Chapter 91

Chapter 91
Carlo

"You shouldn’t have let me find you."

That’s the first thing I say before I pull him in and kiss the hell out of him.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s messy. Angry. Fucking raw.

His lips move against mine like he’s been starving too, like he’s just as wrecked inside as I am. I don’t even realize there’s a fucking mic picking this up until the announcer’s voice blares over the speakers.

“Wait… isn’t that Carlo Davenport from the Steel Riders? Weren’t they rivals four years ago? How the hell did this become a goddamn romantic scene?”

I hear the gasps. The shouting. The camera clicks.

Fuck ‘em.

I pull away just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to mine, both of us panting like the world just flipped on its head. Because maybe it fucking did.

Blaze blinks at me like he doesn’t believe what’s happening.

“Helmet,” I say, turning to Alexi—who’s standing off to the side looking like she just watched someone drop a nuke on her day. “Let me borrow yours.”

She hesitates for one second before tossing it my way. Her eyes flick between me and Blaze, but she doesn’t say shit.

Good.

I jam the helmet on, grab Blaze’s arm, and drag him to his bike. “Get on.”

He stares. “What?”

“I said get the fuck on.”

“I’m supposed to ride.”

“Not today.”

I slide onto the seat, and before he can argue more, I pull him behind me. He wraps his arms around me—tight—and I don’t know if it’s to stay on the bike or stay sane.

Doesn’t matter. I fucking need it either way.

I fire the engine. The crowd starts closing in. Reporters screaming. People snapping photos like they’ve never seen two men kiss before. Like we’re fucking animals in a zoo.

I don’t wait.

I tear out of there, tires squealing, leaving dust and chaos behind.

We don’t stop until we’re on the coast. Quiet. Empty. The waves crashing like they don’t give a shit who we are or what the world’s saying.

Blaze gets off first, shaking his head, smiling like he’s in shock. “You’re fucking crazy.”

I drop the helmet beside the bike. “You knew that before today.”

He leans back against the seat, wind in his hair. “What the hell was that, Carlo?”

“What do you think it was?” I walk up to him, hands on either side of the seat, caging him in. “That was me saying fuck the wedding. Fuck the press. Fuck everyone.”

He looks up at me, eyes glassy. “You showed up.”

“I had to.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

There’s a beat. Just silence and air and everything we never said. And then he reaches for me, pulls me down, and kisses me again.

This time it’s slow. Careful. Like he’s tasting the version of me he never thought he’d get again.

We pull apart and just sit there for a second, breathing each other in.

Then Blaze laughs. Soft, almost bitter. “You do realize the whole world saw that, right?”

“Good.”

“No, I mean like… everybody. Your dad. Rebecca. Her family. Probably the fucking President.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

He blinks at me. “You should.”

“I don’t,” I say, because it’s the truth. “For the first time in my life, I actually did something I fucking wanted. And I’m not sorry.”

He looks at me for a long time. Then says, “So what are you gonna do now?”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t fucking know.

So instead, I grab the bike again. “Come with me.”

“To where?”

“My place.”

He raises a brow. “You mean the penthouse you were gonna honeymoon in?”

I smirk. “Thought it might serve a better purpose now.”

We ride back through the city like nothing happened. Well—except for the fact that traffic stops, pedestrians are pointing, and my phone’s blowing up in my pocket every two seconds.

The elevator to the penthouse feels like the longest ride of my fucking life.

Blaze doesn’t say anything. He’s just looking at me, still like he’s trying to make sense of this version of me. The one who actually chose him.

The second the doors open, I walk in and slam him against the wall.

His mouth’s on mine before I can even speak. I drag my hands through his shirt, over his waist, up his chest. We’re pulling, clawing, yanking at each other like we’ve waited too fucking long for this.

I bite his lip, he groans. He grabs my hair, I curse against his throat.

Clothes hit the floor in a trail from the front door to the bedroom.

And then we’re on the bed.

No slow shit. No pretense. Just want.

It’s desperate, hot, filthy, and the best goddamn thing I’ve felt in years.

I don’t know how many times we go at it, or how loud we are. I just know by the time it’s over, we’re tangled in sheets, his legs over mine, his hand resting on my stomach like he belongs there.

And for the first time… it feels like maybe he does.

The sun’s lower now. Room’s quiet except for our breathing.

Blaze runs his fingers through my hair. “You’re really not gonna call anyone?”

