Summary: Y/N and Lando Norris are fated mates. But it makes no sense cause Y/N is a human, right? They navigate the difficulties of an intense mate bond, experiencing the HEAT, and a newfound love. Y/N is shy and struggles with anxiety from a traumatic past. Lando is one of the most powerfull alphas in the whole of Europe. Are they really a good match?
❣︎ Temporary Paralysis?
Summary: Lando was left paralysed from his waist and down after a terrifying crash. Y/N is his caretaker, the one whose goal it is, to make him walk again. Can it stay professional only between them though? Lando’s not sure.
❣︎ Missing you
Summary: Two years after their divorce and the worst day of Lando’s life him and Y/n are reunited. Lando is trying to find his way back with her, knowing that what they have is true love, but Y/n is a little harder to convince.
❣︎ No strings attached
Summary: Lando Norris is the mafia boss of Monaco. He’s used to violence, the high class life in Monaco, the usual. But once y/n, a highly trained assasin catches his attention, he tries to impress her. She dosent seem very interested in him, only the quick distracted she gets when she’s with him.
❣︎ Six years
Summary: Lando is hopelessly in love with his parent’s friends daughter. She’s 6 years younger than him and still a teenager. His life is very different from hers, and his insane schedule keeps him away from home more than he’s there. Even though he tries to stay away from her he finds himself drawn to her like a moth to a flame.
❣︎ Lando’s Luna
Summary: Lando and Y/n are fated mates. Lando is a powerfull alpha and therefore he deals with intense biological instincts. Y/n is trying to handle the life as a Luna when she grew up in a world only teaching about how to live with a Beta or Omega. Can she handle the Lando Norris?
Miniseries:
Crashing into the truth pt 1 ✅
🔥 |15,4k| Summary: Y/N and Lando Norris have always been enemies — sharp words, sharper stares. One “harmless” gentleman gesture turns into a night neither of you meant to have… and feelings he definitely wasn’t supposed to show. By morning, everything’s ruined. Then comes the crash. And suddenly, everything gets turned upside down.
Crashing into the truth pt 2 ✅
🔥☁️ |5,8k| Summary: Y/N takes care of Lando after his crash, but he’s not the best at listening to the doctors advice. Y/N tries, but fails at making him behave
Oreos pt 1 - blowjob ✅
🔥☁️ |2,6k| Summary: Y/N is in the paddock for the first. After a sweet surprise arranged by Lando, Y/N can’t help herself but thank him the most prober way she knows how to.
Oreos pt 2 - cockwarming ✅
🔥☁️ |4,3k| Summary: Y/N and Lando is at a team dinner and when the served dessert is a big disappointment to Y/N, Lando is there to fix it. And Y/N of course thanks him very generously.
🔥”Im just here for the sex” pt 1
|7,2k| Summary: In which Y/n accidentally tells Lando’s mom that she’s only watching him play golf for sex.
🔥”Im just here for the sex” pt 2
|3,1k| Summary: Y/n gives Lando a handjob under a blanket, right in front of his parents.
Oneshots:
🔥 Smut:
🔥 8 years
|4,7k| Summary: There has always been this intense tension between Y/N and Lando. Y/N is sure that it’s attraction, but Lando tries to convince himself otherwise. Cause wouldn’t he be disgusting, if he was really attracted to someone 8 years younger than him? It all goes down on a casual day at the paddle court.
🔥 Im not a pillow princess, right?
|7,2k| Summary: Y/n intends to prove to Lando that she is no such thing as a pillow princess. It just dosen’t go the way she imagined it.
🔥 Pearls on your skin
|3,2k| Summary: Lando absolutely loves to cum on your body. Something about you being all marked by him. He thought he had it all, but then he discovers a new spot to cum on.
🔥☁️🥺 It was never about the sex anyways
|5,5k| Summary: Y/N and Lando get into an argument that leaves them both frustrated. They do indeed intend to have make up sex, but are interrupted in the act.
☁️ Fluff
☁️ Kinder bars and Kisses
|2,9k| Summary: Lando gets his wisdom teeth removed and is being a baby about it. Luckily he’s got y/n to feed him kinder bars and give him kisses.
Summary ━━━━━ Y/n gives Lando a handjob under a blanket, right in front of his parents.
Word count ━━━━━ 3,1k
The soft glow of Y/N's vanity mirror cast a warm light across her face as she applied the finishing touches to her makeup. She'd chosen a simple but elegant navy blue dress that fell just above her knees, with delicate spaghetti straps that showed off her shoulders. It was sophisticated enough to meet the parents but still felt like her.
Behind her, the bathroom door creaked open, and she watched in the mirror as Lando entered, already dressed in a sharp black suit that made him look impossibly handsome. His hair was slightly damp from his shower, and as he approached, the familiar scent of his cologne wrapped around her like a comforting blanket.
