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The sun had dipped below the edge of the grandstand hours ago, but the air over Daytona still shimmered like heat off an engine block. Night racing turned everything feral—halogen lights cutting through smoke, tires screaming against asphalt, the whole world reduced to velocity and instinct. The roar of 120,000 spectators wasn’t background noise; it was blood in the veins.
And Bradley Bradshaw was bleeding pressure.
He kept one gloved hand steady on the wheel as he slingshot out of Turn 2, eyes flicking to the side mirrors. Nothing. No one. Then again—he didn’t need to see him to feel him.
Bradley could feel him in the twitch of the steering column, in the heat rising off the tarmac, in the cold twist of his gut. Jake always waited until the last ten laps to strike, like a vulture circling a dying animal. Flashy. Stupid. Sometimes genius.
Bradley preferred math to miracles.
“Delta is clean. No change behind you,” came Natasha’s voice—Phoenix, his race engineer. Calm. Reliable. “Fuel load optimal. DRS is live for Seresin in Sector Three. Watch your exit on Four.”
“I’ve got it,” Bradley said, voice clipped and low. “He’s not getting past me.”
But he heard it then—the low snarl of another car, too close for comfort.
Then he saw him.
Jake came into his mirrors like a goddamn ghost. That venom-green ViperTech car looked like it was forged in hell and tuned in a church. Seresin’s signature move: wait, wait, wait… then throw himself into a suicidal line and make it stick.
Bradley’s grip tightened.
Jake wasn’t just close. He was hunting.
Lap 52 of 55.
The race had started clean—hot laps, a smooth overtake in Sector One, Bradley pushing early to get out of dirty air. Jake had hung back in third, letting the chaos between positions 2 through 6 clear out while he waited like a snake in the grass.
Classic.
Jake Seresin was back there. Somewhere.
Everyone talked about Jake like he was just flair, all showboating and media smiles. They forgot how smart he was underneath the smirk. That’s what Bradley hated most. Jake knew what people thought of him, and he used it like a weapon.
Bradley’s team, Redline Racing, had been running simulations all week. According to the data, Jake shouldn’t be able to sustain this pace—his tires were four laps older, and he’d been taking aggressive corners since Lap 30.
But he was still there.
Still gaining.
Still him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing one hell of a showdown between Bradshaw and Seresin tonight,” said Mick Delano, the retired legend turned race analyst.
“Bradshaw’s running the tighter line, but Seresin’s picking up time on the straights,” said June Park, his co-commentator. “Lap 53 and the gap’s down to half a second.”
“Classic rivalry, this one,” Mick chuckled. “These boys have been at each other’s throats since Formula Three.”
“They’ve both matured into very different drivers.”
“Right—and I’ll say this: if Seresin gets DRS coming into Turn Four, Bradshaw’s gonna have to defend like his life depends on it. Because Seresin? He doesn’t ask for space. He takes."
Bradley could see Jake now—not just in his mirrors, but side-by-side for a breath of a second, during one of the tightest corners on the track. The bastard was practically brushing his sidepod, pushing the envelope on contact limits.
“Stay clean,” Phoenix said in his ear. “Let him wear his tires. He’ll fold.”
“I know,” Bradley hissed, “but he’s trying to bait me.”
And he was.
Jake’s style had always been part-psychological warfare. He wanted Bradley to overreact. Wanted him to brake late, miss a line, lose his head.
But Bradley had learned long ago not to give Jake what he wanted.
Mostly.
He downshifted early, forced Jake wide, and kept the inside line tight through Turn Nine. The maneuver would cost him milliseconds, but it bought him position. Safe. Smart.
And then—on the final corner—Jake did it.
A slingshot maneuver. Like he’d been saving just enough battery charge to dump it all in the straight. Bradley saw the flash of green and white cut across his peripheral vision, screaming down the outside.
No room.
No fucking room.
And yet—he made it.
The checkered flag waved.
The crowd erupted.
0.132 seconds. That’s what it came down to.
Jake “Hangman” Seresin took the win.
Bradley crossed second.
By the time his tires screeched to a halt in the pit lane, he could feel every cell in his body vibrating with rage. With frustration. With… something else he didn’t want to name.
His helmet came off. The humid air hit like a wall. His curls clung to his forehead, soaked. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stared across the pit lane.
Jake was standing on his car, arms lifted like a champion boxer, basking in the cheers like he’d earned every decibel.
Bradley hated him. God, he hated him.
And God help him, he couldn’t stop looking.
The engines were still cooling, but the track was on fire.
Daytona under lights was really something else — slick asphalt gleaming beneath the floodlights, smoke rising off tires like steam from the devil’s skin. The roar of the crowd hadn’t died down yet, and inside the pit lane, it was bedlam. Mechanics buzzed, media vultures circled, and the scent of rubber, sweat, and gasoline hung thick in the Florida night.
Jake Seresin peeled off his gloves slowly, deliberately, savoring every stretch of synthetic fabric from his fingers. His blond hair was damp, curling just at the nape from sweat, and the moment his helmet came off, the cameras were on him.
His smile hit like the flash of a flare. Confident. Polished. Infuriating.
The No. 13 car — a venom-green machine tuned to absolute hell — still vibrated faintly in its spot behind him, its carbon fiber body streaked with grime and glory. Seresin’s win had been a photo finish: just 0.132 seconds ahead of Bradshaw. A slingshot pass on the final straight that skirted the edge of clean racing.
