Pit Lane Confessional

Bonus Chapter — Pit Stop & Pillow Talk
by Chase Power

⚠️ This bonus chapter takes place three months after the events of Pit Stop & Pillow Talk. Contains major spoilers and explicit sexual content. Read the book first.

The Silverstone garage was empty at 7 AM on a Tuesday in February, and Adrian Vale had never been more turned on in his life.

The 2025 car sat on its stand in the center of the engineering bay, stripped of its bodywork, the monocoque gleaming under the overhead lights like an anatomical model of speed. The smell was intoxicating—carbon fiber, hydraulic fluid, the faint chemical tang of new brake compound. The smell of the beginning of something.

Elias was crouched beside the car with a tablet in one hand and a torque wrench in the other, checking something in the suspension geometry with the focused intensity of a man who considered a private test day the equivalent of a romantic getaway. He was wearing a team fleece unzipped over a black T-shirt, his glasses slightly fogged from the cold morning air, his hair pushed back, and he looked so completely, devastatingly in his element that Adrian had to lean against the doorframe and just watch for a full minute before his body overrode his brain.

Three months since Abu Dhabi. Three months since the podium, the kiss, the world finding out. Christmas dinner with Sofia—bacalhau, interrogation about tire compounds, Elias being fed until he physically couldn’t move. Ren flying in for New Year’s, alternating between threatening Adrian and hugging him. The three-year contracts signed. The clause Margaux wrote about supporting personal relationships, which Adrian had framed and hung in the bathroom because it made Elias laugh every time he brushed his teeth.

The world knew. The fan edits had reached 14 million views. Two sponsors had pulled out; four new ones signed on at higher rates. Being openly in love with your race engineer was, commercially speaking, a growth strategy.

But they hadn’t been alone in the garage since Abu Dhabi. And Adrian had been thinking about what he wanted to do in this garage—with this car, with this man, with the specific piece of safety equipment that had started everything—since approximately October.

“You’re staring,” Elias said, without looking up from his tablet.

“I’m admiring the suspension geometry.”

“The suspension geometry is behind the car. You’re looking at me.”

“Maybe you’re the best part of the suspension geometry.”

Elias looked up. The almost-smile. The one Adrian had been collecting for a year and now owned a complete set of, catalogued by context and the specific shade of warmth in Elias’s dark eyes when the composure cracked enough to let the person underneath show through.

“We have the car for four hours,” Elias said. “The test schedule starts at eleven. If you want useful data, we need to run the setup protocol in the next ninety minutes.”

“Ninety minutes.” Adrian pushed off the doorframe and walked toward him. Slowly. The way you approached something you’d been thinking about for months. “That’s a lot of time.”

“It’s not nearly enough time for what you’re thinking.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“You’re thinking about the harness.”

Adrian stopped. The air in the garage shifted. “How did you—”

“You’ve been looking at the cockpit. Specifically, at the harness buckle. Every time we’re in the garage. Since Melbourne.” Elias set the tablet down on the workbench. Stood. His expression shifted from engineer to the other thing—the thing that lived underneath the engineering, the dark, focused, devastating thing that Adrian had spent a season uncovering and now had permanent, unrestricted, publicly acknowledged access to. “I notice everything about you, Adrian. That’s my job. And my preference.”

“I want you to strap me in,” Adrian said. No performance. No negotiation. Just the flat, honest want of a man who’d stopped hiding a long time ago. “Put me in the car. Use the harness. And then do whatever you want with me.”

Elias’s jaw tightened. His eyes went dark in the way Adrian recognized from a hundred hotel rooms—the shift from analytical to predatory, from the man who read data to the man who read bodies.

“The doors are locked?”

“Locked. Cameras are on the entrances, not the engineering bay. I checked.”

“Of course you checked.” The faintest trace of the almost-smile. “You planned this.”

“I planned for the possibility. There’s a difference.” Adrian threw his own words back at him—the Imola line, the lube-and-condom line, the one that had made Adrian laugh the first time Elias was inside him. “I’m a driver. I plan for every scenario.”

Elias crossed the distance between them in two steps, cupped Adrian’s jaw, and kissed him—hard, brief, a statement of intent rather than a request for permission. Then he stepped back.

“Get in the car.”

