𖤐 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐊: 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐌𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐈 𝐑𝐄𝐃 𖤐
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟: After an intense weekend at the Chinese Grand Prix, Athena boards Charles’ jet on the way to Monaco. Far from the cameras, Ferrari, and the constant pressure of the paddock, the flight becomes the place where long-kept secrets finally begin to crack. Between teasing, confessions, and chemistry impossible to ignore, Charles makes it clear he is tired of hiding what he feels. In Monaco, passion and vulnerability collide, forcing them both to face a decision that could change everything on — and off — the track.
Words: 7.9K
Themes: engineer!reader x driver!charles leclerc, secret lovers, coworkers to lovers, forbidden romance, paddock dynamics, formula 1 setting, rich boyfriend energy, touch-starved, jealousy-free relationship, emotionally constipated man in love, power couple energy, private jet to monaco trope, “we should stop hiding”.
Warnings: smut, sexual tension, explicit content, secret relationship, emotional confession, possessiveness, praise, dominance switch, shower scene, established feelings, soft aftercare, public/private relationship conflict, strong language, romantic ending.
━━━ ✦ ━━━
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐜𝐨
The private jet is already there, waiting for us with the door open and the stairs lit up against the private runway. Away from the cameras, the paparazzi, and the non-stop chaos of the paddock, the silence of the night feels almost weird after an entire weekend surrounded by engines, radios, and crowds.
Charles heads in first, like he always does when he wants to make sure I’m right behind him.
And I am.
The second I step into the cabin, I let out one of those long sighs you don’t even realize you’ve been holding in all day.
The cabin is huge and sleek, glowing with low, warm lights. Everything is spotless. Light leather seats, a small table set with water and fruit, the bar discreetly stocked. It’s quiet luxury. The kind of place that seems to exist only for people who are used to never actually resting.
Charles takes off his watch before he even sits down.
A simple move.
But I know that move well.
It’s his way of saying the day is over.
That Charles Leclerc, Ferrari driver, can disappear for a few hours.
He drops his shoulders, undoes the top button of his shirt, and flops into the wide window seat, closing his eyes for a second like he’s finally back in his own skin.
I just watch it all in silence.
Then, I kick off my sneakers without a second thought and shove them into the corner with my toe, crashing into the seat next to him like I’ve just survived a war.
Charles opens his eyes instantly.
And he gives me that lopsided grin he always gets when I effortlessly tear down all the elegance around us.
“Finally, no cameras.”
His voice is low and playful, heavy with relief.
I lean my head back and cross my legs.
“No radios. No team principals. No journalists.”
I hold up a finger, adding:
“No Frédéric spawning out of thin air.”
Charles lets out a real laugh.
The short, warm kind you almost never hear in the paddock.
“He does have a talent for that.”
“He literally materializes,” I reply. “I swear, one time I heard his name and he appeared behind me in less than five seconds.”
Charles laughs again, shaking his head.
“That is terrifyingly possible.”
The plane starts taxiing down the runway, and for a few seconds, neither of us says a word.
Not because we have nothing to say.
But because that silence is just too comfortable.
I sink deeper into the seat, feeling for the first time all weekend like I can actually breathe without thinking about telemetry, tires, radio, or headlines.
Charles watches me with this quiet, focused look.
No public mask.
No "press-trained" eyes.
Just him.
“You’re exhausted,” he says.
“I’m just over it.”
“At least you’re still beautiful.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Careful. Too many compliments might ruin your 'tough driver' image.”
“My image takes a huge hit whenever I’m around you.”
He says it lightly, but his eyes linger on mine a second too long.
And that always makes my heart skip a beat.
The plane speeds up for takeoff.
I instinctively grab the armrest.
Charles reaches out his hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I look at his hand.
Then at him.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“You’re welcome, mon amour.”
I slide my hand into his.
His fingers close slowly, firm and warm.
As the jet leaves the ground, I feel myself pushed back into the seat.
But what really throws me off is the subtle smile Charles gives me while he keeps holding my hand — as if, finally, in here, there’s nothing left to hide.
━━━ ✦ ━━━
The seatbelt sign turns off a few minutes after takeoff.
The plane is steady now, soaring above the city lights, and the cabin feels wrapped in this rare kind of peace. No radios, no voices in our ears, no people rushing in and out every minute.
Just us.
I’m still holding Charles’s hand when I remember the article I’d saved earlier.
I let go of his fingers just to grab my phone and quickly pull up the post-race headline — the one talking about the intense podium battle, Ferrari’s strategy, and how perfectly Lewis and his engineer were synced up.
I smile to myself.
Then I forward it to Olivia with a quick text:
You’re gonna want to read this.
Charles leans back and watches me, looking relaxed but way too attentive to pretend he’s not interested.
“Still looking out for her?” he asks.
I look up.
“Always.”