Skirted it hard.
“Jake! Jake!” A cluster of reporters pushed forward. He gave a quick tug at the collar of his fireproof suit and turned toward them, relaxed, radiant with victory.
He always played the camera like it owed him money.
“Hell of a finish, Seresin,” one of the commentators called out — Mick Delano, a grizzled former driver with a voice like gravel and bourbon. “That move on the straight — some are calling it reckless.”
Jake tilted his head and flashed a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Some people just aren’t built for the final lap,” he said smoothly, brushing a fleck of sweat from his brow. “I am.”
Across the pit lane, Bradley Bradshaw watched from behind his tinted visor, jaw tight.
Rooster didn’t move right away. He sat in the cockpit of his red-and-black No. 49, helmet still on, gloves clenched on the wheel. The team swarmed around him — mechanics checking vitals, his engineer yelling something through the comms he wasn’t listening to.
His heart pounded louder than the cheers.
He’d had him. He knew it. That whole race — controlled, paced, methodical. He’d been managing tire wear like a damn computer. He’d held P1 for 31 laps. And then Jake, of course it had to be Jake, came blazing through with that dirty, brilliant, bullshit-fast exit off Turn 4 and stole the win like it belonged to him.
Which it fucking didn’t.
Bradley yanked off his helmet and tossed it to the seat beside him. The moment the night air hit his face, sweat streaked down his temples. He ran a hand through his soaked curls, barely registering the PR girl — Cassie — trying to wave him over for press.
“Don’t,” he muttered. “Not yet.”
On the other side of the media tent, Jake was basking in the glow of his interview — sunglasses already on, the sheen of sweat somehow working in his favor. Standing behind him were the key pieces of Team ViperTech: his race engineer Callie Basset, data strategist Javy Matchado, and pit crew chief Ron Kerner, all of them pumping fists and trading smirks.
“This makes three in a row,” Halo said in his ear, voice clipped with the efficient pride of someone who preferred results to words. “You keep this up, and you’re championship-bound.”
Jake didn’t say anything. He knew it. He’d known it before this race started.
Instead, his eyes scanned the chaos of the paddock, until they landed — dead center — on Bradshaw.
Helmet off. Suit halfway peeled down. A glare sharp enough to cut.
Jake’s smile faltered for half a second.
He’s still pretty, Jake thought, and immediately hated that he did.
“Jesus, Mick. Did you see that pass?”
“See it? I damn near felt it. Seresin pulled a move from the ‘70s playbook — late apex, dirty air, and no margin for error. I wouldn’t recommend it unless you’ve got brass balls and a death wish.”
“And Bradshaw?”
“He’s furious. You can see it from here. Guy’s known for playing clean and running long strategies. Seresin cuts corners, literally and metaphorically.”
“You think they’ll clash in the standings?”
“They’ve been clashing since they were rookies. You ask me? That rivalry’s been personal for years.”
Bradley didn’t remember a time when Jake Seresin wasn’t in his way.
They’d come up in the same junior circuit — Jake all Texas charm and talent, Bradley the methodical legacy kid with something to prove. They were both too good too young, and the racing world loved nothing more than pitting golden boys against each other.
Even in karting, Jake had raced like a daredevil. It was never just about winning — it was about how. Fastest lap, most overtakes, wildest finish.
Bradley? He was steady. Controlled. He won with calculation, not chaos.
They were opposites — which meant, of course, that they hated each other instantly.
And yet, there had been moments. Near-collisions. Tight turns that left tire marks and half-buried glances. Interviews where they stood too close, spoke too sharp. An awards gala two years ago, where they’d nearly fought. Or kissed.
Bradley still wasn’t sure.
He watched now as Jake’s team circled him like a halo, reporters laughing at something he said.
And Jake — that bastard — lifted his sunglasses, just long enough to make eye contact with him across the paddock.
One look. One smirk. One moment too long.
And Bradley looked away first.
The media corral was a shark tank in chrome and concrete.
Press badges glinted under the halogen paddock lights. Cameras were already rolling before the drivers even stepped off the cooling pads. Everyone was hungry — for controversy, for quotes, for blood.
Bradley Bradshaw stood stiff-backed against the sponsor wall, still in his half-zipped suit. Redline Racing’s bold black-and-scarlet logo screamed off his chest. The heat of the track still clung to his skin, and the adrenaline hadn’t faded. Not really.
He wiped a hand across the back of his neck and scanned the crowd in front of him, jaw set like concrete. Flashes lit up every few seconds, and someone shoved a mic closer.
“Bradshaw,” came the first question — a guy from Motorsport Global, fast-talking and hungry. “Second place tonight. That last-lap overtake by Seresin — what happened out there?”
Bradley didn’t blink. “He had a better exit coming out of Four.”
“Seemed like a late move. Unsafe, some are saying.”
“It was… aggressive,” Bradley admitted, eyes flicking toward the next pen over — where Seresin was already laughing with the press, sunglasses on, body language loose as a housecat. “But that’s Jake. He doesn’t drive to manage the car. He drives to be seen.”
The reporters leaned in, sensing blood in the water.
“Are you saying it was reckless?”
“I’m saying I’d rather finish second than throw a car at the wall just to cross the line sideways.”
Jake leaned back on the barrier like he belonged there, arms crossed, one thumb lazily hooked into the waistband of his suit. He hadn’t even unzipped it fully — just enough to let the fireproof undershirt cling to his chest, sweat blooming in perfect symmetry.