The cockpit of an F1 car was not designed for two people. It was designed for one—custom-molded, fitted to the exact contours of Adrian’s body, the tightest space in motorsport. But with the bodywork removed, the cockpit was open enough for access, and the harness was a six-point system with a central buckle that clicked over the driver’s sternum, and Elias’s hands on that buckle had been the beginning of everything.

Adrian climbed in. Settled into the seat. The carbon fiber was cold against his back through his T-shirt, and the cockpit smelled like new car and old adrenaline, and when he looked up, Elias was standing over him with the harness straps in his hands and an expression that made Adrian’s cock thicken in his jeans before a single strap was pulled.

Elias worked the harness with precision. Shoulder straps first—pulled snug, not crushing, the webbing lying flat across Adrian’s chest. Waist straps next, cinching his hips into the seat. Then the crotch strap, fed through between his thighs, and Elias’s knuckles brushed against Adrian’s inner thigh as he threaded it, and the contact was so specific and so deliberate and so clearly not accidental that Adrian’s breath caught audibly.

Click. The central hub locked. Adrian was strapped in.

Immobilized. Shoulders pinned. Waist locked. Legs constrained by the cockpit walls. He could move his hands and his head and nothing else, and the vulnerability of that—of being held in place by the same equipment that kept him alive at 300 km/h, with the man he loved standing over him with full access and zero audience—made every nerve ending in his body fire simultaneously.

“Comfortable?” Elias asked. His voice was already lower. Closer. The frequency that existed only in locked rooms and dark hotels and was now, for the first time, being deployed in the space where they worked.

“Define comfortable.” Adrian’s voice was rough. His cock was fully hard now, pressing against his jeans, confined by the crotch strap in a way that was maddening and perfect and doing something to his brain that no amount of engineering could explain.

Elias braced one hand on the edge of the cockpit and leaned in. His mouth found Adrian’s—slow, thorough, a kiss that took its time because Adrian couldn’t grab him, couldn’t pull him closer, couldn’t do anything except sit in the seat and take what Elias gave. His tongue traced Adrian’s lower lip, then pushed inside, and Adrian moaned into his mouth—the sound bouncing off the garage walls, amplified by the concrete and the steel and the vast empty space around them.

Elias kissed him until Adrian’s hands were gripping the cockpit rim and his hips were straining against the waist strap and his breathing had gone from controlled to ragged. Then he pulled back. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Looked down at Adrian with the focused attention of an engineer assessing a system’s readiness.

Then he picked up his radio headset from the workstation. Put it on. One earpiece. Microphone arm positioned by his mouth.

Adrian’s entire body went taut. “Elias. What are you—”

“Radio check.” The pit wall voice. The one that had guided Adrian through rain and gravel and sixteen seconds of silence in Brazil. Calm. Measured. Professionally detached. Except now it was six inches from his face and being used for purposes the FIA had not sanctioned. “Adrian. Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.” Adrian’s voice was already wrecked. The headset. The voice. The fucking headset.

Elias’s hand traveled down Adrian’s chest. Over the shoulder straps. Across the central buckle—pressing it, briefly, a ghost of the gesture that had started everything in Melbourne when their fingers had tangled on this exact piece of hardware. Down his stomach. To his belt.

He undid Adrian’s jeans with one hand. The belt. The button. The zipper. Efficient, precise, the muscle memory of a man who’d been undressing this specific body for a year. He pulled Adrian’s cock free—hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip, straining in the cold garage air—and wrapped his hand around it.

Adrian’s hips jerked against the harness. The straps held. His body strained and the equipment contained him and the combination of the grip and the restraint and the cold air and Elias’s hand, warm and sure and holding him exactly the way his hands held everything—with precision, with authority, with the absolute confidence of a man who knew what he was doing—was so overwhelming that Adrian’s vision blurred.

“Sector 1,” Elias said. The radio voice. Not a crack in it. His thumb swept over the head of Adrian’s cock, spreading the slick that was already pooling there, and began to stroke. Slow. Measured. The pace of a first stint on hard tires. “Entry speed looks good. Grip levels are excellent. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Adrian made a sound that had no business existing outside a bedroom. A raw, guttural moan that echoed off the Silverstone garage walls and died in the rafters, and he didn’t care, because the garage was empty and the doors were locked and the man he loved was jerking him off in a Formula 1 car while wearing a headset and narrating the act like telemetry data.

