Ayomide, Darren, Tolupe, and Kiki settled into their seats for the final F1 Racing event, the event that only came around once every three years. From their vantage point, they had a clear view of the track, as the roar of engines in the distance blending with the excited chatter of the crowd.
Ayomide leaned back, trying to appear casual as he let his eyes wander over the crowd men walking, standing, talking. Darren caught him a few times, smirking whenever Ayomide lingered a little too long on someone's jawline or the curve of their arse.
The event itself was chaotic and electric fans waving flags, cheering for their teams, and the occasional flare lighting up the stands but the four of them moved through it with the kind of quiet confidence that drew attention without demanding it. Ayomide didn't know much about racing; it wasn't his scene, more Tolupe's thing. Still, he felt the hum of excitement, the thrill of the engines, the tension of competition.
The four siblings had class, even when leaning back in their seats, their dark skin and striking red hair setting them apart from the sea of spectators. Darren's blonde buzz cut made him stand out even more, his grin casual but knowing, like he owned the moment without needing to prove it. They didn't lose themselves in the spectacle not entirely but they let themselves enjoy it in quiet doses. Sips of drinks, shared glances, soft laughter. Mafia heirs, seasoned in the art of patience and control, moving like predators among the excited herd. The engines roared again, signaling another lap, and Ayomide felt that familiar thrill the subtle pulse of danger and power running beneath it all.
Jasmine Adelusi arrived midway through the event, cutting through the row with effortless confidence. The eldest daughter of a rival clan, she didn't need to announce herself her presence did that for her. Heads turned and conversations dipped. Ayomide's siblings noticed immediately, exchanging brief looks that said they understood exactly who she was and what she represented.
Ayomide noticed her too—and felt his jaw tighten.
He'd caught the implication before, long before tonight. His parents' expectations were never subtle. Jasmine Adelusi fit the picture they'd painted for him perfectly. The problem was simple and immovable: women didn't do it for him. And no one knew that truth except Darren.
Jasmine didn't hesitate when she reached their row. Her gaze locked onto Ayomide like the seat beside him had always belonged to her.
"I hope you don't mind," she said smoothly, already turning sideways. "I'd rather sit here."
Right next to him.
Darren blinked once, then smirked, standing and shifting without protest. "Be my guest," he said easily, giving Ayomide a look that said I've got you.
Jasmine settled beside Ayomide with practiced grace, tall and fit, confidence rolling off her in waves. She smelled expensive. Looked impeccable. Exactly the kind of woman families built alliances around.
Ayomide felt nothing.
He leaned back, posture relaxed but guarded, eyes drifting toward the track as engines screamed past. Jasmine started talking—light, charming commentary about the race, the crowd, the atmosphere. He responded when necessary, polite and measured, letting Darren pick up most of the conversation when he could.
She laughed once, brushing her hair back, clearly comfortable in his space. Ayomide clocked it all without engaging—her calculated ease, her quiet confidence, the way she acted like this was already decided.
Around them, the crowd roared, engines thundered, and the night buzzed with energy. Ayomide stayed calm, untouchable. Let alliances be imagined. Let seats be claimed.
A few hours had passed with Jasmine talking his ears off, and Darren quietly helping him navigate the event. Ayomide was grateful for his friend, who seemed to sense when he needed a lifeline.
Needing a break, Ayomide excused himself and wandered toward the restroom stalls, his steps carrying him away from the main stands. The track stretched below him like a ribbon of controlled chaos—sleek asphalt glinting under bright floodlights, grandstands packed with cheering fans waving flags, and the roar of engines reverberating through the air. Pit crews moved with precise efficiency, monitors flashing stats, and occasional bursts of fire from exhausts lighting up the night. It was intense, electric, and entirely overwhelming for someone who didn't follow racing.
As he rounded a corner near one of the quieter hallways behind the stands, Ayomide froze. Against a shadowed wall, a tall, brown-haired man—Lucien—stood, commanding the space with an ease that seemed to bend the light around him. On his knees before him was another man, whose lips Lucien held with deliberate, unhurried control. The sounds that filled the hallway were raw, intimate, and undeniable.
Ayomide couldn't move. Every sharp intake of breath, every moan, sent heat pooling low in his stomach. He had no idea who these men were, but the sight—the way Lucien's eyes stayed locked on him even as he moved, the slow bite of his lips, the confidence that radiated from every line of his body—had Ayomide flush with an unfamiliar, urgent desire.
Finally, Lucien reached his climax, a deep exhale of satisfaction that seemed to linger in the air. The man on his knees rose, sheepishly straightening his clothes and slipping away into the shadows. Lucien, however, remained, back pressed against the wall, eyes still locked on Ayomide as he adjusted himself. The intensity in that gaze, the unapologetic sensuality radiating from him, left Ayomide rooted in place, heart racing.
Every small detail—the curl of his hair, the way he bit his lip, the controlled dominance—pulled at something primal inside Ayomide. He hadn't expected this, and yet he couldn't look away.
Lucien didn't rush to move. He stayed exactly where he was, breathing steady now, one shoulder against the cool wall like he owned the space—and maybe the moment too. His gaze never left Ayomide's, dark and assessing, sharp with interest but tightly controlled. Not an invitation. Not a challenge. Something quieter. Heavier.
Ayomide swallowed, pulse loud in his ears. He should've looked away. Should've remembered where he was, who he was. Instead, he held the stare, chin lifting a fraction on instinct alone. Pride. Curiosity. Heat.
For a beat too long, nothing happened.
Lucien's eyes flicked down—brief, deliberate—lingering on Ayomide's mouth. His lips parted slightly, breath slow, as if he were imagining how they'd feel under his teeth. Then his gaze dipped lower, just enough to notice the unmistakable outline straining against Ayomide's pants.
Lucien's mouth curved—just barely. Not a smile. More like acknowledgment. Like he'd seen something he liked and had already decided what to do with it.
Ayomide felt it then, that charged awareness crawling up his spine, settling low in his gut. The kind that didn't fade. The kind that promised trouble.
Lucien finally straightened, slow and deliberate, adjusting his clothes with unhurried confidence. As he passed, close enough that Ayomide caught the faint trace of his scent—clean, sharp, undeniably masculine—Lucien leaned in, voice low and husky, meant only for him.
"I think you should take care of that."
Ayomide's breath hitched. "Excuse me?"
Lucien's eyes flicked down once more, unapologetic, then back up to lock onto his. "You look uncomfortable," he murmured, tone smooth, knowing. "Wouldn't want it distracting you."
Footsteps echoed down the corridor—voices, laughter, reality crashing back in. Lucien stepped away, already blending into the crowd, but not before glancing back one last time, gaze lingering on Ayomide's mouth like a promise.
Not goodbye.
Just soon.
Ayomide stood there for a moment longer, chest tight, blood roaring in his ears. Whatever that was—whatever he was—it wasn't a one-time thing. He knew it in his bones.
When he finally turned toward the stalls, his reflection stared back at him—eyes darker, lips parted, body painfully aware of itself.
And somewhere deep down, with startling clarity, he understood one thing:
That wasn't the last time Lucien would look at him like that.