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“No,” George said.
Max gritted his teeth. “What do you mean, no?”
George crossed his arms, his body language irritatingly casual. “I mean no, Max. Because it doesn’t count.”
Max threw his arms up in the air. He really didn’t have the patience for this right now. “You are not making any sense. I mean - what the fuck are you talking about? The rule is that we fuck if I win a race. And I won a fucking race. If I recall correctly, you were there when it happened. I mean - all you could see for most of the race was the back of my car.”
George shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s not a real race, is it?”
“That,” Max began, trying to keep his voice appropriately quiet, “is bullshit, George. It is the name. Sprint race. I mean, why the fuck would I have been in the car if it wasn’t a race?”
“You were in the car because you get paid a frankly repulsive amount of money each year to drive whenever Red Bull tells you to drive - even if it's for some money-making exhibition bullshit like a sprint race,” George replied, taking a step closer. Max could feel the heat radiating off of his body, see the sweat glistening on his neck. Had George even changed his clothes since the race? Probably not - it wasn’t long until they had to jump back into the car for qualifying. In truth, Max shouldn’t have even been here, in some abandoned Mercedes changing room; he should have been back at the Red Bull garage, getting ready to try and drag his car to pole. But he just hadn’t been able to stay away - though, of course, he was now beginning to feel like he’d made the wrong decision. Fucking George Russell.
Running his hand through his hair, Max took a step backwards. “Fine. Fine. If that’s how you want to play it, George - well, fine. I do not have to stand here dealing with you. I do not have to talk to you at all. In fact - in fact, after qualifying, perhaps I’ll go out and find someone who doesn’t have as many fucking rules as you.”
George snorted. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” Max snapped back, his irritation starting to grow. Who did George even think he was? “I will. Are you really stupid enough to think that nobody else wants to fuck me, George? I could go to any fucking club, right this second, and take home anyone I wanted to. Do not even try to argue with me.”
Once again, George shrugged. “No, I won’t argue with you. You’re right, after all. You could fuck anyone you want. But you don’t want to, do you, Max? You don’t want to fuck anyone else.”
“You don’t know that,” Max retorted. Why the fuck was he still here, letting George talk to him like this? The door was right there - only, of course, George was standing directly in front of it.
“Actually, I do know that,” George said, his voice low and confident. “I do know that, Max. Because why else would you be here, begging me to fuck you, when you could go anywhere else and get a stranger to beg to fuck you?”
Max laughed. “Yes, okay. How about you go fuck yourself, George? I really do not need this - I really do not need you.” With that, he moved forwards, preparing to leave - but before he could actually walk towards the door, George reached out and grabbed his arm, his bony fingers pressing into the bruises he’d left on Max’s arm all the way back in Singapore. With a grimace, Max swivelled his head back around.
“What do you want?” he asked.
The corners of George’s mouth twitched. “Are you angry with me?”
Max exhaled, disbelieving. “What do you think?”
“I think,” George said, “that you shouldn’t be angry with me.” He took a step closer, his eyes skimming down Max’s body. “I think that maybe you shouldn’t leave yet.”
Max scoffed, trying to ignore the way he could feel his hand beginning to shake. This was getting embarrassing. “Stop it, George. Let me go.”
“Why?” George asked. “So you can go and sulk in your garage? So you can go wank yourself off in the bathroom whilst crying into the mirror? Please, Max. You want to be here.” Before Max could protest, George yanked him closer, so that their bodies were flush against each other. “You need to be here. Don’t you?”
Max didn’t respond. Instead, he watched in a stunned sort of silence as George dropped to his knees, his chin tilted upwards in a way that made his face look deceptively innocent.
“Come on. Let’s be honest here. You like this, don’t you, Max?” George continued. He raised his hand, and, in an almost impressively deft movement, pulled down the zipper of Max’s race suit. “You like the fact that I won’t give into you. You like the fact that you have to win in order to have me. You like it because it pushes you. Face it, Max. You’ve already achieved everything you have to achieve. You’re a millionaire. You’re in Formula 1. You’ve won four championships - perhaps five, if Lando and Oscar continue to fuck themselves over. Nothing means anything to you anymore - nothing means anything except this. This is what drives you now, isn’t it?”
Once again, Max didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he even could - his mind felt confusingly scrambled, his mouth almost entirely numb. All that he could focus on was the warm, firm sensation of George’s hand against his body.
Perhaps sensing what was running through Max’s mind, George smirked. Slowly, he moved his head forwards, until his lips were resting against the sharp edge of Max’s hipbone. Then, steadily holding eye-contact, George leaned to the left, opened his mouth, and grasped the top of Max’s too-thin trousers with his teeth. Reflexively, Max exhaled an shaky breath. He was beginning to feel a little faint.
Loosening his grasp, George grinned. “Say it, Max.” His eyes looked ridiculously large, his cheeks beautifully flushed. It was unbearable. Max groaned, running a hand through the spikes of his hair.
“Fuck. Okay, okay. Yes. I like it. It is what drives me. Now - please. Stop this- this fucking torture.”
For a second, George’s grin seemed to widen. Then, before Max could say anything else, George stood up, brushing off his knees. To Max’s disappointment, the room suddenly felt cold again.
“That’s all I wanted to hear, Max,” George said. Squinting slightly, he checked his watch. “Right. I should probably head back to the office.”
Max felt his eyebrows shoot up. “That’s it? All that - and you’re done?”
George pulled a face. “Well, of course. What did you expect?”
“I -” Max paused. “I thought… you were on your knees… I assumed…”
George laughed. “Sprint races don’t count, remember, Max? If you want me to continue what I was doing - well, then, you’d better win tomorrow, hadn’t you?”
Before Max could say anything else - or perhaps throw something, preferably in the direction of George’s head, George turned around and strode out of the room. Max was left standing alone, his race suit dishevelled, his hair sticking up wildly. Blankly, he stared at the wall.
What the fuck was wrong with George Russell?
A better question - how the fuck could Max make sure that he won tomorrow?