"Almost ready?" he murmured, his arms sliding around her waist from behind as he pressed a soft kiss to the sensitive skin of her neck.
Y/N's eyes fluttered closed, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she leaned back against him. "Almost. Just need to finish my lipstick."
His lips trailed along her shoulder, his breath warm against her skin. "You look incredible tonight. My parents are going to love you."
"They're going to think I'm a sex-crazed maniac who corrupted their precious son," Y/N retorted, though there was no real heat in her words as she tilted her head to give him better access to her neck.
Lando chuckled, the sound vibrating through her entire body. "Well, you are a sex-crazed maniac, but you're my sex-crazed maniac. And as for corrupting me... I think we can agree that's a mutual effort."
His hands roamed over her body, tracing the curve of her hips before sliding down to rest on her inner thighs, just beneath the hem of her dress. The heat from his palms sent a tingling sensation through her entire body, and she felt herself responding instinctively to his touch.
"Lando," she breathed, her voice already thick with desire. "We have to go. We can't be late."
"We can be a little late," he murmured, his fingers tracing circles on her sensitive skin. "I'm sure my parents won't mind waiting."
Y/N's resolve was weakening, her body betraying her mind as it responded to his touch. She wanted to stay here, to let him touch her like this until she was a trembling mess, but the thought of facing his parents after arriving late was enough to make her pull away.
"No," she said firmly, though her voice was shaky as she turned to face him. "We really can't. This is important."
Lando's eyes were dark with desire, but he nodded, understanding the unspoken anxiety in her expression. "Okay. You're right. Let's go face the music."
The drive to his parents' house was quiet, the tension between them palpable. Y/N's hands were clenched in her lap, her heart racing with a mixture of nervousness and embarrassment. She kept replaying their encounter at the golf course, cringing at the memory of her oversharing with Lando's unsuspecting mother.
"Hey," Lando said softly, reaching over to take her hand. "It's going to be fine. I promise."
Y/N forced a smile, though her stomach was in knots. "Easy for you to say. You didn't tell your mother about our bathroom rendezvous at the golf club."
"To be fair, you didn't know she was my mother," he pointed out with a grin. "And honestly? I think she was more impressed than horrified. My mum doesn't meet many women as... unapologetically honest as you."
"That's one way to put it," Y/N muttered, though his words did little to soothe her frayed nerves.
They pulled into a driveway of a beautiful brick house, its windows glowing with warm light in the gathering dusk. Y/N's heart was pounding against her ribs as Lando killed the engine and turned to her.
"Ready?" he asked, his expression soft and encouraging.
"As I'll ever be," she replied, though her voice was barely a whisper.
The front door opened before they could even knock, revealing Cisca with a warm smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. Beside her stood a man Y/N assumed was Lando's father—tall and distinguished, with the same kind eyes and warm smile as his son.
"Welcome! Welcome!" Cisca greeted, pulling Y/N into a hug that was surprisingly genuine and welcoming. "We're so glad you could make it."
"It's lovely to see you again, Cisca," Y/N managed, her cheeks flushing as she remembered their last conversation. "And you must be Adam. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is all ours," Adam replied, his handshake firm but friendly. "Lando's told us so much about you."
"All good things, I hope?" Y/N asked, though she was terrified of the answer.
"All wonderful things," Cisca assured her, though there was a knowing glint in her eyes that made Y/N's cheeks flush even brighter. "Now, come in, come in. Dinner's almost ready."
The house was beautiful—cozy and lived-in, with family photos lining the walls and comfortable furniture that invited you to sit and stay awhile. It felt like a home, not a showplace, and Y/N felt some of her tension begin to melt away.
Dinner was surprisingly pleasant. Cisca was an excellent cook, and the conversation flowed easily, mostly thanks to Lando's efforts to keep things light and steer clear of any potentially embarrassing topics. Y/N found herself relaxing, laughing at Lando's stories about his childhood and even sharing a few of her own.
Throughout the meal, Lando kept a reassuring hand on her thigh, his touch a constant reminder that he was there, that they were in this together. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world to her, and she found herself leaning into his touch, drawing strength from his presence.
After dinner, they moved to the living room, settling on the comfortable couch as Cisca put on a movie. Lando sat close beside Y/N, his arm draped around her shoulders as he pulled a cozy blanket over them both.
"Comfortable?" he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear.
Y/N nodded, snuggling closer to him as the movie began to play. For a while, she was content to just sit there, wrapped in his arms, the warmth of his body seeping into hers. But as the minutes ticked by, she felt a familiar heat begin to build within her.
It happened sometimes, this sudden, overwhelming wave of desire that seemed to come out of nowhere. Sitting next to Lando, feeling his body heat, smelling his cologne, the low rumble of his voice as he made occasional comments about the movie—it was all combining to create a potent cocktail of arousal that made her head spin and her body ache with need.
