Page 69 of Tipping Point

When I went there, I had thought that I could fuck her. I had fought an erection at the prospect of sinking my fingers into her upper arms, drawing her over me, lowering her down over the length of me, buried deep. I would have watched her ride me, the flesh on her stomach undulating as she worked her hips backwards and forwards, her breasts swaying along. I would have placed my hands on her hips, measured her rhythm so that it lasted a long fucking time and then I would have left her, with reckless abandon to ride me out to a furious climax and I would have gripped her thighs and pulled her into me, so that when she came, I could feel her clench around me deep inside her, and then I would have fucking kept her there until she collapsed on top of me so that I could roll her under me and start all over again.

That had been the idea.

Somewhere in the half an hour I had spent there, things had changed.

She asked me if my passion for racing had returned, and why, and I had told her it was her.

But the lie changed everything.

I had abandoned the idea then. But then the book, with the empty photograph, and how she had told me, plain and true, that she thought I was remarkable.

I had lost control there. It made me feel like a king, how she saw me. I had to taste her. When she reached between us to undo my jeans, I had wrestled with the thought that she was in control and, technically, she would be fucking me.

I could practically feel her fingers running over the silky head of my dick.

Had to draw her hands away there, because if she touched me like that I’d have fucked her for sure and then I would have lied to her too, and then I would have fucking hated myself more than I ever have.

And today, at the track, when I skidded out, in that millisecond before I hit the barrier, I felt the fear, the terror.

I heard she was back.

It wouldn’t be long, because Dixon would be back soon, and I wouldn’t have to fucking look at her.

I have an image of her here, in the water, with her legs wrapped around me, head thrown back in ecstasy, her breasts pressed against me. I’d run her nipples along my jaw and when I take them into my mouth and taste the salt of the ocean on them, I’d bite down softly and have her hurt the way I hurt for her, and I’d carry her out and lay her down on the beach because I want her pressed up against something that would keep her close so that I could bury myself inside her and wrap a hand around her throat to feel her thrum when she comes.

* * *

CAMILLE

Italy in September is breathtaking. We’re in Faenza, in the Emilia-Romagna region.

I’m sitting at a street-side cafe, bathed in golden light from the setting sun. Around me people are chatting away over wine and food, and I watch a small child feed the pigeons on the piazza that stretches away before me, her mother handing her pieces of bread from a loaf that she tears apart. The Renaissance architecture makes a stunning backdrop for a small fresh food market across the plain and I watch people haggle for fresh cheese, bread, pasta, and cured meat.

When my coffee is finished I intend to walk over and grab some for myself. My mouth waters.

Turns out Italy is a pretty popular place for Grande Prima drivers. We have spent every day here at a different driver slash team principal’s house.

Except one.

Finn lives here. We’re due to film him Monday, the day after the race.

Ridiculously, I had hoped that Dixon would be back by now and I’d get to skip it altogether.

Since I figured out that he won’t get involved with women on a meaningful level to spare them pain, I am furious. Who does he think he is taking away someone’s choice? Surely it’s my own choice whether to get involved with him or not. I know the risk.

I had spent time with the wives and girlfriends and satisfied that curiosity within me.

But then that crash in the Netherlands. The short seconds after the car hit the barrier, flames everywhere. Until the moment he jumped out, unharmed, my mind had filled in a thousand horrors. The fear I had felt for him then.

Suddenly, I’m not so sure anymore at all.

But a thought is nagging away at me. It’s been in the back of my head for a while now.

This is his last year of racing.

I shudder and grab my backpack, leaving some money on the table to cover my bill.

When I take a slow walk over the piazza towards the market, my phone vibrates.