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Summary
“You here to congratulate me?” he says, voice bright, cheeks flushed from the win, from the noise, from the ego. He tilts his head, all pretty elegance.
Max doesn’t answer. Just stalks forward until he’s toe-to-toe with him, until the smell of Charles’ sweat and champagne and heat floods his nose. “Congratulations?” Max growls, voice low and poisonous. “For what? Ruining my race? Driving like a fucking brat?”
Charles’ smile sharpens, a playful glint lighting his eyes. “I got P2,” he says simply, voice almost lighthearted, as if that explains everything. “Don’t be sore just because you couldn’t keep up.”
Max’s hand snaps out, grabs the back of Charles’ neck, fingers curling tight into the sweaty curls at his nape. He leans in, breath hot against Charles’ ear. “You’ve got no idea how close I came to running you off the track. Lucky for you, all I want is to fuck you so hard you forget everything else —especially how to drive.”
OR: Charles clips Max at the race, so Max punishes his bratty omega by making him remember his true purpose. [UPDATED 8/28/25]