Her hand, which had been resting innocently on his thigh, began to move of its own accord, sliding higher until it was dangerously close to his crotch. Y/N could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tightened as he registered her touch.
Lando looked at her, his eyes dark with a mixture of surprise and desire. He leaned in to press a soft kiss to her cheek, as if her touch was nothing more than a sweet gesture of affection.
But Y/N was feeling anything but sweet. Her hand moved again, this time landing directly on his crotch. Even through the fabric of his suit pants, she could feel that he was already half hard, his body responding to hers even before she'd made her intentions clear.
Lando's eyes widened slightly, a panicked expression crossing his face as he glanced toward his parents, who were engrossed in the movie. But he didn't stop her, didn't move her hand away. Instead, he just watched her, his breath held in anticipation.
Emboldened by his silence, Y/N grew bolder. Her fingers fumbled with his zipper, pulling it down with a soft rasp that was barely audible over the sound of the movie. Then came the button, which she managed to undo with surprising dexterity given the circumstances.
Lando shifted slightly, helping her as she tugged his pants down just enough to give her access. Her hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers, her fingers curling around his already hardening length.
A soft gasp escaped his lips, and he quickly turned it into a cough, shooting her a warning look that was half arousal, half panic.
Y/N just smiled, her eyes dancing with mischief as she began to stroke him, her movements slow and deliberate at first. She could feel him growing harder in her hand, his body responding to her touch despite his obvious anxiety about their location.
She needed more lubrication, wanted to make this feel as good for him as possible. With a glance toward his parents—still focused on the movie—she discreetly brought her hand to her mouth, spitting into her palm before returning it to his cock.
The added wetness made her movements smoother, more fluid, and Lando's breath hitched as she began to stroke him in earnest. Her hand moved up and down his length, her thumb circling the head with each pass, gathering the beads of pre-cum that were already leaking from the tip.
"Y/N," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper as he leaned closer to her. "What are you doing?"
"Mhm, just feel Lan," she murmured back, her hand never ceasing its movements. "I know you love it”.
Lando's response was a choked moan as she increased her pace, her hand moving faster now, pumping him with a rhythm that was quickly driving him toward the edge. His hips began to move involuntarily, thrusting slightly into her hand as he chased the pleasure building within him. His fingers dug into the blanket, his knuckles white as he struggled to maintain his composure.
Y/N could feel him getting closer, the way his cock began to twitch in her hand, the soft, desperate sounds he was trying to muffle. She watched his face, the way his jaw was clenched, his eyes squeezed shut as he fought against the overwhelming pleasure.
Just as she felt him reach that precipice, just as his entire body tensed with impending release, a voice cut through the haze of their shared desire.
"Y/N, dear?"
It was Cisca. Her voice was calm, casual, but it sent a jolt of panic through both of them. Y/N's hand froze, her heart pounding against her ribs as she slowly turned to face Lando's mother.
Cisca wasn't looking at the screen anymore. Her eyes were fixed on them, or more specifically, at the blanket covering their laps. There was a knowing look in her gaze, a slight arch to her eyebrow that spoke volumes.
"Is everything alright?" Cisca asked, her tone deceptively innocent. "Your hand seems to be moving quite a bit under there. Are you cold?"
Y/N's face was on fire, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson that she was sure was visible even in the dim light of the living room. Beside her, Lando had gone rigid, his body tense with a mixture of panic and frustration.
"No!" Y/N blurted out, her voice too loud, too defensive. "I'm not cold. Just... adjusting the blanket. It was slipping."
Lando nodded in agreement, though his movements were jerky, unnatural. "Yes, the blanket. It's... a tricky blanket. Always sliding around."
Cisca's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "Ah, I see. Well, do try to keep it under control. We wouldn't want it to distract from the movie."
She turned back to the screen, but Y/N could feel her eyes on them for a few more seconds, assessing, observing. It was the most mortifying moment of her life, and she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole.
Beside her, Lando was breathing heavily, his body still tense with unfulfilled desire. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear.
"Are you insane?" he whispered, his voice a mixture of shock and grudging admiration. "She almost caught us."
Y/N just smiled, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she resumed her movements, her hand stroking him with renewed determination. The danger, the close call—it had only made her want him more.
"Then you'd better be quiet," she murmured back, her hand moving faster now, more determined than ever. "And come for me before she looks over again."
Lando's response was a choked moan as he buried his face in her neck, his body trembling with the force of his release. Y/N felt him pulse in her hand, his warm cum spilling over her fingers as he came hard, his entire body shuddering with the intensity of his orgasm.
She held him through it, her hand stroking him gently as he rode out the aftershocks, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. When he was finally spent, she carefully tucked him back into his pants, zipping and buttoning them with a discretion that was almost impressive given the circumstances.
They sat like that for the rest of the movie, Lando's head resting on her shoulder, his body limp and sated against hers. Y/N could still feel the sticky evidence of his encounter on her fingers, a tangible reminder of their risky behavior that made her cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction.
