August 16 [c.l & p.g]

𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

┌────────────┐
can't find a way from
your loverboy
but you decide the loverboy
└────────────┘

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬 ˖*°࿐

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝟏𝟖𝐭𝐡.

The metal cage thrums around me, and the plane is undergoing so much turbulence I may as well be in one of those massage chairs in the middle of a shopping centre. Pair that with my wild imagination and a night in Milan that won't leave my thoughts, it's been a rather restless start to the season.

For two months my focus has been on the grid. It has to be. On track it's me, the car, and thousands of people putting their faith in me to perform. At times, of course, the pressure is overwhelming, and it feels as though I have the weight of an entire country on my shoulders. But I don't crack.

After all, diamonds are made under pressure.

I cannot let thoughts of Pierre and how his facial hair would feel gliding across my body infiltrate my focus. But I have nothing to distract me from that dangerous corner of my mind. My eyes have been glaring at the words on my book for what feels like hours; I haven't turned the page once.

I risk a glance over the top of my page.

Pierre is laid back with an eye mask covering half of his face. His recently moisturised lips are parted slightly as he breaths softly. I watch his chest rise and fall with keen observation.

It's just us in this private jet.

In these past two months I've moved on from my 'what the fuck is wrong with me' self loathing, into a reluctant acceptance that I want this man to ruin me in any way possible. He could break my heart and I might just thank him for putting the traitorous organ to rest.

I'm desperately aching to get my hands on him and just sate these carnal desires.

"I can feel you watching me Charles," Pierre peels one half of his eye mask up, wearing a wicked smile. "I know I'm handsome, but even I need my beauty rest."

He drops his eye mask back into place and snuggles himself further into the leather seat.

"Will you stop glaring, it's unsettling," he shifts, rearranging himself to find comfort.

"I'm not glaring," I contest.

"You are," he answers matter of factly. He rips the eye mask off and throws it somewhere behind him.

Just as I'm about to scold him and tell him to pick it up, he leans forward with his elbows on his knees. With him, he steals all oxygen and I'm utterly breathless as the distance between us shortens.

"Careful Charles," he brushes his thumb between the crease in my brow, "Scowl too much and your face will get stuck like that permanently. Though I don't think Lovelle will complain too much, it gives you this devilishly handsome, villainous aura. Don't women find that hot?"

My tongue feels like its been blown up like a balloon.

What the fuck do I say to that?

Pierre's been making comments like that more and more often lately. I have no idea what to make of it. And every time he does, he brings Lovelle into the conversation. It's like he's reminding me of what ties us together.

Like I don't already know.

In case he doesn't know, I'm entirely aware that Lovelle is why we've found ourselves in this predicament.