He looked like a sponsored sin.
A dozen reporters surrounded him, laughing at something he said.
“…Tires were gone by Lap 47, but I knew I could take him on the final sector if I carried the momentum through the esses,” Jake said, voice smooth as Tennessee whiskey.
“Bradley’s fast. Real fast. But he drives like a calculator.”
“You calling yourself the better racer, Jake?”
“Did I say that?” Jake shot them a grin. “I just think winning tends to speak louder than hypotheticals.”
The press chuckled. A few phones rose to record.
“You looked pretty confident in the cooldown lap.”
“I looked confident because I am confident.” A shrug. “You’ve got to be. In this sport, hesitation’s the same as waving a white flag.”
A few heads turned toward Bradshaw’s pen, where his answer had clearly struck a different tone. The contrast was stark — and exactly what the media wanted.
By the time the top three drivers were gathered for the joint presser, the tension was a live wire.
Jake flanked the center seat, legs sprawled, hands resting on the table like a man with nothing to hide. Bradley sat to his right, shoulders squared, posture controlled down to the breath. His eyes didn’t stray.
Not to Jake’s hands.
Not to the sweat-darkened collar of his undershirt.
Not to the flash of his grin.
The third-place finisher — a Swiss driver named Marc-Emil Voss, polite and neutral as always — fielded the first question, but it didn’t take long for the spotlight to shift.
“To both of you,” a reporter asked, “how would you describe your rivalry going into the back half of the season?”
Jake smirked. “I’d call it entertaining.”
Bradley paused. “I’d call it professional.”
Jake turned his head slightly. “You don’t sound like you’re having much fun.”
“I’m not here to have fun.”
“Yeah,” Jake drawled. “That’s your whole deal, isn’t it?”
Bradley turned toward him — slow, sharp, the way you turn toward someone who’s just hit a nerve with surgical precision. For a heartbeat, there was nothing between them but heat and air.
Then: “My deal,” Bradley said, evenly, “is finishing races clean and pushing the team to the top of the constructor standings. If yours is showboating for the cameras, then congrats — mission accomplished.”
Jake gave a small, thoughtful tilt of the head. “Didn’t know driving fast was considered showboating now.”
“Didn’t know driving with no regard for anyone else was considered skill.”
The moderator cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, please—”
The press lapped it up. The tension. The clash. The sparks flying right there on camera.
Bradley kept his eyes locked forward after that. Didn’t look at Jake again for the rest of the session.
But Jake?
Jake glanced at him often. Quick, deliberate looks. Measuring. Waiting. Like he was remembering something he wasn’t supposed to want again.
The press conference dissolved in a flurry of mic clicks and retreating camera crews. Drivers filed out one by one. Jake lingered — just long enough to watch Bradley sweep past him, all sharp lines and bitten-back fury.
Jake waited until he was close.
“Hell of a race,” he said quietly, like it was an afterthought. Bradley didn’t look at him. “You got lucky.” Jake chuckled. “I got you,” Jake replied. And for a second — just a breath — Bradley slowed.
Then he walked off.
Jake watched him go, and for once, he didn’t smirk.
-
The afterparty was held in a rooftop lounge above one of Daytona’s luxury hotels, the kind of place with glass walls and a curated guest list. The kind of party Bradley hated. He didn’t do well in crowds without a helmet on. Off the track, people talked too much. Smiled too hard. Drank too freely.
Worse: they looked at him like they knew him. Like whatever the press printed or whatever Jake Seresin smirked through a microphone was the truth.
Bradley straightened the cuffs of his black button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to feel like he had room to breathe. No tie. No flash. Just clean lines and a brooding presence. Redline Racing liked to send him to these things to “represent the team.” He didn’t realize Jake would be here too.
Or that he’d look like that.
Bass pulsed low and slow through the floor as Bradley stepped into the lounge. Champagne glasses clinked like distant rainfall. The lighting was moody, casting long gold shadows and turning polished concrete into something decadent. Jake stood across the room near the bar, a glass of whiskey in hand and a cluster of sponsor reps laughing around him like moths to flame.
He was wearing a dark green blazer over a black silk shirt, unbuttoned just far enough to hint at skin. No tie. Slacks that fit too well — snug around the hips, tailored clean down the leg.
And his ass.
Bradley didn’t even want to think the word, let alone linger on it — but goddamn. The pants framed him like a work of art. It wasn’t fair. No one should be allowed to look that casual and that dangerous at the same time.
He looked expensive. And infuriating.
And, Bradley realized, he hadn’t stopped looking. Jake caught his stare like it was a baton tossed mid-race. Their eyes locked across the party, just for a beat. Just long enough. Jake raised his glass in a lazy, mocking salute. A slow grin tugged at his mouth — the same one he wore on podiums and in press rooms. The one that said, I know I’m in your head.
Bradley rolled his jaw and turned toward the bar.
Of course Jake would come to this thing looking like a walking GQ spread and acting like the goddamn prince of motorsport. Of course he’d already be holding court with fans and reps and sponsors, soaking it in like he hadn’t just risked two cars on the final turn.
Bradley reached the bar, ordered something neat — no garnish, no bullshit — and pretended not to feel Jake’s presence like heat on the back of his neck.
Ten minutes passed.