The strokes built. Elias’s grip tightened on the upstroke, twisted at the top, loosened on the down—a rhythm as precise as a pit-stop call, designed to build sensation without pushing Adrian over the edge. His other hand gripped the cockpit rim for leverage, his knuckles white, his forearm flexed, and the sight of Elias’s strong, steady, engineer’s hand working his cock while the other held the car was the most erotic image Adrian had ever processed.

“Pace is building,” Elias murmured. The radio cadence. The sector-update delivery. “You’re responding beautifully to the inputs. Sector 2, looking strong.” His thumb found the sensitive ridge below the head and pressed, and Adrian’s back arched against the seat and a groan tore out of him that was closer to a shout. “Stay with me.”

“Elias—fuck—I’m not going to last—”

“Not yet.” The hand slowed. The pace dropped to nothing—just the lightest hold, fingertips barely touching, the barest suggestion of contact. Adrian’s hips strained against the harness, desperate for friction, and the straps held him in place with the impersonal authority of a machine designed to contain a human body under extreme forces. “Tire management, Adrian. We’re not pitting early. You’re going to last the full stint.”

“You’re killing me.”

“I’m managing your degradation curve. There’s a difference.” The hand resumed. Faster now. The grip firmer. Long, twisting strokes from base to tip, each one drawing a sound from Adrian that was louder than the last, and Elias leaned closer, his mouth beside Adrian’s ear, the headset microphone brushing Adrian’s cheek, and his voice dropped from pit-wall authority to the midnight register—the one that belonged to hotel rooms and dark corridors and the moments when the composure came off and the man underneath emerged.

“You look incredible right now,” Elias said. Low. Raw. Nothing like the radio. Everything like the radio. “Strapped into my car, cock in my hand, making those sounds. I’ve thought about this since Melbourne. Since the harness buckle. Since the first time I touched this”—his free hand pressed the central hub, right over Adrian’s sternum—“and felt your heartbeat underneath and wanted to make it race.”

“Elias—please—”

“Please what?”

“Make me come. I need—I can’t—the harness, I can’t move, I can’t touch you, I need you to—”

“I know what you need.” Elias’s hand tightened. The pace became relentless—fast, firm, the steady, unshakeable rhythm of a man who understood that precision was not the opposite of intensity but the source of it. His thumb swept the head on every upstroke. His grip twisted at the base. And his voice—god, his voice—shifted back to the radio register, calm and commanding and impossibly, devastatingly professional.

“Final sector. Push now. Everything you have. This is it.”

Adrian came.

The orgasm hit him like a barrier at speed—sudden, total, the kind that started at the base of his spine and detonated outward until every muscle in his body was locked and shaking. He came in hot, pulsing streaks across his stomach and Elias’s fist, his body convulsing against the six-point harness, the straps biting into his shoulders and waist as he strained and jerked and cried out with a sound that filled the empty Silverstone garage and rang off the concrete walls and was, without question, the loudest noise the building had heard since the last engine test.

Elias stroked him through it. Every aftershock. Every tremor. His hand gentled as the peak passed, the grip loosening, the pace slowing, drawing out the last shuddering waves of pleasure with the same patient precision he used to nurse dying tires through the final laps of a race.

Adrian slumped in the cockpit. His chest heaved against the harness. His vision was white at the edges. His cock was still twitching in Elias’s hand, oversensitive, the nerves firing in the specific aftermath pattern of a man who’d just had the best orgasm of his life in a Formula 1 car.

“Checkered flag,” Elias said quietly. The almost-smile. “P1.”

Adrian laughed. Breathless, wrecked, delirious. “Get me out of this car.”

Elias pressed the harness release. One click. The straps fell away. Adrian surged out of the cockpit, grabbed Elias by the front of his team fleece, and kissed him with the uncaged ferocity of a man who’d spent the last ten minutes immobilized and was now very, very free.

He walked Elias backward. Three steps, four, until Elias’s back hit the tire rack on the far wall and the spare rubber rattled in its cradles and Adrian dropped to his knees on the concrete floor without breaking the kiss until gravity demanded it.

“Adr—”

“Shut up. My turn.”

