Page 110 of Off the Grid

And I’m not sure what I will or should do to confront and then move past it.

I’ve tried to control the one thing I can in this situation—me and my preparation. I’ve spent endless hours in the sim, trying to understand the turns and curves of the course. Trying to make it so second nature that I don’t think about it. So I don’t hesitate when I come to it.

I have a few weeks yet before the race to perfect that indifference I’m striving for. It would be even easier to do so if the media would just leave me the fuck alone about “upcoming” races—with the upcoming meaning the Japanese Grand Prix—and let me focus on the one at hand. The race two days from now that needs my undivided attention.

Yet . . . it’s draining. I need a distraction. Something other than dwelling on the reporters’ questions thrown at me yesterday. Anya’s now laying down the law regarding future interviews with me.

And I find that perfect distraction when I look up as I walk into our hospitality suite.

Camilla.

She’s sitting in the far back corner of one of the conference rooms in our portable suites.

I know I shouldn’t, but I stop and stare.

I can’t help myself.

Sex without strings is an awesome fucking concept. It’s not my first setup like this so I know how it’s supposed to go: the built-in pussy, a person to laugh with over a quick bite before jumping in the sack, the want that isn’t easily sated—but without the fucking complications.

There are no hurt feelings if we have other plans. There is no need to divide time between my mates and my girl without someone getting pissed.

There is sex.

There are a few moments of lying there, panting as our hearts decelerate and our bodies come down from the high of sex, and talking about the most random things.

There is clean up.

Then a kiss goodbye at the door.

And the night left to do our own thing.

But fuck, man, this time around—the Camilla version of sex without strings—is so goddamn different. I’m pretty sure the woman with the furrowed brow looking at her laptop right now is the reason for that.

So far, sex with her has been incredible. No further explanation needed.

We may have only been doing this no-strings shit for eighteen days during the mandatory summer break—yes, I’m counting—but they have been some pretty fucking incredible days at that.

The record so far—the hearts she could fill in on the calendar—is four in a night. Four. A vibrator. My tongue. My cock—twice.

I might have set the bar too high with that one because the woman is insatiable—and I fucking love it. Even better? Watching her confidence skyrocket over the past few weeks. Hands that were timid to slide down and rub her clit to enhance her pleasure, now go straight there. She parts herself so I can see that sweet fucking pink of her pussy, and then goes to work helping get herself off—with her eyes on me the whole time. Watching me watch what she does to herself. To me. To us.

And with that confidence comes a desire to get better at other things. She wants to learn how to suck cock better? I mean . . . it’s a hardship, but sure, she can practice on me. Not a problem.

A phone call for a cup of coffee in the morning ended up with her bent over my dining table.

A request for some company on a weekend afternoon jog resulted in us slamming against the closed door just as we got home and having rip-the-clothes-off-each-other sex.

The few evenings we’ve spent together weren’t too fucking shabby either. Where we took our time exploring each other’s wants and needs before one of us would head back to our own flats.

And when we part ways, I find myself wondering if she enjoyed it. If I gave her what she needed.

And that has never fucking happened before. It’s not like I haven’t cared about past lovers’ enjoyment or fulfillment, but it’s never been such a priority. Yes, I’m an undeniable selfish arsehole.

It’s as though I feel a self-determined pressure to ensure Camilla knows that all men are not arseholes.

The irony, given I normally am one.

But not the kind I think she’s experienced.