I set the phone in my lap and add, totally chill:
“Especially since she finally hitched a ride on Lewis’s plane.”
Charles lets out a short laugh, shaking his head.
“Finally.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Don’t even start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he says, acting way too innocent to be true. “It just took you two months to get there.”
I laugh and sink deeper into my seat.
There’s no denying it.
Watching Olivia and Lewis throughout the season is like watching two people trying to ignore something the entire paddock has already figured out.
The lingering looks.
The way he always listens for her voice on the radio.
The way Olivia gets way too serious whenever his name comes up.
And how she acts like she couldn't care less right after.
“She’d deny it until she was eighty if no one gave her a little nudge,” I say.
Charles turns to me, looking amused.
“You literally poke and prod her to get her to accept it.”
“And I’d do it again.”
“I know.”
He gives me that lopsided grin he only uses when he’s genuinely entertained.
“But it was her call in the end.”
I nod.
“It was. And I like that.”
I stay quiet for a few seconds before adding,
“She deserves to stop treating everything like a logistics problem for five minutes.”
Charles lets out a low chuckle.
“Lewis Hamilton as an emotional fix. That’s a new one.”
“Don’t overdo it.”
“You think I didn’t see his face when she almost said no?”
I turn toward him.
“You saw that?”
“Athena, I’m standing right there.”
I start laughing.
Of course he saw.
Charles notices way too much when he wants to.
“He’s already made up his mind before he even asks,” he goes on. “He’s just waiting for her to say yes.”
“And she almost ruins it by trying to be polite.”
“She’s Spanish and complicated.”
“She’s Spanish and traumatized.”
“Even worse.”
I shake my head, smiling.
“But you agree with me, don’t you?”
Charles doesn’t even hesitate.
“Completely.”
He takes my hand again, interlacing his fingers with mine.
“It’s obvious they’re into each other.”
He says it simply.
Like it's a cold, hard fact.
“They just needed to stop acting like nobody noticed.”
I let out a satisfied breath.
“If it’s up to me, she’s gonna land in Monaco with all her guards down.”
“If it’s up to me,” Charles replies, pulling my hand toward his lips, “she’s gonna land happy.”
He kisses my knuckles, taking his time.
The move makes me smile instantly.
“You’re actually really sweet sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Charles pulls an eyebrow up.
“You’re the one who gets on my plane.”
“You’re the one who invites me.”
“You’re the one who comes.”
I pull my hand back just to mess with him.
He grabs it again immediately.
Outside, the night is still above the clouds.
In here, surrounded by comfort, chemistry, and the realization that two different stories are changing at the same time, I think that maybe some emotional nudges really are necessary.
The cabin gets even quieter as the plane gains altitude.
The lights are low, the city is a distant blur under the clouds, and that rare kind of calm starts to fill the space between us.
Charles is still holding my hand.
No rush. No need to even look at it.
As if touching me is so automatic now that it doesn't even require his attention.
His fingers play distractedly with mine, sliding slowly between my knuckles, tracing small, repetitive movements that seem way too simple to have the effect they do.
But they do.
Every single time.
He’s looking out the window when he speaks, his voice low—almost too casual for how heavy the sentence is.
“Love,” he says, eyes lost in the window.
“Yeah?” she answers, softly stroking his hand.
“We don’t have to hide forever, you know?”
I turn my head toward him instantly.
Charles keeps looking out the window.
But I know that tone.
He’s being serious.
It’s not a tease. It’s not charm. It’s not just something he’s throwing out there between jokes.
It’s an idea he’s been carrying around for a while.
“Charles...” My voice comes out more cautious than I meant it to.
“You’re a Ferrari driver.”
He finally turns to face me. “I know.”
“You don’t get it.”
“I get it perfectly.”
“No, you get it in parts,” I fire back. “You’re a walking headline.”
He lets out a little huff of a smile.
“That wasn't a compliment.”
“It wasn't supposed to be.”
I take a deep breath before going on.
“I’m a Ferrari engineer.”
I point to myself.
“And I love the peace we have.”
I really do.
I love the hidden hands in empty hallways. The low-key meetings in hotels. The stolen glances in the paddock.
The freedom that only exists because nobody knows.
I love having something that’s just ours in a world where everything turns into a headline.
But that’s not enough…
Charles watches me in silence for a few seconds.
No irony. No joking around. Just focused.
Then he gives my fingers a little squeeze.
“I love you.”
The words hit me in a way that’s annoyingly direct.
No fluff. No buildup. No escape route.
Silence falls between us.
Heavy.
Real.
The kind of silence that happens when someone says something too simple to be ignored.
My chest tightens a bit.
Charles leans in toward me, his eyes locked onto mine now.
“And I’m tired…” he goes on, his voice even lower, “of pretending you’re just someone else in the paddock.”
My heart skips a beat.
Because I know exactly what he means.
Every hidden touch.
