Gridlocked Hearts

XIV

Monte Carlo, the sparkling gem of the French Riviera, bathed in the soft, warm embrace of the Mediterranean sun. Its cerulean waters were studded with opulent yachts, each gleaming in the shimmering light as if adorned by a thousand diamonds; the wind gently swaying them on calm ocean tides. Each owned by a man who made his money in oil, arms, or worse.

Along the grand esplanade, a fleet of the world's most exotic cars, each a roaring symphony of wealth, lined the boulevard. Sleek, low-slung sports cars purred like tamed panthers, their flawless exteriors reflecting the glint of Monaco's high-end boutiques. Convertibles flaunted their open roofs, inviting the world to gaze upon their well-heeled occupants. Monaco's winding streets, a picturesque maze of riches, were a common sight for the footsteps of the elite and the well-dressed. Elegant women in couture gowns and towering stilettos strolled arm in arm with impeccably dressed men. Their laughter and clinking champagne glasses were the prelude to a week of indulgence and a weekend of racing.

The track was full of marshals and race organisers getting everything ready for the biggest event on the French Riviera's calendar. There was no race quite like the Monaco Grand Prix. The history, the wealth, the glitz, the glamour—it was the crown jewel of the racing world. A race that every driver would do anything to win. It needed skill, concentration, precision.

Unfortunately for Claude Beaufort, he was very distracted in that moment. Pinned up against the sink was Matteo, eyes fluttering shut as the driver attacked his neck in a frenzy.

"Oh fuck, Claude. That feels so good," the Scandinavian gasped, and Claude smirked.

"You like that?" he whispered, as he grabbed his blonde hair and tugged hard. An animalistic groan escaped Matteo's lips and he gasped again, louder and breathier than before. Seeing the man come undone before him turned Claude on in a way that he couldn't even describe. The way the man was limp beneath him, whining and panting, made the Frenchman pull his hair even harder.

"Yes, fuck, oh my god. I need more racing drivers to fuck me because holy shit," Claude smirked as he watched the usually put-together model melt under his grip. He loved watching his pretty blue eyes roll back as...

DING DING DING

The two jumped apart at the sound of a phone alarm going off.

"Oh fuck. I need to hop onto a meeting with Gucci before the interview. I'll see you in 20 minutes, okay?" Matteo gave Claude a quick peck on the lips before running out of the bathroom.

The driver swallowed and straightened his shirt. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and sighed. He looked flushed, and his hair was all over the place. He did his best to fix it, but to no avail. He groaned internally and walked out of the bathroom, hoping no one would comment or notice the fact that he looked like he had been having sex 10 minutes ago.

As he walked into the Ferrari motorhome, he quickly realised that was not going to happen.

His English teammate stood casually leaning against a doorway, the late afternoon sunlight of the French Riviera bouncing off his blonde hair, making it gleam as if it had been kissed by the sun itself. Noah raised a brow at Claude as he emerged from the shadows, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of the man's dishevelled appearance. "Damn, Beaufort? You stressed?"

Claude frowned, attempting to smooth his dishevelled hair once more. "What do you mean?"

"Your hair? It looks like you've been tugging on it."

"Oh yeah. I—" Claude stammered, heat creeping up his neck as he fumbled with his hair again, trying his hardest to suppress the rising embarrassment. His fingers fidgeted awkwardly, tugging the strands into more chaos.