“Nope.”

“Not even your mom?”

“She’ll be fine.”

“And your dad?”

I snort. “He’s probably had three strokes already.”

He chuckles. “What about Rebecca?”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about Rebecca.”

His smile softens. “So you’re really done with all that?”

“I burned that shit down the moment I showed up at the track.”

He exhales slow, and I feel his body relax a little more beside

Then he says, “So now what? We just lie here and pretend the world didn’t explode?”

“Something like that,” I mutter, dragging my fingers slowly down his bare back.

He shifts slightly on top of me, his skin warm, sticky with sweat, his breath still a little uneven. The sheets are halfway off the bed, the room smells like sex and sweat and maybe a little like redemption.

I tilt my head and look at him.

Really look at him.

Hair a mess. Lips bruised. That flushed look in his cheeks like he just walked out of a fight—and won.

And fuck, I want more.

I reach up, brush his bottom lip with my thumb. “You sure you’re not dreaming?”

He huffs out a laugh. “If I am, don’t wake me the fuck up.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

He leans down, mouth brushing against my jaw. “Good.”

Then he kisses me again—soft this time, almost teasing. Like he’s testing the waters now that we’ve already torn through the storm.

But I’m not built for soft—not right now.

I flip him in one motion, pinning him beneath me. He laughs, breathless, but the sound dies in his throat the second I start kissing down his neck.

“I’m not done,” I say against his skin. “You think one round’s enough to make up for the past few weeks?”

He groans. “Apparently not.”

“Damn right.”

I bite down on the curve of his shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him twitch. His hands claw at my back, nails dragging, hips lifting like he’s trying to grind into me, desperate for friction.

“Carlo…”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck me again.”

I grin. “Say please.”

“You’re such a fucking bastard.”

“Yeah, but I’m your bastard.”

He kisses me hard, no patience left. “Please.”

That’s all I need.

I reach down, wrap my hand around him again, and he shudders under me. I work him slow, dragging every sound out of him, every gasp, every curse.

He’s loud this time.

Whimpering into my mouth, legs wrapped around me, pulling me closer.

I don’t go slow—not really—but I draw it out. I tease him. Drive him crazy. Hold him right on the edge just so I can watch him fall apart.

His fingers grip the headboard, his back arches, his thighs tremble.

“Fucking hell, Carlo—”

“I got you,” I breathe, sliding into him again, and the way he moans—raw and guttural—makes my whole body tighten.

He fits like he always has. Like this is where I’m meant to be.

Our bodies crash together in a rhythm we’ve never forgotten. Every thrust makes him call my name louder. Every kiss makes him hang onto me like he’s terrified I’ll vanish.

He wraps his arms around my neck, eyes locked to mine, sweat dripping down both of us. The sounds of skin, breath, the creak of the bed—they all blur together.

And when we finally come, nearly at the same time, it’s messy and wild and fucking perfect.

We collapse back onto the mattress, panting, limbs tangled, his heartbeat slamming against my chest.

I don’t move for a while. I just let myself stay in that feeling.

Of being wanted. Chosen. Forgiven.

He reaches up and wipes the sweat from my temple. “Feel better?”

“Better than fucking ever.”

We lie there a while longer, just breathing, our legs intertwined like neither of us can stand the idea of letting go.

Eventually, I pull him in closer, his head resting on my shoulder. I trace circles on his lower back with my thumb, something calm settling in my chest that I haven’t felt in years.

Maybe ever.

I can feel his breath on my collarbone, soft and steady.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he says quietly.

I glance down. “How?”

“When I saw you standing there… I thought it was some kind of stunt. Or worse, that you were just gonna say something cruel to humiliate me.”

I frown. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because you’re Carlo Davenport. King of cold exits.”

I exhale. “Yeah. I guess I’ve earned that. But not this time.”

Blaze tilts his head, studies my face. “You mean that?”

“Every word.”

“Then stop looking so fucking unsure.”

I crack a small smile. “You think I’m unsure?”

“You’ve got that twitch in your jaw. The one you get when your brain’s fighting your balls.”

I laugh. Loud. God, it feels good to laugh like that with him again.

“I’m not unsure,” I tell him. “I’m just… ready for the shitstorm.”

He nods. “It’s coming.”

“I know.”

“You care?”

I look him in the eye. “I’ve never cared less.”

We kiss again. Slower this time. Lazier. Like we’ve got nothing but time now.