When the credits finally rolled, Y/N felt a sense of relief so profound it almost made her dizzy. They had made it through. They hadn't been caught, not really, and somehow, they had survived the most awkward dinner of her life.
"That was lovely," Cisca said, stretching as she stood up. "Though I must admit, I was a bit distracted by all the... fidgeting."
Y/N's cheeks flushed again, but Lando just laughed, wrapping his arm around her waist as he stood up. "Sorry about that. Y/N just gets restless during movies."
"It's true," Y/N added, forcing a smile. "I have a short attention span."
"Well, you two are welcome back anytime," Adam said, his expression warm and genuine. "It was wonderful to finally meet you, Y/N."
"It was wonderful to meet you both," Y/N replied, meaning it more than she'd expected to. Despite the awkwardness, there was something about Lando's parents that she genuinely liked.
As they said their goodbyes at the door, Cisca pulled Y/N aside, her expression unreadable.
"Y/N," she said softly, her voice low enough that only Y/N could hear. "A word of advice, if I may."
Y/N nodded, her heart pounding with anxiety.
"The next time you decide to... entertain my son during a family movie night," Cisca continued, a glint of amusement in her eyes, "you might want to choose a blanket that's a bit less... revealing. The movements were quite distinct."
Y/N's face was on fire, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to form a coherent response.
But Cisca just smiled, patting her hand in a gesture that was surprisingly maternal. "Don't look so horrified. I was young once too. Just... try to be a bit more discreet next time. Or at least wait until you're home."
With that, she turned to hug Lando, leaving Y/N standing there, completely and utterly mortified but also strangely relieved.
The drive home was quiet at first, both of them lost in their own thoughts. Y/N kept replaying Cisca's parting words, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment all over again.
"Well," Lando said finally, breaking the silence. "That was... interesting."
"Interesting?" Y/N retorted, turning to face him. "Lando, your mother basically told me she knew what we were doing. She knew I was giving you a handjob under the blanket!"
Lando burst out laughing, a deep, genuine sound that filled the car. "I know! Can you believe it? My prim and proper mum, giving advice on how to be more discreet during public sexual encounters!"
Y/N couldn't help but laugh too, the absurdity of the situation suddenly hitting her. "It's not funny! It's horrifying! I'm never going to be able to face her again."
"Oh, I think you'll manage," Lando said, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he reached over to take her hand. "Besides, I think she was secretly impressed. Not many women would have the guts to do something like that with their boyfriend's parents in the room."
"That's because most women aren't completely insane," Y/N retorted, though there was no real heat in her words. "God, Lando, what is wrong with me? Why do I do these things?"
Lando's expression softened, his thumb stroking the back of her hand in a comforting gesture. "There's nothing wrong with you. You're adventurous, you're spontaneous, you're... you. And I love that about you."
He paused, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Besides, you have to admit, it was kind of hot."
Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at her lips. "It was terrifying, is what it was. I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest when she looked over."
"But you didn't stop," Lando pointed out, his voice dropping to a low, seductive rumble. "You kept going, even after she almost caught us. That's... incredibly sexy."
Y/N felt a fresh wave of desire wash over her, her body responding to his words despite the lingering embarrassment. "You're impossible. You know that, right?"
"And you love it," he countered, bringing her hand to his lips for a soft kiss. "You love that I'm as crazy as you are, that I'm willing to take risks with you, that I find your... adventurous nature... incredibly arousing."
Y/N sighed, leaning her head against the seat as she watched the city lights blur past them. "I do love it. I love you. Even when you're encouraging me to do things that will inevitably lead to my utter humiliation."
Lando laughed, his fingers tangling with hers. "It's not humiliation if you enjoyed it. And I know you did."
He was right, of course. As terrifying and embarrassing as the situation had been, there was a part of her that had found it thrilling, exciting. The danger, the risk of getting caught, the look on Lando's face as he struggled to maintain his composure—it had all combined to create an experience that was undeniably arousing.
"Okay, fine," she admitted, a reluctant smile playing on her lips. "Maybe I enjoyed it a little bit."
"A little bit?" Lando teased, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Y/N, you practically had me coming in my pants in the middle of my parents' living room. I'd say that's more than 'a little bit'."
Y/N's cheeks flushed, but she was smiling now, the embarrassment giving way to a shared sense of amusement and arousal. "Well, you make it hard to behave. Especially when you're all dressed up like that."
Lando glanced down at his suit, then back at her, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Is that so? You find me... distracting?"
"Extremely," Y/N confirmed, her hand returning to his thigh and giving it a squeeze.
❤︎ |8,2k| Summary: What was supposed to be a relaxing and intimate first day together for Y/n and Lando in the paddock turns dramatic when they fight. Y/n is upset with Lando and he’s acting like a kicked puppy trying to earn her forgiveness. It also just complicates things even more when Y/n gets super needy.
