Drive me Wild, Rival(BL)

Nico

I was trending again with Alaric de Villier. The moment I opened my phone, notifications flooded in like a wave. My name sat at the top of worldwide trends right next to #AlaricDevilier and #NicoAlaric.

Someone had recorded our entire test race at the private facility and uploaded it. The video had already crossed thirty million views in just a few hours.

I clicked play and watched it again, unable to stop myself. The footage showed every angle of our race. It looked incredible as I watched, but my mood darkened as I scrolled through the comments.

The praise for me was expected, as always, and the bashing was aimed at Alaric.

@F1Daily:

"Alaric got absolutely cooked 😂 Bro was away for two years and still thinks he can compete with Nico? Embarrassing performance."

@RedBullFanatic:

"Nico is on another level. Alaric looked slow, rusty, and desperate. Maybe he should just retire for good."

@FerrariLoyalist:

"Painful to watch. Alaric de Villier in a Ferrari and still getting humiliated. Where did the old fire go?"

@GridGossip:

"Park is back and already owning de Villier. The king has returned 👑 Alaric is just there collecting a paycheck at this point. I just know he is going to lose the championship to Nico Park this year."

I kept scrolling, and the comments kept coming. People were calling Alaric washed up. Some even went as far as calling him overrated—a has-been. Some even questioned if he deserved to be back.

The comments were supposed to make me feel better, make me feel like I was in charge, but every cruel word against Alaric felt like a punch to my chest.

I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Alaric had been on hiatus. He had fought his way back. He had pushed me harder than almost anyone else on that track today. And these idiots were tearing him apart just because he lost by less than half a second.

I stared at the screen for a long moment, frowning and thinking about what to do. Before I could talk myself out of it, I opened a private browser and created an anonymous X account—@GridShadow47—and started replying to everyone I could.

@GridShadow47:

"People calling Alaric washed after that performance are blind. He was on hiatus for years and still pushed Nico Park to the absolute limit in a private test. That’s champion mentality. Respect the comeback."

I kept going, replying to the worst comments.

@GridShadow47:

"Half a second behind after being away that long? Most drivers would’ve been lapped. Alaric showed fire today. Haters are just loud."

@GridShadow47:

"Nico won, yes. But let’s not pretend Alaric didn’t make it an actual race. The guy still has it. Give him time to get back to full fitness. He survived an accident. Any driver wouldn’t return to the grid after that, but he did, and that’s courageous of him."

I posted a few more measured defenses, liking supportive comments and subtly boosting them. It felt strangely satisfying.

I knew I shouldn’t care this much. I had just beaten him. Yet seeing strangers tear him down online made something protective and possessive flare up inside me. The only one allowed to shade him was me—and nobody else.

I closed the app and tossed my phone onto the couch with a sharp flick of my wrist. Running a hand through my already messy hair, I let out a slow breath, trying to settle the restless energy still buzzing under my skin.

It wasn’t enough. Nothing felt like enough when it came to Alaric.

I stood up and walked toward the private wine cellar. The temperature-controlled room was dimly lit, rows of carefully selected bottles glowing softly.

My fingers trailed over the labels until I found the one I wanted—a 2016 Château Lafite Rothschild. I pulled the bottle out, along with two crystal glasses, and carried them with me.

I poured the deep ruby liquid into both glasses, watching it swirl elegantly. The aroma of blackcurrant, cedar, and a hint of truffle filled the air. I picked up both glasses and headed straight for the private rooftop of Le Ciel Privé.

The warm Monaco night air brushed against my bare skin as I stepped outside. I was half-naked, wearing only a pair of loose black long pants that hung low on my hips. My tattooed chest and arms were fully exposed, the cool breeze raising goosebumps along my muscles.

Monaco stretched out beneath me like a glittering jewel box—the lights of the harbor twinkling against the dark Mediterranean, luxury yachts glowing softly in the distance, and the iconic architecture of Monte Carlo painted in gold and silver. The view was breathtaking, but my mind was elsewhere.

It was well past eleven.