Every conversation cut short when someone walks by.
Every smile held back in front of the cameras.
Every impulse to act like strangers when we want the exact opposite.
I try to hold his gaze like nothing in me has changed.
I fail completely.
“You picked a terrible time to be sweet,” I mutter.
Charles gives me that lopsided, devastating grin. “I disagree.”
He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles slowly.
“I think I picked the perfect time.”
My heart is pounding in a way that’s honestly ridiculous.
And, to make it worse, he notices.
I stay quiet for a few seconds, still sitting next to him, trying to claw back any bit of an upper hand in this conversation.
Useless.
Charles stays leaned back in his seat, looking annoyingly good with his collar slightly open and that calm expression of someone who knows exactly how he affects me.
He doesn't look away.
He just waits.
Like he’s got all the time in the world.
Like I’m inevitable.
I sigh.
And then I move.
I shift in my seat, turning fully toward him.
Way too close for any kind of neutrality to exist anymore.
My hands go to his collar, fixing the fabric he’d messed up earlier, just so I have something to focus on other than how close he is.
Charles doesn’t say a word.
Just watches me.
That focused silence always tears me down more than any sentence could.
“I think we’re better off keeping up the act,” I mutter, still messing with a button that doesn’t even need fixing.
He tilts his head slightly.
“Fine, but only until I decide I'm done with it.”
My fingers stop for a second.
I look up at him.
Arrogant.
Cocky.
Unbearably charming.
Before I can even fire back, his hand finds my waist and pulls me a few inches closer.
The move is firm.
Natural.
Like he already knows I’m not going anywhere.
“Bossy,” I whisper.
His smile grows slowly.
“Only with you.”
And then he kisses me.
No rush.
No show.
None of that urgency from someone trying to prove something.
It’s a calm, intimate kiss—the kind that only happens between two people who already know their way around each other.
The taste of my piercing metal mixes with the mint on his lips.
The kind of kiss that carries memories.
That recognizes.
That lingers just because it can.
My hands instinctively slide up to his shoulders, then to the back of his neck, while his stays firm on my waist, keeping me close like distance has stopped making sense.
There’s no desperation there.
But there is danger.
Because quiet kisses are usually the hardest ones to forget.
And because Charles Leclerc, when he chooses to be patient, is way more dangerous than when he’s speeding.
The plane stays steady above the clouds.
But inside that cabin, with his mouth on mine and his hand holding me like I’m something precious and inevitable all at once, nothing feels exactly steady.
━━━ ✦ ━━━
The landing is smooth, almost silent, as if the plane itself understood it didn’t need to interrupt whatever is going on between us.
By the time the jet stops at the private terminal, the vibe has already shifted.
No movement.
No flashes.
No press.
Just that controlled silence you get when everything around you was designed not to intrude.
I step out next to Charles, still feeling like my body is out of sync.
Not from the flight.
But from what happened during it.
The air on the runway is colder, more real, and for a second it feels weird to exist outside that closed cabin again.
Outside, the black Ferrari Purosangue is already waiting, perfectly parked under the terminal’s dim lights.
Charles walks ahead of me like he always does — not out of a rush, but out of habit — as if clearing the way is just automatic for him.
He opens the car door for me.
I hide a small smile.
“Very low-key,” I comment, running my hand over the spotless interior as I get in.
He walks around the car calmly, taking his time, as if the world has finally stopped demanding his attention.
He gets in and shuts the door.
“I’m humbly low-key,” he says, like he actually believes it.
I give a low laugh.
He does too.
This time it’s not that "paddock laugh."
It’s looser.
More tired.
More real.
The engine starts with a soft growl, and the car glides out of the terminal.
━━━ ✦ ━━━
The road to Monaco feels like a different reality.
Late afternoon.
The sky is slowly shifting colors, going from a pale blue to warm shades of orange and gold, like the day is taking its sweet time saying goodbye.
The French Riviera stretches out beside us, the sea reflecting the light like liquid glass.
It’s beautiful in a quiet way.
Almost unfair.
The window is down.
A light breeze drifts in, messing up my hair and bringing that coastal road scent that always makes me feel tiny compared to the world.
Music plays low on the car’s speakers.
Something instrumental — nothing important enough to compete with the silence between us.
Charles drives with one hand on the wheel.
Body relaxed, but still sharp.
And then, like it’s no big deal, his other hand leaves the wheel and drops onto my knee.
Without looking.
Without warning.
Without hesitation.
Just... natural.
The touch is firm and steady, as if he doesn't even realize it’s there — or as if he simply has no intention of moving it.
I look at him for a second.
He stays focused on the road, expression calm, eyes on the path ahead like this moment is just another part of his day.
But it’s not.
Nothing about this is just another part of the day.
“About that talk on the plane...” I sigh, already knowing his answer. “Do you still want to tell them?” I ask softly, breaking the silence.