The first thing you felt when you woke up was the cold.
It wasn't a chill in the air, but a specific, hollow kind of cold that came from the empty space beside you in the king-sized bed. Your eyes fluttered open, the morning light a soft gray filter against the heavy hotel curtains. Your hand, moving on pure instinct, slid across the cool, smooth sheets, searching for the familiar, solid warmth of Lando's body.
Nothing.
A sharp, disappointing pang hit you right in the gut. You were supposed to be furious with him. Like, world-ending, silent-treatment-level mad. He had literally carried you off the tarmac like a neanderthal, hissing and growling at his boss who was just trying to say hello. You should be doing a happy dance in the empty bed, reveling in the space, the freedom.
But you weren't.
It just felt wrong. Lando was a human octopus when he slept. He always, without fail, wrapped an arm around your waist, tangled his legs with yours, and buried his face in your hair, like he needed to anchor himself to you even when he was unconscious. Waking up without that weight, without his steady breath on your neck, felt like waking up in a stranger's house. Lonely.
You were just lying there, staring at the fancy ceiling and trying to squash the weird feeling of loss, when you heard it. A faint electronic beep, followed by the distinct click of the keycard unlocking the door.
Your heart did this stupid little lurch, and you reacted on pure impulse. You yanked the thick duvet all the way up to your chin, burrowing into it like a kid hiding from a monster. You held your breath, your eyes glued to the bedroom doorway.
The door swung inward, and he stepped inside.
And you almost forgot how to breathe.
Oh. My. God.
He had clearly been for a run. He was dressed in a pair of simple black running shorts that hung low on his hips, and a black technical t-shirt that was… damp. And clingy. It was stuck to him like a second skin, outlining every single muscle in his chest and abs. You could see the defined ridges, the way his biceps bulged against the short sleeves, the powerful lines of his thighs. His face was flushed a healthy pink, his forehead and temples damp with a sheen of sweat that made his skin glow. A few dark curls were plastered to his temples, and his chest was still rising and falling in the deep, steady rhythm of someone who had just pushed their body hard.
He looked so good it was actually painful.
A hot, liquid feeling pooled low in your stomach, and you felt an immediate, embarrassing slickness between your thighs. Your body, the traitor, was not getting the "we're mad at him" memo. It was getting a very different, much more primal memo. You were supposed to be giving him the cold shoulder, not mentally undressing him and imagining what it would feel like to run your hands over his sweaty chest.
His eyes, those incredible green eyes, found you the second he was in the room. The exhaustion and misery from yesterday were gone, replaced by a look so raw, so hopeful it made your chest ache. He looked like he’d been fighting ghosts all morning and had just come back to his one source of light.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't pause. He just started walking towards the bed, his long legs eating up the distance across the plush carpet in three determined strides.
You should have rolled away. You should have pulled the covers over your head and told him to get lost. But you did nothing. You just lay there, a silent, willing witness, as he reached the side of the bed.
He didn't try to get in with you. He didn't loom over you. He did something that made your heart pound against your ribs so hard you were sure he could hear it. He sank to the floor. He actually knelt. He settled back on his heels, his powerful thighs straining the fabric of his shorts, and just looked at you, his head slightly bowed. A king, kneeling at your bedside.
He reached out slowly, his hand hovering for a second, giving you every chance to flinch away. You didn't. His fingers, warm and a little rough, gently brushed a stray piece of hair away from your cheek. He traced the line of your jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin right below your ear. A full-body shiver wracked your frame, one that had nothing to do with being cold.
He leaned in closer, his face just inches from yours. You could feel the heat coming off his skin, could smell the clean, salty scent of his sweat mixed with the faint, spicy smell of his cologne. It was an intoxicating, masculine combination that scrambled your brain, leaving you breathless and aching. His eyes searched yours, a silent, desperate question hanging in the air. Please? they begged. Please forgive me?
And, against every rational thought, against every ounce of your righteous anger, you gave in.
You leaned forward the tiny distance between you and pressed your lips to his.
It was supposed to be a test. A quick, controlled peck to see if the spark was still there. But the moment your lips met his, it was like a match dropped on gasoline. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure pleasure that shot straight through you, making you gasp into his mouth. His lips were soft and warm, a little chapped, and they moved against yours with a tentative, questioning gentleness that was your complete and total undoing.
The last of your anger dissolved, replaced by a wave of such intense, overwhelming need that it was almost painful. A soft, involuntary moan escaped your lips, a sound of pure surrender, and you felt him smile against your mouth. That was it. That was all it took. You deepened the kiss, your tongue darting out to trace the seam of his lips, a silent, demanding request for more. He opened for you instantly, his tongue meeting yours in a slow, sensual dance that was both familiar and thrillingly new.
