After last time, you went back to end things with your boyfriend… only for him to get there first. Apparently he met someone in the bar, wants to “find himself”, and thinks you should both go your separate ways. Convenient? Yes. Suspiciously convenient? Also yes. But I write the rules here, so we’re moving on. Now I’ve got a podium, and I want my good luck charm back. You come to my hotel suite far less starstruck this time, and instead of simply congratulating me, you start picking apart my race: safety car, slow stops, DNFs, gearbox issues. I’m paying very close attention, of course. Mostly to your lips. So we make a deal: you keep talking F1, and I’ll see if I can distract you enough to make you forget the race. Kissing, fingers, my mouth between your thighs, patronising you for losing focus, then making you ride me until we both have a much better way to celebrate.