Charles takes a few seconds to answer.
Long enough for the sound of the engine to fill the space.
Then he lets out a slow breath.
He turns his head just enough to catch my eye for a split second.
“Right now, I just want to get home.”
His voice is low.
No weight.
No guard up.
But full of meaning.
Okay, not exactly what I expected.
It’s not a full answer.
It’s a choice.
I look at him a second longer than I probably should.
And I get it.
It’s not about explaining anything to anyone.
Not about the paddock.
Not about Ferrari.
Not about the world outside.
It’s about not breaking the one thing that stays intact between us after everything else.
I lean my head back against the seat.
I let the silence keep going as Monaco starts to appear on the horizon, like it’s been waiting for us without any rush at all.
Entering Monaco has that vibe of a private end-of-the-world — narrow streets winding up in elegant curves, lights flickering on one by one while the sea peeks through the buildings, like it never really left.
His house appears after one last, quiet turn.
Modern.
Open.
Big enough to feel silent even before anyone steps inside.
Huge glass windows reflect the darkening sky, and the sea out front takes up half the horizon, still and deep.
The car pulls up smoothly at the entrance.
Charles kills the engine with a relaxed movement, like he’s finally reached the finish line of his day.
We get out.
The air here is different from everything before it — lighter, more intimate, almost as if this place doesn’t belong to the same world as the paddock, even though it’s literally his.
Charles is the first one in.
He unlocks the door without any hurry.
And as soon as he crosses the hall, he tosses his keys onto the light wood table.
The sound is sharp.
Simple.
Final.
Like he’s dropping everything the day threw at him right there with those keys.
I stand at the entrance for a few seconds, just watching.
The interior is effortlessly sleek.
Clean lines.
Natural light still bleeding through the windows.
And a silence that isn't empty — it’s a choice.
Charles doesn’t walk away.
He stays there, a few steps inside, and turns toward me.
And he just watches me.
No rush.
No distractions.
Just looking.
Like he finally doesn’t have to share his attention with anything else.
I feel it immediately.
The way he looks at me here is different from the paddock.
No audience.
No role to play.
No version of him that isn’t just him.
I look away across the room for a split second, just to catch my breath.
Then I look back at him.
“You’ve been looking at me weird since Nice,” I say softly.
My voice sounds steadier than I actually feel inside.
Charles doesn’t answer right away.
The silence between us isn't hesitation.
It’s a choice.
He takes a step toward me.
Then another.
Slow.
Without breaking eye contact for even a second.
“Since before that,” he says.
His voice is low and firm, without any need for extra explanation.
And that’s what shifts the vibe in the room.
There’s no doubt there.
No joking around.
No running away.
Just a statement of fact.
I stand still for a moment, feeling the simple weight of that sentence.
And for the first time since we stepped off the plane, I don’t look for an answer.
The stairs feel longer than they should, or maybe it’s just the way the silence between us has changed since we walked in.
I head up first.
Charles is right behind me — no rush, but no distance either.
The house is even quieter upstairs — low lights in the hallways, the distant sound of the sea drifting through the open windows, the kind of atmosphere that seems to slow down every thought.
I go straight to the bedroom.
He follows me without saying a word.
The room is huge, with an even wider view of the ocean outside. The city lights are starting to flicker on in the distance, but inside, everything stays soft — almost too intimate to just be a room.
I walk over to the mirror.
I catch myself giving a small smile as I reach for my earrings, starting to take them off slowly, like I’m finally leaving the whole day behind.
I hear his footsteps behind me.
I don’t turn around.
I just keep going.
One side.
Then the other.
And then I feel him stop right behind me.
Way too close.
Not touching me yet.
But close enough to change the air around us.
The mirror gives me his reflection first.
Charles, watching me.
No rush.
No distractions.
As if I’m the only thing in that room actually worth his attention.
Before I can say anything, I feel his lips lightly brush against the side of my neck.
Calm.
Warm.
Way too intentional to be casual.
My body reacts before my brain does.
His fingers find my waist easily, holding me there like they already know the way.
“I thought you were tired from the trip,” I mutter, still looking into the mirror, trying to keep some kind of control over my voice.
He stays quiet for a few seconds.
The kind of silence that isn't empty—it’s a choice.
Then he answers softly, right against my skin:
“Now the best part of my day starts.”
I turn around slowly.
Just enough to face him.
The mirror stays behind us, reflecting only half the scene, like it’s not allowed to see the whole thing.
Charles doesn't wait anymore.
The kiss is different from the last one.
More direct.
More present.
More impossible to ignore.
My hands find his chest without thinking, gripping his shirt like it’s the only steady thing in the entire room, while he pulls me a little closer — no rush, but no room for doubt.
When we pull apart for a split second, he stays close enough to speak against my lips.
“Come with me.”
It isn't an order.
But it isn't a request, either.