Your hands, which had been lying limp at your sides, flew to his chest. Your fingers tangled in the damp, sweaty fabric of his t-shirt, fisting it in tight, desperate balls, pulling him closer, deeper. You were lost. Completely and utterly lost in the taste of him, the feel of him, the overwhelming rightness of being in his arms again. You kissed him with a feverish desperation, a frantic hunger you didn't know you were capable of. You moaned into his mouth, the sounds small, helpless whimpers of pleasure that you couldn't control if you tried.
He tried to pull away after a moment, a gentle, reluctant retreat to catch his breath, but you weren't having it. You were not done. You were not letting him go. Your hand shot up, your fingers tangling in the sweaty curls at the nape of his neck, holding him in place, preventing his escape. You pulled him back down, crushing your lips against his, pouring all of your frustration, your anger, and your desperate, aching need into the kiss.
He responded with a groan of his own, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your entire body. His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones as he kissed you back with a matching intensity. It was a wild, passionate clash, a battle of wills and desires that left you both breathless and shaking. You could feel the hard, insistent press of his arousal against the mattress, a blatant, unapologetic display of his own need, and it only fueled your own, making you wetter, needier.
Finally, when your lungs were burning and your head was spinning from lack of oxygen, you both broke apart, gasping for air. He rested his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged, his chest heaving. "We have to go," he whispered, his voice a husky, strained rasp. "Media day."
You just nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. If you opened your mouth, you were pretty sure you'd just beg him to forget the world and get back into bed with you. He leaned in and gave you one last, soft, sweet kiss on the lips, as if to kiss the pout away that you hadn't even realized was forming. Then he stood up, still holding your hand, and gently pulled you out of bed. "Come on, let's get ready."
The happy, relieved feeling you had in the elevator on the way down evaporated the second you got into the car. Lando was sitting right beside you, his thigh pressed firmly against yours, his hand resting possessively high on your leg. And all you could think about was how he’d looked kneeling on your floor, his face hopeful and his body begging for you. His thumb started rubbing these little circles on your skin, right under the hem of your shorts, and it was absolute torture. Every small movement sent a fresh jolt of electricity straight between your legs.
You were so frustrated you could cry. You were so turned on it was physically painful, and there was absolutely nothing you could about it. You were in a car with Zak, Jon, and a few other guys from the team, all of them chatting loudly about race strategy.
Lando noticed immediately. Of course he did. He stopped the mindless rubbing and leaned in closer, his voice dropping so only you could hear. "What's wrong?" he asked, his lips brushing against your ear.
You bit your lip and shook your head, looking down at your hands in your lap. "Nothing."
"Y/N," he said. His voice was different. It was deeper, kind of… stern. Dominant. And oh my god, it just made you wetter, the ache between your thighs intensifying to a throbbing, needy pulse.
You took a shaky breath and finally looked at him, your eyes wide and pleading. You held his gaze for a solid three seconds, your pride warring with your desperation, before you let your eyes drop. You didn't just look away. You let your gaze trail down, slowly, deliberately, right to the growing bulge in his jeans, before you slowly dragged your eyes back up to his face. You bit your lip again, a deliberate, unconscious act of pure invitation, feeling a fresh wave of heat wash over your cheeks.
His eyes widened, and this slow, knowing, absolutely predatory smirk spread across his face. "Ohh," he breathed, the sound a low, triumphant rumble. He leaned in even closer, his lips now flush against the shell of your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. "I see," he whispered, the words a dark, delicious promise. He placed a single, wet, open-mouthed kiss right on the sensitive spot just below your ear, making you gasp and shudder violently. His hand, which had been resting on your thigh, slid higher, his long fingers dangerously close to the edge of your shorts, his pinky finger brushing against the seam of your jeans in a way that was both innocent and utterly maddening.
"We have enough time before I have to do media," he whispered, his voice a low, suggestive hum that vibrated right through you. "We can stop by my driver's room. I can take care of you."
You just nodded, your face burning, your throat too tight to form words. You were so flustered, so shy and turned on you could barely think straight, but you wanted it. You wanted it more than you'd ever wanted anything.
The rest of the car ride was a special kind of hell. Lando kept his hand exactly where it was, a brand of possession and a promise of things to come, and you spent the entire ten-minute drive trying to control your breathing and praying no one could smell how turned on you were. The second the car pulled to a stop in the bustling paddock, Lando was out of his seat and opening your door, his hand held out for you. You took it, his grip firm and reassuring as he pulled you from the car.
The world outside was a sensory assault. The roar of engines in the distance, the shouts of mechanics, the blinding flash of what seemed like a hundred cameras going off at once. Lando tightened his grip on your hand, his body shifting slightly to shield you from the worst of it as he started pulling you through the throng, his destination clear: the relative sanctuary of the McLaren garage.
He was leading you down a narrow corridor, his intentions obvious, his steps quick and purposeful, when you were stopped.
"Lando! Mate, there you are!"
It was Will, his race engineer, with another guy from the strategy team whose name you thought was Tom. They were holding tablets and looked stressed but friendly.