Jake came to him. “You clean up nice,” He said, appearing beside him with the smoothness of someone who wanted to start trouble. Bradley didn’t look at him right away. “Didn’t realize this was a competition.” Jake sipped his drink. “Everything’s a competition, Bradshaw.”
Bradley turned just enough to glance at him. Up close, the outfit was worse. The shirt was fitted across his chest, catching in just the right places. The pants — those fucking pants — did something devastating to physics. Bradley cleared his throat. “You here to gloat?” Jake tilted his head. “No need. Already did that on camera.” Bradley’s mouth twitched. “Of course.”
There was a pause — longer than polite. Charged.
Jake leaned in a little, shoulder nearly brushing his. “Didn’t expect you to show.” Bradley felt his shoulders slightly tense up. “Obligations.” He took a slow sip. “Team likes a face at the party. “Mm.” Jake’s voice dropped, smooth and low. “They picked a good one.” That made Bradley pause — not long, just enough for Jake to see the way his throat moved when he swallowed. “I know what you’re doing,” Bradley muttered. “Do you?”
Jake’s smile was sharper now, something private curling behind his lips. He wasn’t even pretending this wasn’t a game. He never did. He lived for pressure. For provocation. For proximity.
Bradley turned to face him fully, arms crossed, drink still in hand.
“You think just because you won, you get to play this game with me.”
Jake leaned closer — not enough to crowd, but enough that Bradley had to hold his breath. “I don’t need to win to play with you, Bradshaw.”
Another pause. A longer one.
Bradley felt something claw up his spine — hot and alive and unwelcome.
Jake didn’t look away.
And suddenly, neither did he.
The party blurred. The lights, the music, the crowd — all of it faded into background noise. All Bradley could hear was Jake’s voice, slick and smug, dripping with amusement like he was sipping it straight from Bradley’s reactions. “You always scowl like that when you’re turned on,” Jake murmured. Bradley blinked once. Slowly. Then set his drink down with the kind of deliberate precision that meant: I’m done pretending this doesn’t exist. Jake raised an eyebrow, grinning like he’d just won another race. “Oh?”
Bradley didn’t say anything.
He grabbed Jake by the wrist — not roughly, but firmly. Like he’d made a decision and wasn’t about to entertain any bullshit about it.
Jake’s smile widened.
“Touchy tonight,” he said lightly, letting himself be pulled.
“Shut up,” Bradley muttered, already walking.
“I would,” Jake said, easily keeping pace, “but you’re walking like a man on a mission. I’d hate to miss the briefing.”
Bradley didn’t answer. Not with words.
He cut through the crowd, not caring if anyone saw. Not caring if someone whispered about Redline’s golden boy dragging ViperTech’s wildcard toward the elevators like a storm system coming ashore.
Jake didn’t resist. Of course he didn’t. He followed like he’d been waiting for this. His voice followed, too.
“So which one is it?” he asked, sounding far too pleased. “You hate me, or you want me?”
The elevator dinged. Bradley pressed the button with a little too much force.
Jake leaned in, just behind him. His breath ghosted against Bradley’s neck.
“Or do you hate that you want me?”
Bradley turned just enough to look at him — eyes burning, jaw clenched.
“I hate that you talk so much.”
“I talk just enough,” Jake said, smug as hell. “You just haven’t figured out what to do with my mouth yet.”
The elevator doors slid shut.
Bradley hit the button for his floor. Then backed Jake into the wall.
Jake didn’t flinch. He looked up at Bradley like this was a private podium — and he’d already won.
They made it to the hallway in tense, heated silence, footsteps muffled by carpet and tension thick between them. The hum of the overhead lights. The dull throb of the party music behind closed doors.
Jake was still grinning when Bradley swiped his keycard.
“Hot take,” Jake said as the light blinked green, “but dragging a man to your hotel room after threatening to deck him in front of the champagne bar? Kinda sexy.”
Bradley opened the door. “Get in.”
Jake stepped past him, slow and deliberate, shoulder brushing Bradley’s chest like an invitation.
“You always this charming?” he asked, wandering a few steps into the room like he owned it.
“Only when I’m seconds from making a mistake,” Bradley muttered, closing the door behind him.
Jake turned, eyes bright. “Then I’m definitely your favorite one.”
Bradley took two long strides forward, grabbed Jake by the front of his open shirt, and kissed him.
It was slow and deliberate, burning as Bradley tilted his head, mouth open while trying to pull Jake closer. He could feel the contrast of the cool metal and Jake’s own hot skin against his knuckles.
Jake’s hands cupped his face, tracing faded scars
The door clicked shut.
Jake turned around slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Like he didn’t just spend the last ten minutes poking a live wire. He walked backward into the room with that same infuriating ease, his grin cocky, his shirt open just enough to draw the eye. He looked like a man who’d already won something.
“You gonna say anything,” he murmured, “or just keep looking at me like you want to kill me with your mouth?”
Bradley didn’t answer.
He crossed the room in two sharp strides, grabbed Jake by the lapels of that stupid, perfect blazer, and shoved him up against the nearest wall.
Jake laughed — soft, smug, delighted.
“Real touchy tonight,” he said, breath hitching just slightly when his back hit the wall. “Are you really always this hands-on when you lose a race?”
Bradley’s jaw twitched. “You’re not gonna shut up, are you.”
Jake grinned, breath hot between them. “Not a chance.”
So Bradley kissed him.