He takes my hand and leads me through the room to the bathroom without letting go.
The light in there is low.
Almost golden.
He turns on the shower, and the sound of the water filling the space completely shifts the vibe, drowning out the world outside.
The steam starts to rise slowly, fogging up the mirror in seconds, erasing reflections and making everything soft and blurred.
Charles doesn’t let go of my hand.
His other hand finds my face for a moment, as if he wants to make sure I’m still there before moving on.
And then the room, the hallway, the entire house start to fall away — a detail too distant to matter anymore.
The water keeps falling.
The air gets hotter.
And everything that’s been building between us since the plane finally finds a place to exist without interruption.
We get undressed slowly.
He takes care of stripping us both.
When the shower door shuts, all of Monaco stops existing.
The water hits our shoulders, but the heat I feel doesn't come from the shower jets. Charles keeps his hands flat against the marble wall, pinning me in, while his light eyes sweep over me with a hunger he’s trying, and failing, to control. The silence is filled only by the sound of the water and our ragged breathing.
“You have no idea how much I hold back,” he mutters, his voice vibrating deeper than usual, muffled by the rising steam.
Without a word, I close the distance. My hands slide up his chest, feeling the thermal shock between the warm water and his skin, which feels like it’s on fire. I don’t want polite conversation or sideways glances anymore. With a slow tug, I pull his face to mine, but before our lips touch, he stops millimeters away, just to feel my breath.
“Athena...” my name comes out like a broken prayer.
He breaks the last trace of space. The kiss isn't calm; it’s intense, loaded with everything that’s been bottled up for too long. Charles presses me against the cold marble, and the contrast of the ice on my back with the heat of his body in front of me makes me let out a low sound that gets lost in his mouth. His hands move down with urgency, squeezing my waist and lifting me up, while my legs wrap around his hips by instinct.
Water runs between us, but all I can feel is the pressure of his hands and the hardness of his desire against me — a clear promise through the wet touch that still separates us.
“I want every part of you,” he whispers against my neck, between lingering kisses that make me shiver. “Here, now. With no one in the world to interrupt us.”
My nails find the back of his neck, pulling him closer, as I feel his intensity pressing into me, already throbbing in response. Charles lets out a low sound, pure instinct, and I know that inside this shower, the “Prince of Monaco” gives way to something much rawer.
The kiss becomes a battlefield of built-up longing. Charles kisses me as if he’s trying to reclaim every second we spent acting like professionals in front of the cameras. It’s a deep kiss, tasting of urgency and everything that was repressed. His hands leave the wall and bury themselves in my hair, tilting my head back slightly so he can completely dominate my mouth.
“I hate having to hear you on the radio and not being able to say what I’m feeling,” he confesses between short, hungry kisses, his voice breaking while the water soaks our forgotten clothes on the floor. “I hate every time you give me a technical instruction and I have to pretend I’m just focused on telemetry, when all I want is to pull you aside and do exactly this.”
I feel the vibration of his voice in my chest. Being his engineer means I spend all day listening to his breathing through the headset, feeling his heart rate through the data, but nothing compares to the real heat of his skin against mine.
“Charles, we agreed it was best for the team...” I try to say, but he cuts me off, pressing his hips against mine with a force that leaves me breathless.
“I’m done with what’s best for the team, Athena. I want what’s best for us,” he murmurs, trailing kisses down my jaw until he finds the sensitive spot below my ear. “I want to walk off that track holding your hand. I want the world to know that the woman who guides me through the turns is the same one who owns every part of me.”
My hands slide down his back, feeling the tense muscles. I pull him closer, feeling his urgency claiming space between my legs.
“Are you serious?” I ask, my voice coming out raspy while my nails lightly scratch the back of his neck.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” he answers, looking back into my eyes, that emerald-green depth shining under the water. “But right now... right now I just want you to be mine, with no one listening on the radio.”
He doesn't wait for a verbal answer; he silences me with an even more intense kiss, while his hands move to my waist, ready to eliminate any distance left between the engineer and her driver.
My piercing plays against his lips like a little secret of ours.
The kiss intensifies until there’s no oxygen left between us, becoming a hungry, desperate collision. Charles’s hands navigate my body like fire, leaving a trail of heat that burns as hot as our team's red cars under the Sunday sun. I feel my skin boiling, reaching the same unbearable temperature as the air radiating from the engines in the garage — a heat that consumes me from the inside out.
I, who am trained to stay cool under pressure, feel every one of my control gears failing. An irrational urge to do something crazy takes over; I want to press myself against him, to fuse my skin to his until we don’t know where one ends and the other begins. I feel every rigid muscle of Charles's body under the water, every detail of his anatomy pressing into mine with an urgency that no telemetry could have ever predicted.