Lando stopped dead, his whole body tensing beside you. "Will," he said, his voice tight, clipped. It was the voice he used when he was trying to be polite but was secretly annoyed.
Will, bless his oblivious heart, didn't notice. His eyes, crinkling at the corners, landed on you. "And you must be Y/N! It's great to see you again, properly this time," he said, his smile genuine and warm. "We were all so happy to hear you were here this weekend." He leaned in, his arms open slightly, a completely normal, friendly gesture of welcome.
That's when it happened.
A low, dangerous growl ripped from Lando's chest. It wasn't like yesterday. This was worse. Deeper. More guttural. It was the sound of a predator whose territory had just been breached. He moved in front of you in a blur of motion, a solid wall of muscle and fury, and you saw it. His fangs. They were fully extended, long and sharp and terrifyingly white against his flushed skin. He was literally snarling at his race engineer, his lips pulled back in a threatening grimace that promised violence.
Will froze, his friendly smile vanishing, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated shock and confusion. Tom took a half-step back, his eyes wide.
"Whoa, easy there, Lando!" Will said, his hands coming up in a gesture of surrender, his voice cautious. "I'm not trying to… I was just saying hello."
But that just made it worse. The word "hello" seemed to trigger something in him. He let out this loud, aggressive bark-howl thing that was so loud, so primal, it made everyone in the immediate vicinity stop and stare. Mechanics froze, engineers gawked, a few people actually flinched. It was feral and possessive and so, so mortifying.
"Lando, stop it!" you hissed, your face burning with a humiliation so intense it felt like a physical blow. You grabbed at his arm, trying to pull him back, but he was like a statue, immovable and unyielding. He didn't even seem to hear you. He was too busy posturing at Will, his chest puffed out, a low, continuous rumble vibrating in his chest.
That was it. You were so done. You couldn't take it anymore. Not again. You wrenched your arm free and turned, storming away from the scene of his latest meltdown. You pushed past gawking onlookers, your vision blurring with angry, frustrated tears. You heard him call your name, the sound desperate and lost, but you ignored him, your only thought to get away. You found his driver's room, shoved the door open, and slammed it shut, leaning against it and taking deep, shaky breaths, your heart hammering against your ribs.
A minute later, the door clicked open and he slipped in. "Y/N, I'm so sorry," he started, his voice frantic with panic. "I don't know what happened, I just saw him coming for you and I—"
"No," you cut him off, your voice shaking with an anger that felt different from yesterday. It wasn't humiliation. It was… disappointment. "You promised. You promised you would stop. I thought you were going to be better."
"I am, I swear," he said, taking a step towards you, his hand outstretched like he wanted to touch you, to comfort you. "It's just… with the race and the pheromones and—"
"Don't," you snapped, flinching away from his hand. "Don't make excuses."
He stopped, his face crumbling. He looked so lost and pathetic, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I know you're upset," he said, his voice softening, trying a different tactic. He was trying to be gentle, to soothe you, but he chose the exact wrong words. "And I get it. But I also know you're… needy. That's probably making you more upset, too. Let me take care of you, sweetheart. I know what you need."
You just stared at him. Did he really just say that?
"Are you serious?" you yelled, your voice rising, the anger finally boiling over. "You think that's what this is? That I'm just 'needy'? That I'm only angry because I'm horny? You humiliated him, Lando! Will! He was just being nice! He's your friend! And you just… you attacked him with your face! You're being mean!"
You were gesturing wildly, your hands flying through the air, trying to make him understand. "You're being a bully! It's not about me being embarrassed, it's about you making people uncomfortable! It's about you hurting your friends because you can't control yourself! It's scary, Lando! It's not okay!"
He just stood there, his mouth hanging open. He looked completely blindsided. He knew he'd messed up, but he hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected you to be angry on behalf of someone else. He'd assumed, so arrogantly, that your anger was all about your own pride. His face crumpled, and he just stood there, looking like a confused, kicked puppy who had just been told off for peeing on the carpet.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his eyes pleading, filled with a desperate, bewildered hurt. "I love you."
And with that, you turned and walked out of the room, leaving him standing there alone, your anger and your heart battling for dominance in your chest.
You didn't know where you were going, you just knew you had to get away. The sterile, white hallways of the McLaren hospitality building blurred past you as you walked, your footsteps echoing your frantic heartbeat. You kept your head down, not wanting to see the pitying or curious looks on anyone's face. All you could hear was Lando's desperate "I love you" echoing in your head, a sound that was supposed to be comforting but right now just felt like another weapon he was using to disarm you.
You found a quieter corridor, one that led towards the team lounges, and slowed your pace, taking deep, gulping breaths. You were so wrapped up in your own storm of anger and confusion that you almost walked right into her.
"Whoa, there!” “Y/n omg!”
