i made this chapter longer to make up for it pls accept this humble offering 🥹🙏 and i hope it's worth the wait 😗 its also my birthdayyy so this is my gift to all of you 🤪

a/n 2: lowkey want moots on threads/x so i can overshare about my fics in peace bc none of my moots there rn understands 😭 if you don’t mind random plot dumps and chaotic updates, let’s be friends. drop your @ !!

a/n 3: how do u think she and oscar will handle this?????

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