He pins me against the cold marble of the shower, and the contrast makes me let out a raspy sound. My nails scratch his shoulders as I reach for more, wanting to feel the raw force he usually hides behind that prince-like posture. In here, in the steam, I’m not the calculating engineer and he’s not the disciplined driver; we’re just two bodies in combustion, about to cross every limit we’ve ever known.
Charles trails kisses down my neck, biting my skin with a possessiveness that makes me arch my back, while his hand slides down and grips my thigh, lifting me so I can feel the intensity of his desire against me. Control stays on the track; here, the only rule is absolute surrender.
The steam in the shower is already so thick we can barely see the marble walls, but I don’t need my eyes; every one of my senses is locked onto Charles’s touch. With a strength that blends urgency and the technical precision he usually only shows behind the wheel, he grabs my thigh and hoists my leg, hooking it around his waist.
The move leaves me completely open to him, and the contact of his wet skin against mine is like a short circuit. Charles takes advantage of every touch, every wild sensation our contact creates, moving his hips in a slow, agonizing way against mine. I feel every detail: the hardness of his abs, the insane heat radiating off him, and the way his heavy breath hits my neck, alternating between sighs and stifled sounds.
He runs his tongue along my collarbone while his free hand grips the back of my neck, forcing me to feel the full intensity of the moment. I’m melting, my tough engineer persona completely pulverized by this physical surrender.
But, in a rush of adrenaline, I claw back a trace of command.
I press my hands against his chest and, with one firm move, I shove him to the opposite side of the shower. Charles stumbles back, hitting the marble, surprised, his eyes darkened with desire and his chest heaving. I don’t give him time to process. I move in like someone retaking control of a lost race, pinning my body against his and starting a voracious, dominating kiss.
Now I’m the one setting the pace, my nails scratching his chest while my legs surround him, making him feel that even though he’s the driver, in that tiny space between the water and the marble, I’m the one in charge of the pressure.
The control I prize so much seems to evaporate along with the shower steam, turning into a boldness I rarely allow myself outside of this bubble. With Charles pinned against the wall, I back off just enough to see the effect I’m having on him. His green eyes are fixed on me, pupils blown, and his chest is rising and falling at a frequency I’d recognize on any telemetry graph as the absolute limit.
I don’t stop. I start to move down, my lips never losing contact with his skin. I kiss the trail of water running down his chest, feeling every heartbeat hammering against my mouth. Charles lets out a shaky sigh, his hands grabbing the metal wall support so hard his knuckles turn white.
I go down further, deliberate, feeling the texture of his abdominal muscles against my face. Water hits my back, but I only feel the heat coming off him. My kisses map the way, moving down his waistline, while my hands contour his hips, locking him there.
Finally, I drop to my knees on the wet floor.
I stay there, kneeling in front of him, under the constant sound of water hitting the marble. I look up for a split second, seeing Charles with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, the expression of someone completely losing the fight against his senses. Without looking away, I let my kisses trace the curve of his inner thigh before focusing all my attention on him, with an urgency I’m more than ready to satisfy.
In that moment, there is no engineering, no strategy, and the Chinese GP is just a distant memory. There’s only us and the absolute silence of someone who finally has total control of the situation.
Kneeling under the water that falls like a warm storm, I’m in no rush. Charles lets out a deep sound that vibrates in the humid air as soon as I wrap him in my attention. My eyes drift up for a moment, just to see the tension in his jaw; he looks like he’s struggling not to collapse right then and there.
My mouth explores him with a hunger I’ve been holding onto all weekend in the pits in China, and now, in the quiet of his home, every move I make is designed to push him to the edge, to make him forget every trace of discipline.
The difference is the cold metal of my hoop piercing right in the middle of my bottom lip. With every move, the ring brushes against his sensitive skin, creating an electric contrast between the heat of my mouth and the coldness of the jewelry. It’s an extra stimulus, a variable he can’t predict that leaves him breathless with every touch.
“Athena... mon dieu...” he gasps, his voice vanishing into the thick steam, his hands reaching for support against the marble walls as his knees seem to give out.
I feel his hands move down, fumbling and trembling, until they find my head. His fingers tangle tightly in my wet hair — not to pull me away, but to hold me there, dictating a rhythm that starts to get frantic. He’s no longer the composed driver from the interviews or Ferrari’s diplomatic “Prince”; he’s just a man being driven to madness by me.
I feel his pulse racing against my tongue, and the sound of his low moans, mixed with French curses, is the only feedback I need. I’m in total control of this sensory telemetry, moving with a boldness that leaves him completely unarmed. Charles pulls my hair a bit tighter, letting out a long breath when my piercing scrapes exactly where he feels it most, proving that between the two of us, precision engineering now serves only one purpose: our complete combustion.
His grip on my hair tightens as I intensify the touch, using my hands to squeeze his thighs as I work to give him everything he wants — and everything he didn't even know he needed. I feel his muscles twitch, his pulse pounding against my tongue. Charles throws his head back, hitting the marble lightly, totally at my mercy.