Not a soft kiss. Not exploratory or tender. It was a claim. All clenched jaw and rough hands, teeth barely held back. The kind of kiss that starts at the mouth and ends somewhere in the bones.
Jake made a noise like he’d been waiting for this — low, pleased, leaning into it without hesitation. His hands slid up Bradley’s chest, fingers catching in the fabric of his shirt like he wanted to pull him closer, drag him down into whatever chaos he’d lit between them.
Bradley didn’t let him.
He pressed him harder into the wall with his hips, holding Jake there with the solid weight of his body. He kissed like a grudge — open-mouthed, deep, like he wanted Jake to feel every ounce of irritation behind it.
Jake moaned into his mouth. “Mmm. Yeah. That’s it. Hate me a little.”
“God, you’re fucking—” Bradley broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, eyes dark and furious. “—so fucking annoying.”
Jake’s breath was ragged, lips already wet and red. “And you’re so repressed you could give a stone a complex.”
Bradley grabbed the front of Jake’s shirt — the silk one that shimmered like it was made for sin — and pushed it open roughly. Buttons strained, one popped loose. He didn’t care.
Jake grinned.
“You gonna ruin all my clothes, Bradshaw?”
Bradley looked down at him like he was trying to decide whether to rip the shirt in half or just kiss the smugness off his mouth again.
“I should make you walk out of here naked,” Bradley muttered. “God knows you’d like that.”
Jake arched a brow, breath catching slightly when Bradley’s hands slid under the shirt, hot and demanding on his skin. “Depends,” Jake said. “Are you gonna be the one stripping me in the hallway?”
Bradley yanked the shirt down off his shoulders.
Jake let it fall. His chest was bare now, skin flushed, neck mottled from the kiss. He looked wild and sharp and so fucking happy to be here.
Bradley hated him.
He kissed him again anyway — rougher this time, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw a sound out of Jake’s throat.
“Fuck,” Jake hissed, half-laughing. “You kiss like you’re mad at me.”
“I am mad at you,” Bradley growled.
Jake’s hands slid under the hem of Bradley’s shirt, nails dragging lightly across his abs. “That what’s got you this hard, or is that just a Bradshaw thing?”
Bradley grabbed Jake’s wrists, pushed them up above his head, and pinned them to the wall.
Jake’s breath stuttered. “Jesus.”
“Be quiet.”
“I can’t,” Jake whispered, eyes blown wide, pupils dark with want. “You make it so hard.”
Bradley kissed him again — harsh, possessive, like a punishment.
And Jake melted into it.
Bradley dragged Jake across the room by the wrist, his hand tight but not cruel, like he wasn’t thinking anymore — just moving. Acting. Every bit of common sense buried under months of adrenaline, anger, and heat that had nowhere to go but here.
Jake didn’t resist. He stumbled a little over the carpet, laughing low in his throat.
“You always manhandle your rivals,” he breathed, “or am I just lucky?”
Bradley didn’t answer. He shoved Jake down onto the bed with a hand flat on his chest.
Jake bounced a little, legs still hanging off the edge, silk shirt half-off, hair starting to curl from sweat and heat. He looked up at Bradley with a glint in his eye like he’d been waiting for this — like he’d orchestrated it from the first smirk at the press line.
“This is what it takes to shut you up?” Bradley muttered.
Jake smiled lazily, lifting himself up on his elbows. “No. This is what it takes to get your hands on me.”
Bradley’s breath caught — for a second. A flash. Then he grabbed Jake by the belt and dragged him forward just enough that their hips collided, his own breath shallow, jaw tight.
Jake gasped — not dramatically, just a little too real. His hands slid up Bradley’s sides like instinct. His mouth curved into something soft.
“God, you’re pissed,” Jake whispered. “And you’re still all over me.”
“Don’t make this a thing.” Because it's not, he wanted to say.
Jake leaned up, nosing along the edge of Bradley’s jaw. “Too late. It’s already a thing.”
Bradley groaned — more frustration than pleasure, but it bled together. It always did with Jake.
He tugged Jake’s belt loose with practiced force. Jake’s breath hitched.
“Fuck,” Jake said, eyes half-lidded. “Didn’t know Redline taught undressing technique in pit training.”
Bradley undid the top button of Jake’s slacks. “They didn’t.”
His voice dropped. Rough. Honest.
“I just wanted this more than I wanted to admit.”
Jake looked at him then — really looked. The grin faded, just a little. His eyes softened, even as he pressed his palm against Bradley’s chest, grounding him.
“You think I haven’t wanted this?” Jake asked, quieter. “You think I haven’t seen you looking?”
Bradley shook his head once. “No. I know you have.”
Jake tilted his head. “So what’s with the attitude?”
Bradley met his gaze. Something unspoken passed between them — sharp and heavy.
“Because I’m gonna fuck you,” Bradley said, voice low, eyes locked on Jake’s, “and you’re gonna talk through the whole damn thing.”
Jake blinked — and then laughed, tipping his head back, flushed and reckless.
“And you’re gonna love every second of it.”
Bradley kissed him again — not like the first time, not wild and angry. This one was slower. Deeper. Like they were past pretending.
Jake melted into it, fingers curling in Bradley’s shirt. He kissed back like he knew what this was — bigger than rivalry. Something that had teeth.
When they pulled apart, both breathing hard, Jake touched Bradley’s cheek.
“I like it when you’re rough,” he murmured. “But don’t pretend this doesn’t matter.”