He undid Elias’s belt. His trousers. Pulled everything down in one efficient motion and took Elias’s cock in his hand—hard, straining, leaking, the evidence that the last ten minutes had been as devastating for the person giving as for the person receiving. Adrian stroked him twice, watching Elias’s face, watching the composure fragment in real time—the jaw going slack, the eyes going dark, the hands gripping the tire rack behind him as if it were the only thing keeping him vertical.

Then Adrian took him in his mouth.

He’d learned this over a year of practice. Learned what made Elias’s thighs lock. Learned the spot below the head that made his breath stutter. Learned the rhythm that built fastest—not the aggressive, deep strokes that felt impressive but the slow, focused suction with his tongue working the underside that made Elias lose his words and his composure and his mind in approximately that order.

He deployed all of it now. On the concrete floor of the Silverstone engineering bay, on his knees, with his jeans still undone and the taste of Elias filling his mouth and the headset still on Elias’s ear, askew, the microphone arm pointing at the ceiling like a raised flag of surrender.

Elias’s hand found Adrian’s hair. Gripped. Not guiding—holding on. The fingers tightened as Adrian took him deeper, and the sounds Elias made were the sounds Adrian had spent a year collecting and categorizing and getting addicted to: the sharp intake through his teeth, the low groan that vibrated in his chest, the broken whisper of Adrian’s name spoken like a man losing an argument with his own self-control.

“Adrian—I’m—you need to—”

Adrian didn’t pull off. He hollowed his cheeks, swallowed around him, took him as deep as he could, and Elias came with a shattered groan and both hands fisted in Adrian’s hair, his hips jerking forward, his whole body bowing away from the tire rack as the orgasm ripped through him. The headset fell off. Clattered on the concrete. Neither of them cared.

Adrian swallowed. Pulled off. Wiped his mouth. Looked up at Elias, who was standing against the tire rack with his trousers around his thighs and his chest heaving and his composure in absolute ruins, and felt the specific, bone-deep satisfaction of being the only person in the world who could do this to Elias Sato.

“Your headset fell off,” Adrian said.

“I noticed.”

“Poor radio discipline.”

“You had my cock in your mouth. I think radio discipline can be forgiven.”

Adrian laughed. Standing up was an effort—his knees had opinions about the concrete—but he managed it, and Elias pulled him in and kissed him, tasting himself on Adrian’s tongue, and the kiss was slow and thorough and carried the specific tenderness that only existed on the other side of the desperate, the sweetness that followed the filth, the love that underwrote everything they did to each other.

They ended up on the garage floor. Side by side, backs against the tire rack, legs stretched out on the cold concrete, staring up at the fluorescent lights. Elias’s fleece was half off. Adrian’s jeans were still undone. The headset lay between them like a piece of evidence from a crime scene. The car sat on its stand six feet away, harness straps dangling from the cockpit, looking thoroughly scandalized.

“We have”—Elias checked his watch—“forty-three minutes until the test schedule starts.”

“Is that enough time to run the setup protocol?”

“Barely. If we start now.”

“Or we could stay here for five more minutes and then start.”

“Five minutes of floor time is not an efficient use of pre-test resources.”

“Five minutes of floor time with you is the most efficient use of any resource I’ve ever found.”

Elias turned his head. Looked at Adrian on the cold garage floor with his hair insane and his expression—the real one, the one without the press or the performance, the one that existed only for Elias—lit by fluorescent tubes in a Silverstone engineering bay in February.

“I love you,” Elias said. Simply. Without analysis. Without qualifying the statement with data or context or professional disclaimers. Just the three words, offered by a man who’d spent his whole life quantifying everything and had discovered, in the space of one season, that the most important variable couldn’t be measured.

“I love you too.” Adrian took his hand. Laced their fingers together on the concrete. “Same time next year?”

“Same time every year.”

“Think we can win again?”

“I think we can do anything.”

Adrian leaned his head against Elias’s shoulder. Closed his eyes. Felt the cold concrete under him and the warm body beside him and the quiet hum of a garage that had just witnessed the most unprofessional use of a six-point harness in the history of Formula 1.

Five minutes. Then they’d get up and clean up and run the setup protocol and do the test and be the best driver-engineer partnership the sport had ever seen.

But first: five minutes. On the floor. Holding hands. In the place where everything had started—a voice on a radio, a hand on a harness, the quiet, revolutionary act of trusting someone else with the wheel.

They held on. They always held on.

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