I relish the sound of his broken breathing, the sound of someone losing control of every turn, every sensor. Here, on the shower floor, I’m not the one giving orders over the radio; I’m the one driving him crazy, and I have no intention of stopping until he’s completely undone under my command.
His climax hits like an electric shock. Charles’s body locks up, his fingers burying into my hair with possessive strength while a long, raspy moan escapes his throat, getting lost in the noise of the water. I feel every throb, the total surrender of a man who just reached his absolute limit.
But the quiet only lasts a few seconds.
The adrenaline channeled from the last race seems to have transformed into an even more potent fuel. Before I can even catch my breath, Charles grabs my shoulders and hauls me off the floor with a raw agility. In one quick, fluid motion, he spins me around, pinning me face-first against the opposite wall. The icy marble against my chest contrasts violently with the heat of his body pressed against my back.
“I’m not done with you yet, Athena,” he whispers in my ear, his voice heavy with a dangerous urgency.
He doesn't give me time to process. His hand moves firmly down my thigh, lifting my leg and bending my knee, bracing it against the marble wall, forcing me to stand on only one foot while he tilts me forward. With his other hand, he grips my neck, keeping me pinned, vulnerable, and completely exposed.
I feel his touch, more impatient now. Without any warning, he slides two fingers inside me at once, a deep and steady thrust that makes me let out a sharp cry, the sound echoing off the glass walls. The fullness is immediate and intense, hitting the exact spot that makes the strength drain from my hands.
I’m arched, hands glued to the wet marble, while he moves his fingers inside me with an implacable cadence, setting a rhythm that makes me see stars. Charles is in total command now, using the same precision he uses to attack a curb on the track, but with a hunger that’s purely personal. I’m no longer the controlled engineer; I’m just the target of all the passion and pent-up frustration he’s been keeping secret for months.
The speed of Charles’s fingers is insane — a technical, fierce rhythm that mimics a motor at redline. He has zero hesitation left; the movements are fast, precise, and deep, creating a friction that sends my whole body into a short circuit. I feel every nerve respond to that relentless beat, a pressure rising up my spine like an electrical discharge.
“Charles... σε παρακαλώ...” I gasp, hands searching for any grip on the slick marble as my hips move involuntarily, trying to keep up with how fast he’s dominating me. (Charles… please…)
The pleasure comes like an explosion, a violent orgasm that makes me shake in his arms while his fingers maintain that frantic pace inside me, making sure I feel every wave of the peak. Before the trembling even passes, I turn to him, face flushed and eyes clouded by a desire that, instead of fading, seems to have caught more oxygen.
Our eyes meet for a split second — his challenge against my surrender.
Charles grabs me by the waist and lifts me off the floor with raw power, suspending me as if I weigh nothing. Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his hips, locking him against me. He pins me to the wall, the marble now warm from the steam, and silences me with a devastating kiss. It isn’t just a kiss; it’s a claim of ownership — hot, wet, and loaded with everything we hide in paddocks around the world.
As our tongues tangle with the same urgency as a fight for position, he gets into place. I feel the tip of him pressing against my entrance, hot and insistent. He breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, but doesn't pull away; instead, he uses his teeth to catch the small metal hoop in my bottom lip. He gives it a light tug, barely there, but enough to send a shock of adrenaline straight to my core, making me arch toward him.
The sensation of the metal being tugged by his teeth, while his hot breath hits my face, is the final blow to my sanity. As our tongues entwine again with that same frantic urgency, he readies himself. I feel him pressing, hot and insistent, claiming the space that already belongs to him.
Charles keeps his face millimeters from mine. His green eyes, now dark and heavy with a dangerous promise, lock onto mine. He brushes his lips against my piercing again, whispering against my mouth in a voice that is pure desire and authority:
“My engineer. Only mine.”
And then, he sinks into me all at once.
The thrust is so deep and decisive that I lose my breath. The fullness is absolute, a connection that goes far beyond the physical. He keeps me suspended, the weight of my body anchored in his, as he begins to move with a rhythmic force that sends the shower water splashing in every direction. Every one of his lunges is a reminder that, even though we’re far from the Shanghai track, the real race — the most dangerous and addictive one — is happening right here, between the two of us.
The pressure of Charles’s body against mine is crushing, and the impact of that first deep drive still echoes in every nerve of my body. He keeps me pinned against the wall, his large hands squeezing my thighs with a grip that will definitely leave marks, but I only find myself wanting him to squeeze even harder.
His pace is insane, a physical translation of the speed he lives for on the track. He moves inside me with a frantic cadence, each thrust sending my back rhythmically against the marble. The sound of water hitting the floor mixes with the sound of our bodies colliding—a constant, wet snap that only feeds the fire.
“Putain, Athena... tu es incroyable,” he growls against my neck, the French escaping in a voice I barely recognize, loaded with raw, unfiltered desire.