Bradley stared at him for a second — then pushed Jake back into the mattress, crawling over him with a look like surrender and defiance all in one.
“I’m not pretending anything,” he said, mouth at Jake’s throat.
“I’m just done holding back.”
The silence that settled wasn’t comfortable.
It wasn’t soft, either.
It was loaded.
Bradley leaned over Jake, both of them still breathing hard, lips wet, clothes askew. His hand was planted beside Jake’s head. Jake’s shirt hung open; Bradley’s own was rumpled, halfway untucked.
They’d just crossed a line they couldn’t uncross.
And Jake — golden, flushed, lit up like a fuse — was looking at him like he knew exactly what it meant.
That was the problem.
Bradley sat back, one hand dragging down his face. He turned slightly, just enough to put a few inches of space between them. Not cold, just… controlled. Reeling.
Jake didn’t say anything. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t push.
And that was worse.
A beat passed.
Another.
Then Bradley exhaled and said, quietly, “I thought I hated you.”
Jake blinked — slowly, like he wasn’t surprised, just curious where this was going.
Bradley didn’t look at him when he kept going.
“You remember Ontario? Rookie season. Heat wave. Track temp was brutal.”
Jake’s brow lifted faintly. “Yeah. I remember. Your brakes locked up and I passed you on the inside. Thought you were gonna try and fight me in the garage.”
“I nearly did.”
Bradley let out a dry laugh, no humor in it. “But that’s not what I remember most.”
Jake stayed still, eyes on him now, waiting.
“It was after the race. You came to my tent. I thought you were coming to gloat.”
Jake’s gaze sharpened.
“I didn’t,” he said softly.
“I know,” Bradley replied. “That’s the thing. You just handed me a water bottle and said, ‘You should’ve had that win.’ Then you left.”
He shook his head. “And I hated that it got to me.”
Jake looked at him for a long moment — expression unreadable, like he was working through something deeper than the memory itself.
“I wasn’t trying to mess with your head,” he said. “I meant it.”
“I know,” Bradley repeated. He finally looked back at Jake — steady, serious. “That’s what pissed me off the most.”
Jake’s mouth quirked, but it wasn’t smug. Not this time.
“It’s been like that ever since,” Bradley said. “You push me on the track. You get under my skin. You show up in my blind spots and then… you say shit like that. Shit that sticks.”
Jake ran a hand through his hair. His voice dropped, quieter. “You think I don’t feel it too?”
Bradley didn’t answer.
So Jake leaned back on his elbows, looking up at him — bare-chested, breath still a little uneven, but his voice was clear. Unflinching.
“You think I haven’t spent the last three seasons wondering if this was just me?”
A pause.
Bradley looked at him. Hard. Measured. Like he was trying to figure out what the hell he was about to say — and how badly it might cost him.
Then finally, barely louder than a breath:
“It’s not just you.”
Jake’s jaw tensed — just slightly. Not a smirk, not a grin. Just a slow shift in his face, like he was feeling something heavy land.
“So why now?” he asked.
Bradley hesitated. Then he gave the smallest shrug.
“You looked good on that podium.”
Jake raised a brow. “That’s all it took?”
“No,” Bradley said. “But it was the last goddamn straw.”
That made Jake laugh again — but it wasn’t sharp this time. It was breathy. Tired. Maybe even a little relieved.
“Thought maybe I was imagining all this.”
Bradley looked down at his own hands, still curled slightly on his knees. “Nah. You’ve been in my head for a long time, Seresin.”
A pause. Then—
Jake, quietly:
“You wanna stay in this room or walk away like none of this happened?”
Bradley leaned down for another kiss — slower this time, more drag than press. Jake’s lips were soft and parted, still tasting like whiskey and the bite of some expensive cigarette he never finished. The tension between them felt like static, like metal-on-metal. Something was going to snap.
Bradley’s hand slid inside Jake’s open shirt, warm palm grazing sweat-slick skin, and found a nipple — hard already. He toyed with it absentmindedly, slow circles at first, then a firmer roll between thumb and forefinger.
The way Jake shuddered under the touch nearly made Bradley smirk. But instead, he just memorized it. The way Jake’s hand came up — fast, needy — and tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make Bradley exhale through gritted teeth.
He pinched again, harder. Jake moaned low in his throat, a sound that curled around Bradley’s spine like a fist.
“You like that?” Bradley murmured against his mouth, voice rasping from heat and liquor.
Jake’s lips curved, lazy and dark. “I like everything about this.”
And then — before Bradley could even blink — Jake rolled them.
It was practiced. Fluid. Like he’d thought about it before. Like he knew he would.
Bradley landed flat on his back, shirt halfway undone, pants tight, blood roaring in his ears. Jake straddled his hips with the casual confidence of someone who drove like a god and fucked like a dare.
“Especially,” Jake said, palms flat on Bradley’s chest, “being on top.”
He started to grind — slow, deep rolls of his hips. Not friction. Pressure. His cock was hard behind the thin cotton of his briefs, and every drag along Bradley’s cock felt like a calculated taunt.
“You look real good underneath me, Bradshaw,” he breathed, leaning in just enough for his breath to warm Bradley’s mouth. “Bet you never imagined this when you were sucking exhaust behind me at Turn Nine back in Monaco.”
Bradley’s hands shot to Jake’s thighs, gripping them like reins. “You’re a fucking menace.”
