Drive me Wild, Rival(BL)

Alaric

The limousine door had barely closed behind me when I sank back into the leather seat, the cool air inside doing little to calm the heat still burning under my skin.

The fundraising gala wasn’t over yet, but I had left early letting Dorothy take care of the rest

Harold was already there, lounging with one arm draped over the back of the seat like he hadn’t abandoned me to the wolves earlier.

"You could have seen the look on Nico’s face," I said, unable to keep the satisfaction out of my voice. "When that gavel came down and he realized I wasn’t going to let him walk all over me. I punched that bastard in the face for getting on my nerves."

Harold laughed. "I bet it was priceless. But you need to be prepared for the season, Alaric. Show that cocky bastard that you’re really back. Don’t let him get under your skin like that, because that’s exactly what he’s trying to do."

I let out a groan and adjusted my tie, pulling at the silk as if it had suddenly grown tighter.

The problem was, Nico had already gotten under my skin—and deeper than I wanted to admit. His words from the restroom kept replaying in my head: the shameless comments, the way he had looked at me, the way he had leaned in and whispered things that no rival should ever say.

And worse... my body had reacted.

I felt the insistent hardness in my pants, the unwanted boner that had started the moment he had pressed close and called me "darling" in that low, dangerous voice. Heat crawled up my neck. I quickly crossed my legs, shifting in the seat so Harold wouldn’t notice anything. The last thing I needed was him catching on and turning this into another round of teasing.

The ride fell into silence after that. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows while the limousine glided smoothly through the streets. I stared out at the passing buildings, trying to push the images away—the way Nico’s eyes had darkened, the smirk that never left his face, the feel of his breath against my ear. It was infuriating. He was infuriating.

Yet my body refused to listen to reason. Instead, I wanted a replay of that moment.

Goodness, I thought. This was not how I had planned to spend the rest of the night at all.

I planned to drop Harold off first, then head straight to my mother’s house. She had been waiting to hear how the gala went, and after the chaos of the night, I needed the quiet comfort of home more than I cared to admit. The thought of her calm presence gave me some assurance.

The limousine finally slowed as we reached Harold’s building. The driver pulled up smoothly to the curb, the engine purring softly in the background.

Even though Harold and I had become friends two years ago, I had never visited his place—not even once. But he was always welcome at mine. I didn’t know why he hadn’t invited me, and I never questioned it. I knew the right time would come.

"This is it," I muttered.

Harold straightened up, grabbing his jacket from the seat beside him. "Get some rest tonight. Tomorrow we start planning how you’re going to crush him on the track."

I nodded, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. See you tomorrow."

He clapped me on the shoulder once before stepping out into the night.

"Go on," I ordered the driver as I shut the door, leaving me alone in the spacious cabin.

I uncrossed my legs slowly, exhaling as the silence wrapped around me. The boner had eased slightly during the ride, but the memory of Nico’s words still lingered.

"Arrogant bastard," I muttered under my breath, adjusting my suit jacket as the car continued toward my mother’s estate in Monte Carlo.

The drive through the winding streets of Monte Carlo was a blur of neon and limestone. We pulled up to the De Villier estate, a sprawling neo-classical villa perched precariously on the cliffs of the Larvotto district.

In Monaco, space was the ultimate luxury, and our home had plenty of it. The wrought-iron gates swung open silently, revealing a driveway lined with ancient olive trees that looked down over the shimmering black expanse of the sea.

The villa was a masterpiece of white marble and floor-to-ceiling glass, illuminated by golden soft-lights that made the entire structure look like a glowing jewel against the dark cliffs.

As I stepped into the grand foyer, the scent of expensive beeswax and fresh jasmine greeted me.

"Alaric! My darling boy!"

My mother, Beatrice, hurried down the sweeping marble staircase. Even at this hour, she looked every bit the De Villier matriarch in a silk dressing gown that probably cost more than most people’s cars. She wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug, her perfume—something floral and timeless—filling my senses.

"You look exhausted, Alaric," she murmured, pulling back to cup my face. Her eyes drifted to my hand, where the skin over my knuckles was slightly swollen. She didn’t ask. In this house, we were experts at not asking.

"I’m fine, Maman," I lied, forcing a soft smile. "I just wanted to stop by before the season officially starts. Is... is Bastien awake?"

Her expression faltered, a flicker of sadness crossing her hazel eyes. "He’s in his room. He hasn’t moved from the window all evening."

I nodded, my heart feeling like a lead weight in my chest. I headed upstairs, my footsteps muffled by the thick Persian rugs that lined the hallway. I passed the gallery of family portraits—generations of racers, winners, and kings—until I reached the door at the very end of the hall.

I pushed it open quietly.

The room was vast, overlooking the harbor where millions of dollars worth of yachts bobbed in the water. The only light came from the moon reflecting off the waves. In the center of that light, silhouetted against the glass, sat Bastien.

He was in his wheelchair, his frame looking smaller than I remembered, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

"Hey, brother," I said softly, stepping into the room.

Bastien didn’t move. He hadn’t spoken to me in two years—not since the accident. He had been my greatest supporter and would have joined the Ferrari racers if not for the crash that took his legs.

I walked over to stand beside him, looking out at the same view. "I’m joining the season in a few weeks," I said. "It’s my first appearance in years. I really hope you come watch me like you always do. It will mean a lot to me."

I expected the usual silence. But then, a sound broke the quiet.

It was a laugh. Dry, raspy, and devoid of joy.

Bastien slowly turned the wheels of his chair, facing me for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. His eyes, so like mine but clouded with a bitterness I couldn’t reach, locked onto mine.

"You must feel so happy, Alaric," Bastien said.

His voice was hoarse from disuse, but the words were clear. I froze, my breath hitching in my throat. He was speaking. After years of silence, after years of me begging for just one word, he was finally looking at me and speaking.

"Bas..." I whispered. "You’re talking to me."

"You must be so happy," Bastien repeated, his voice gaining a jagged, cruel edge. "Knowing that you get to go back. You get to sit in that cockpit, feel the engine, and pretend nothing changed... while I’m stuck in this chair. While our father is six feet underground—all because of you."