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Summary
Carlos gets to the rear wing, running his hands over each flap, past her gorgeous dipping side pods. He’s closed his eyes. He’s running purely on feel, the way she runs. It’s sensual in a way he didn’t expect, but he can’t stop. He’s half hard in his race suit as a finger dips inside her still warm exhaust pipe.
He jolts upright as a throat clears by the door. “Damn,” Piastri murmurs. “I’ve never said goodbye to anyone like that.”
Carlos runs his finger over the rim of her exhaust again, reveling in her warmth as Piastri drains the room of it. “I’m busy.” Is all he has to say. He hopes it’s enough to get him to leave, but from the sounds of bootied feet scuffing the R-tile, he’s wrong. Carlos looks up and expects Oscar to be smirking, mocking, or perhaps skeptical, but he’s bent over with a hand splayed over her front wing. Oscar looks… contemplative.
“Y’know, they called this the pussy car, and I’m starting to see it.” Oscar hums.