Jake grinned like he’d already won something. “Yeah,” he said, dropping lower, nose brushing Bradley’s jaw, “and you fucking want it.”
He kissed him again — slower this time, wetter. Open-mouthed and teasing, like he had hours. Like they weren’t already burning up.
Jake sat back up, shirt slipping off his shoulders, and reached down. His fingers hooked into the waistband of Bradley’s briefs, tugging them down just far enough to free his cock.
Bradley hissed. He was hard and flushed, leaking already, breath catching in his throat as the air hit him.
Jake just stared. “Fuck,” he whispered, eyes dark. “You’re already this ready?”
Bradley clenched his jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a yes.
Jake’s mouth twitched. Then he leaned off to the side, popped open the drawer beside the bed, and pulled out a condom and lube like he knew exactly where they were.
Bradley’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been here before.”
Jake winked. “Let’s call it… strategic preparation.”
He tore the foil open with his teeth — showy, slow — and rolled the condom on like it was a ritual. Then he slicked up his hand, cool lube shining in the low light, and reached back between his legs.
Bradley watched.
Jake’s fingers slid between his cheeks, working himself open — one at first, then two, then twisting. His hips rocked faintly, mouth falling open in a soft gasp. “God,” he whispered, head tilting back just slightly. “That stretch… always so fucking—”
“Jesus,” Bradley breathed, chest rising hard. “Jake—”
Jake looked down at him, pupils blown. “Impatient?”
He bit his lip as he pulled his fingers free, slick and shining. “Wanna fuck me so bad you can’t speak?”
He climbed back over, positioning himself. Hovered — teasing — over the head of Bradley’s cock.
“Let’s see how long you last like this.”
Then he sank down.
Jake lowered himself, inch by inch, onto Bradley’s cock — slow, agonizing, deliberate. The stretch dragged a gasp from his throat, his thighs trembling slightly with restraint as he sank down until he was seated fully, hips snug against Bradley’s.
Both of them were panting, barely moving. Just there — connected, thick silence stretching around them like a live wire.
Bradley’s head fell back against the pillows, jaw clenched. “Fuck.”
Jake shivered above him, cock resting slick against Bradley’s abs, flushed and untouched. His hands slid slowly up Bradley’s chest, pushing his shirt higher, exposing ridges of taut, sweat-dampened muscle. He dragged his palms over them, reverent and mocking all at once.
Then he started to move.
First, a slow grind — just enough to feel. His cock twitched, untouched but needy, and every roll of his hips made Bradley’s teeth clench harder.
Jake smirked. “Fuck, you feel thick like this.”
He shifted forward slightly, changing the angle, and let out a low moan when he hit the spot. He kept his eyes on Bradley, like he was drinking it in — the flushed skin, the way his breath stuttered, the slight shake in his thighs.
Bradley tried not to react, but Jake could feel it in how hard his hands gripped the sheets.
“You gonna just lie there?” Jake asked, bouncing just enough to make the slap of skin on skin echo. “Let me ride you like this? Let everyone know who beat who tonight?”
Bradley’s eyes snapped open, glare dark and warning.
Jake only smiled. “Thought you liked me mouthy.”
He planted his knees wider and picked up the pace — fucking himself harder now, taking Bradley deep, fast, the obscene sound of it filling the room. His head fell forward, curls damp, brushing Bradley’s chest as he worked himself down again and again.
The drag, the bounce, the hot friction of it — it was messy and relentless, their bodies clapping together in rhythm.
Jake moaned, high and breathless. “God, you feel so—so deep—” His voice caught on the last word as he dropped harder, slamming down with a noise that made both of them groan.
Bradley’s composure cracked.
His hands flew to Jake’s hips, gripping them hard. “You think this is a fucking game?”
Jake met his eyes, flushed and grinning. “I know it is.”
That was it.
Bradley sat up in one explosive motion, wrapped his arms around Jake’s waist, and flipped them hard.
Jake hit the mattress with a grunt, breath punched out of him. He looked up, eyes wide, chest heaving. His legs fell open instinctively, welcoming, challenging. “Oh?” he managed, lips curling, “you back in the race now, big guy?”
Bradley growled, grabbing Jake’s thighs and shoving back in with one hard, punishing thrust.
Jake screamed — back arching, head tipping into the pillows, fingers scrabbling for something to hold.
Bradley didn’t wait.
He slammed in again, deeper, harder, until Jake was gasping under him, knees locked around Bradley’s sides like a vice.
“You ride me like you’ve got something to prove,” Bradley snarled, fucking into him without mercy. “So I’ll fuck you until you forget your own name.”
Jake moaned, twisted, tried to meet each thrust but failed, too wrecked already.
“You’re not—ah—fuck, you’re not mad I won,” he panted, voice cracking. “You’re mad I made you want it.”
Bradley grabbed Jake’s wrists, slammed them above his head and held them there with one hand. The other dragged down Jake’s throat, possessive. “I wanted to ruin you,” he hissed. “Now I’m gonna.”
Jake’s eyes fluttered shut, breath breaking. “Do it. Fucking do it.”
Bradley didn’t ease up.
He fucked into Jake with brutal, single-minded rhythm — thick and deep, each thrust angled to make Jake feel it, to make him break. The slap of their bodies was constant, sweaty, loud. Jake was gasping now, whimpering, his arms pinned tight above his head.
“Look at you,” Bradley growled, pressing their foreheads together. “Fucked open, moaning like you were made for it.”
