Throttled: Dirty Air (Book 1)(26)
I don’t like interviews that aren’t mandatory. But fuck it, if it helps her get new followers, I can go along with it.
A megawatt smile breaks out across my face. I lie and tell myself I do it for the fans, but my dick and I both know what’s up.
“A real vlogger shouldn’t be biased,” I grumble.
Her soft and breathy laugh makes the tripod shake, and damn if it isn’t the best sound I’ll hear all day. What other noises can I get her to do between the two of us?
Get your head out of the pit lane, Noah.
“More on that later, everyone. So, Noah.” My stiff cock stands to attention at the way my name rolls off her tongue, sultry and lulling on the vowels. I shift my feet subtly to ease the ache.
I would love to hear her repeat my name under different circumstances. Behind closed doors, where no one can hear us, preferably without clothes on.
What a sick joke on me where I crave attention from the one girl I want but can’t have. And even worse, she remains oblivious. I want to spend more time around her and suck up her happiness like the goddamn black hole I am.
Maya resumes, unaware of my inner conflict. “Would you want to give the fans a tour of your own car?” She bats her eyelashes, laying the charm on real thick. Her brown eyes gleam up at me. Damn, who the fuck could resist looks like that?
“Sure, fuck it. Why not.”
Nice, Noah. Cursing on camera.
Her head bobs with excitement at my agreement. Knowing her, she’s resisting clapping her hands because of the camera.
We walk over to my car. Engineers take the cover off to give me easy cockpit access. My hand drags across the front of the car, giving the hood extra attention. Maya’s eyes darken as she focuses on my hands. Further evidence that she is affected by me too, proving our attraction is not one-sided. My brain logs this information for another time.
If she wasn’t Santi’s sister, I would invite her back to my hotel room and show her a good time, help her give into temptation. But since she is, I have to be respectful. Not typically my status quo.
I do it for the good of the team of course.
“Care to share with viewers what it’s like behind the wheel?” Her lips tip upward.
I nudge a pit crew attendant. “Hey, can you grab my steering wheel? Please.” He hurries away at my request.
“While we wait, I’ll give fans a tour. New watchers of the sport don’t know how we F1 drivers are practically lying down inside the car. Sometimes it’s even hard to see over our steering wheels. Makes turns more difficult if you can imagine.” I casually lean against the car.
Maya’s bright smile encourages me to keep going.
“Depending on the type of damage we sustain during the race, the pit crew may have the spare part needed to fix it. Here’s the wheel now.” Maya steps into me, angling the camera to get a good shot. I inhale the fresh floral scent of her perfume, a recognizably addicting smell.
I explain the mechanism and buttons on the wheel. Bandini likes to keep tight-lipped about our technology, so I withhold spilling any trade secrets. Maya nods along while paying attention to everything I say. Her head bobs, and small smiles make my heart clench—a new sensation that spreads through my chest, unlike any feeling from winning a race.
I wrap up my explanations. She flips the camera screen up and turns the tripod toward the two of us. Her body presses against my side as she tries to get us both in the frame, distracting me with the contact of her skin.
I shake my head at her attempt to film us together with her short arms. The camera cuts off part of my head, prompting me to grab the tripod and fix the angle to fit us in the frame. Her intoxicating scent washes over me again. The smell of her turns me on, like fucked-up pheromones drawing me in, showing how screwed I am.
“And that’s what it’s like behind a driver’s steering wheel. Next week I’ll be meeting up with the pit crew as they tackle the Russian Grand Prix.”
I smile down at her. Her enthusiasm about her vlogging rubs off on me, uncharacteristically agreeing to this segment despite my usual distaste for these kinds of things. Not to mention how I check out her Instagram daily since she approved my request. My dirty little secret.
I lie to myself about how I don’t want to miss out on her vlogs when I appear in them. But I have a hard time convincing myself when I check out her travel videos too, curious about what she does during her free time away from the racetrack.
“Any last words you want to share with Bandini fans?” She nudges me with her elbow.
“Tune in next week to see me kick Santiago’s ass.” I smile at the camera.
She laughs and elbows me harder this time, the tiny bone barely making a dent.
“Spoken like the conceited athlete we all know. See you next time.” She waves goodbye to the camera and shuts it off. I take in one last breath of her addicting smell before she pulls away, the heat of her body gone.
Yup. I’m a sick motherfucker.
“Thanks for doing that. I wasn’t sure if you would, to be honest.” She tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear.
Her nervousness comes back in full force, guilt tugging at the few heartstrings I have left. I can’t help being an asshole.
“No problem. Can’t have you only showing Santiago’s side of things. It’s good PR for the company anyway.” Right. I have trouble believing my own lie despite how easily it flows off my tongue.