Alaric still wasn’t here.

I took a slow sip from my glass, the wine smooth and powerful on my tongue, and stared out at the glittering city below.

"Oh, he is playing right into my face," I muttered under my breath, a dark chuckle escaping me. "Making me wait like this."

I wondered if he would actually come. Part of me expected him to defy the bet out of pure stubbornness. Another, deeper part of me knew he would show up.

"Would he really fail to come?" I murmured to myself, taking another sip.

The thought irritated me more than it should have. I heaved a deep sigh and glanced at my Rolex again.

The seconds ticked by slowly.

I looked toward the private elevator door for a few long moments, anticipation coiling tight in my chest. Just as I was about to turn away, convinced he had decided to stand me up, I heard it—the soft electronic beeping of the access code being entered from outside.

A wicked grin spread across my face.

He was here.

He had come.

The elevator doors slid open, and there he stood—Alaric de Villier.

And fuck.

He looked sinful.

He wore a sleek white pleated halter-style shirt that was completely off the shoulder, the silky fabric draping elegantly over his collarbone and chest while leaving his shoulders and upper arms deliciously bare.

A thick black choker wrapped around his neck like an invitation. The shirt was tucked into tailored black pants that hugged his thighs and hips perfectly, finished with a silver bracelet on his wrist.

The entire outfit was elegant, expensive, and dangerously seductive—as if he had dressed specifically to torment me.

He wore dark shades, probably to disguise himself. The moment he removed them and stared at me with those hazel eyes, I grinned wickedly.

"Look at you," I said, my voice low and rough with appreciation. "You really went all out for me tonight, didn’t you? That pretty little off-shoulder shirt... the choker... Are you trying to make me lose control the second you walk in, princess?"

Alaric frowned in response. "I don’t give a damn about you. I came here because of the bet. Nothing more. Don’t get any silly ideas into your head and stop calling me Princess.’’

"Oh really?" I chuckled, stepping closer, my eyes dark with hunger as they roamed over his exposed shoulders and the way the white fabric clung to his chest. "That shirt looks like it was made to be taken off. Slowly. With my teeth."

I reached out and lightly traced one finger along the exposed skin of his shoulder, feeling him shiver under my touch. "You dressed like this for our little bet... or do you want me to ruin it?"

He slapped my hand off him, but that only made me chuckle deeper, the sound rich and dangerous.

"What the hell is the bet? Tell me!" he demanded.

I leaned in until our faces were inches apart, my bare chest almost brushing against his clothed one. In a low, husky voice, I replied in Korean, the words rolling off my tongue like a dark promise.

"Neo-neun nae naegiya. Nae siksago... jigeum dangjang neoreul meogeochil geoya."

(You are the bet. You are my meal... and I am going to devour you right now.)

Before he could react, I pulled him hard into my chest with one arm, the other hand still holding the glass of wine.

My mouth crashed into his in a devouring kiss—deep, filthy, and completely unhinged. I kissed him like I wanted to consume him whole, my tongue pushing past his lips, claiming every inch of his mouth with aggressive, hungry strokes.

Alaric tried to push me off, his hands shoving at my bare shoulders, but I didn’t let go. The wine glass slipped from my fingers and shattered on the rooftop floor.

I didn’t care that I was barefoot, and the sharp pieces of glass crunched under my feet as I stepped forward, pressing him harder against the wall.

A small sting registered, but the pain only fueled the fire burning inside me.

I kissed him again, even harder this time—devouring, dominating, relentless. My tongue pushed into his mouth, sucking on his, biting his lower lip until he gasped. And then, slowly, beautifully, Alaric stopped fighting.

He kissed me back.

His hands fisted in my hair, pulling me closer as his tongue tangled with mine in a messy, desperate battle.

A low, broken moan escaped him into my mouth, and I swallowed it greedily, grinding my hard cock against his thigh through the thin fabric of my pants.

"I want you so bad. I have been thinking about that night in the Maldives," I said while panting. "And I shouldn’t have walked away like that."I muttered against his lips and started kissing him again.