Jake shook underneath him — red-cheeked, hair sticking to his temples, mouth parted and wet. His cock was leaking against his stomach, untouched and pulsing.
Bradley let go of one wrist and reached down between them, wrapping a slick hand around Jake’s cock — stroking him hard and fast, no teasing now. Just ruin.
Jake cried out, body arching off the bed. “Fuck, B—Bradley—”
“That’s it,” Bradley snarled into his neck. “Come for me.”
He jerked him faster, relentless. Jake’s hips twisted, overwhelmed, muscles straining as his orgasm slammed into him hard — blinding and violent. His thighs shook, back bowed, and he screamed, spilling hot across Bradley’s abs and his own chest in thick streaks.
But Bradley didn’t stop.
Jake’s legs tried to close, overstimulated now, but Bradley kept thrusting, harder, rougher, each push wringing out a new broken moan. “Can’t take it?” he hissed. “After all that talk?”
Jake was twitching, pinned, shuddering with every thrust. “P-Please—fuck—”
Jake’s orgasm hit like a crash — sharp and seismic. His body convulsed, chest painted, breath caught somewhere between a scream and a sob. But Bradley didn’t slow down. He didn’t even blink.
He watched Jake fall apart and kept going.
“Don’t fuckin’ run from it now,” Bradley growled, snapping his hips harder, pushing deeper, holding Jake there as his body trembled and jerked in overstimulation.
Jake’s legs tried to close — instinctive, helpless. But Bradley shoved them back open, one hand pressing Jake’s knee toward his chest, forcing him to take it.
“You think you’re in charge?” Bradley hissed, fucking into him hard enough to knock the breath from Jake’s lungs. “Riding me like you won? You were just warming yourself up for this.”
Jake was moaning now — not loud anymore, but high and desperate. Each thrust made his voice hitch, made his cock twitch uselessly where it lay spent and slick across his stomach. His fingers gripped the sheets like he was bracing for impact.
Bradley leaned down, put his mouth to Jake’s ear. “You talk so much, Seresin,” he growled, biting his lobe hard enough to make Jake flinch. “Let’s see what you sound like when I don’t let you speak.”
He grabbed both of Jake’s wrists again, slammed them back above his head, pinning them with one forearm, his weight pressing down heavy. Jake’s body arched beneath him — helpless, offered up, cock dripping, flushed to the root.
Then Bradley bit his neck. Hard.
A choked moan tore from Jake’s throat — involuntary. His hips bucked up, instinctively searching for friction, but Bradley held him down like a god, like a punishment.
“I want you like this,” Bradley hissed into his throat, voice low, dangerous. “Messy. Open. Mine.”
Jake shivered, eyes glassy.
Bradley pulled back just enough to look at him. And something shifted — his hand slid to Jake’s throat. Not squeezing — just holding. His thumb brushing over the racing pulse there.
“You gonna come again for me?” he asked, voice dripping with control. “Like a good little loser?”
Jake whimpered, lips trembling. “B-Bradley, I—fuck—”
Bradley leaned in, kissed him — not soft, not tender. Just teeth and breath and ownership. “Yeah,” he murmured against Jake’s mouth, “You love it. You fucking love getting wrecked by me.”
He reached down between them again — found Jake’s overstimulated cock, still leaking, twitching. Bradley didn’t stroke it nicely. He milked him. Hard. Rough. Mean.
Jake screamed.
“Gonna cry?” Bradley whispered. “You can cry, baby. Go on. Let everyone in this hotel know what I did to you.”
Jake’s whole body jerked. His mouth dropped open, but no sound came — just a sharp gasp as his second orgasm ripped through him. A raw, unbearable thing. His come spilled again — weaker this time, but more devastating, drawn out in helpless spurts as his whole body spasmed.
And still — Bradley kept fucking him. Each thrust punching into him like he was trying to bury himself deeper than bones.
Jake couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Just sounds, just light behind his eyes, Bradley’s voice like a constant in his ear.
“That’s it,” Bradley panted. “Look at you. Ruined. And all mine.”
Then Bradley bit down on Jake’s throat again — marking him.
Jake let out a choked sob, overstimulated to the point of tremors.
And finally — finally — Bradley’s rhythm faltered. His jaw clenched, hands shaking as he drove in deep one last time, hips jerking as his orgasm hit — hard, violent, deep. He collapsed against Jake, panting against his neck, his weight crushing, grounding.
They stayed like that for too long.
Jake’s body trembled beneath him — spent, used, legs still wrapped tight around Bradley’s waist like his body refused to let go.
Bradley kissed his neck once. Not soft. Just… there. A brand.
And when he finally pulled out, Jake whimpered, back arching involuntarily, cock twitching again with nothing left to give.
Bradley lay beside him, sweaty, breathing hard, arm thrown over his eyes.
The silence was thick. The kind that knows something happened here. Something more.
Jake’s voice cracked. “You… fucking possessive prick.”
Bradley didn’t look at him. “You loved every second.”
Jake was quiet.
Then: “Yeah,” he rasped. “I fucking did.”
Bradley finally rolled onto his side, eyes locking with Jake’s — raw, unguarded.
“Next time,” he said, voice still hoarse, “you don’t come first.”
Jake smirked. “That a promise?”
Bradley grabbed his jaw, kissed him again — rough and hungry, like he wasn’t done yet.
Maybe he wasn’t.