He starts alternating between stray kisses and hungry bites on my shoulder and the curve of my ear. These aren’t calculated kisses; they’re desperate attacks, as if he’s trying to devour me. My sounds come out high-pitched, lost in the steam, as I bury my nails into his broad shoulders, trying to anchor the hurricane he’s causing inside me.
“Charles, faster... don’t stop,” I beg, my voice vanishing into a sigh when he hits the exact spot.
“Tu me rends fou,” he answers with a low curse, eyes fixed on mine, now almost black with want.
He accelerates. The speed is relentless, a sequence of short, intense movements that make me lose any trace of sanity. My moans become disconnected, a mix of pleasure and a delicious agony. I feel the heat of his abdomen against mine, the sweat and water making everything slippery and even more intense.
Charles is completely out of his mind. The “Prince” gives way to something raw and starving. He lets out French words every time I tighten my legs around his waist, egging him to go deeper. Control — something we both prize so much in our careers — is now a dead concept.
My head falls back, hitting the wall lightly, as I feel the peak coming like a giant wave. He gives me no quarter; his hands move up from my thighs to my body, squeezing me while maintaining that overwhelming rhythm. We’re in freefall, ten thousand RPMs deep, on a track where the only flag allowed is total surrender.
The tension in the shower hits critical mass, that moment where the telemetry indicates everything is about to explode. I feel Charles’s muscles tighten to the extreme, the veins in his neck bulging as he guns for that last drop of speed. My nails are dug into his back, marking his wet skin, as I feel every one of his pulses echoing inside my chest.
“Je vais... Athena, maintenant!” he gasps, his voice breaking in a French heavy with urgency.
He presses me against the wall with one final, almost crushing force, and starts a sequence so fast and deep that the world around us simply vanishes. The internal heat becomes unbearable, a voltage running through my body from my hips to my fingertips.
And then, the impact.
We both collapse at the same time. It’s a chain-reaction crash, a violent orgasm that hits us with the force of a high-speed collision. I let out a muffled scream against his shoulder as I feel the rhythmic contractions take over, and Charles lets out a low roar, burying his face in my neck as he unloads everything into me.
Our legs shake uncontrollably. He loses all his strength, the arms that kept me suspended falter, and we’re anchored by the wall, still joined, still trembling.
The silence that follows is filled only by the sound of the water still falling over us and our staggered, heavy, shared breathing. Charles wraps me in an exhausted hug, his head resting on my shoulder, while his body still shivers slightly against mine. In that little bubble of marble and steam in Monaco, the engineer and the driver no longer exist; we’re just two survivors of a storm we caused in each other.
As the steam begins to clear in his Monaco penthouse bathroom, the sound of the water hitting the floor seems calmer, matching the rhythm of our hearts finally slowing down. Charles keeps me held close, but suddenly lets out a low laugh — a vibration I feel against my chest.
I pull back a little, wiping the water from my face and looking into those green eyes that are now shining with genuine amusement.
“What? Why are you laughing?” I ask, curious about the sudden shift in mood.
“It’s just that none of this went how I planned it in my head,” he confesses, shaking his head and running a hand through his soaked hair. “Love, I had a whole script. I was going to get here, take you to dinner at that restaurant you love, make the official 'boyfriend' request so the whole world would know once and for all... and only then would we celebrate.”
He lets out another short laugh, cupping my face with his damp hands.
“Just so you know, there’s a diamond ring lost somewhere inside my suitcase. But we barely get through the door and I already lose all control.”
I smile, feeling my heart warm up. The "planning" Charles, the man who wants everything to be perfect, is just as captivating as the bold driver.
“I can’t take the secrets anymore, Athena. I want to tell the world how much I love you and screw the rest. The paddock, the newspapers, the theories... screw them all,” he says, his voice rising with a determination I rarely see outside the car. “I want to be able to hold your hand in front of everyone.”
He takes a deep breath, turning suddenly serious, the shower water still running between us.
“So, let’s skip the dinner for now. Athenas, will you be my girlfriend? For real now—no secrets, no hiding from anyone, from here to wherever we decide to go?”
I stop for a second. As an engineer, my mind travels through all the possibilities: the headlines, the team pressure, the gossip in the pits of every GP. It would be a logistical and professional mess. But looking at him there, vulnerable and certain in the middle of our shower, all the technical variables seem irrelevant compared to what we feel.
“I’m already your girlfriend, you idiot. But yes,” I say, feeling a huge weight lift off my shoulders. “Yes, Charles. A thousand times yes.”
He flashes a radiant smile — the kind he saves for the hardest-fought victories — and pulls me into a kiss that, this time, doesn't have the urgency of a secret, but the promise of a future the whole world is about to meet.
━━━ ✦ ━━━
✦ note: next imagine will be Carlando