You looked up, your vision still a little blurry, and saw Lily. She was looking at you with genuine concern, her kind eyes soft. Just what you needed right now! Your best friend to comfort you and make you feel better.
"Hi, Lily," you mumbled, your voice barely a whisper.
Her excited expression immediately morphed into one of worry. "Hey, are you okay?" she asked, taking a step closer. Without another word, she pulled you into a gentle, reassuring hug. It was exactly what you needed. You sank into her embrace, the clean, floral scent of her perfume a stark contrast to Lando's overwhelming, masculine presence. You felt a fresh wave of tears prick at your eyes, but you blinked them back furiously.
"It's nothing," you lied, pulling away and forcing a weak smile.
Lily wasn't buying it. "Come on," she said softly, taking your hand. "Let's go somewhere quiet." She led you into a small, comfortable lounge room, closing the door behind you and effectively shutting out the noise and chaos of the paddock. She gestured for you to sit on one of the plush couches, and you did, sinking into the soft cushions.
She sat down next to you, but not too close, giving you space. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked gently.
You shook your head, staring down at your hands in your lap. "Not really," you admitted. "I just… I want to forget it for a little while. It's all just… a lot."
Lily nodded, her expression full of understanding. "Okay. We don't have to talk about it. We can just… sit. Or we can talk about something completely and utterly pointless. Like, did you see that ridiculous hat Zak was wearing earlier? It looked like a seagull was nesting on his head."
A small, genuine smile tugged at your lips. "I did see that. I was wondering if it was a new fashion statement."
"Oh, for sure. The height of F1 paddock chic," she said with a dramatic eye roll. "So, tell me something good. What's the last show you binge-watched and got embarrassingly invested in?"
And just like that, she started pulling you out of your funk. You talked about TV shows and stupid celebrity gossip and the best places to get pizza. She pulled out her phone and showed you pictures of her dog, and you found yourself laughing, a real, honest laugh that made your chest feel less tight. For the first time all morning, you felt like you could breathe.
Lando’s PoV
The media pen was a special kind of hell. It was always a special kind of hell, but today it was unbearable. Every question was a dull, distant drone, a buzzing in his ear that he couldn't properly process. All he could think about was you. The look on your face when you'd walked out of his driver's room. The raw, wounded anger in your voice when you'd called him a bully.
He was going insane.
His body was screaming at him. His wolf was pacing restlessly inside him, a snarling, frantic animal that had been separated from its mate for far too long. It had only been a couple of hours, but it felt like days. They hadn't been apart for this long since they'd first met, since the moment he'd smelled you and known, with every fiber of his being, that you were his. The separation was a physical ache, a constant, gnawing pain in his chest.
He was fidgeting uncontrollably. He couldn't stop tapping his foot against the floor, couldn't stop picking at the label on the water bottle in his hands. He felt wrong in his own skin, itchy and uncomfortable and too tight. The media team had noticed, of course. A couple of them had asked if he was feeling okay, if he needed a break. He'd just grunted and shaken his head, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace.
He knew there was a lunch break coming up soon, and he was praying. He was literally praying to whatever gods looked after idiotic, possessive Alphas that you wouldn't be too stubborn to eat. His wolf would absolutely lose its mind if it found out you were denying yourself nourishment because of him. It would see it as a failure on his part, a sign that he wasn't taking care of you, and it would take over, driven by a primal need to ensure your well-being. He couldn't let that happen. Not again.
He hadn't stopped thinking about you. He replayed the argument in his head on a loop, and every time, he felt a fresh wave of guilt. He kept hurting you. It was the last thing he ever wanted to do, but he couldn't seem to stop it. The possessiveness, the aggression… it wasn't him. Not really. It was the wolf, the instinct. He wasn't doing it on purpose, but that didn't seem to matter. The result was the same. You were hurting, and it was his fault.
And god, he was so bummed. So incredibly, frustratingly bummed. He'd been so close. In the car, in the hotel room… he could feel your need, your desire for him. He'd been about to finally, finally take care of you, to give you the pleasure he'd been dreaming of for weeks. You had pleasured him before, quick, desperate moments in the dark that had blown his mind, but he'd never gotten to touch you. Not really. And fuck, he wanted to. He wanted to explore every inch of your body, to learn what made you gasp and what made you moan. He wanted to taste you, to bury his face between your thighs and eat you out until you were screaming his name, until you were shaking and begging him to stop. He wanted to finger you until you were sore, until the only thing you could think about was him, him, him.
He shifted in his seat, adjusting himself discreetly as his body responded to the thoughts. He was so screwed.
Y/ns PoV
You and Lily were both lounging on the couches, scrolling through your phones in comfortable silence when the door opened again. You looked up, expecting to see a team member, but it was Oscar Piastri. He was in his race suit, his hair slightly messy, a tired but happy look on his face.
"Hey," he said, his eyes finding Lily first. The way he looked at her made your heart ache a little. It was so soft, so full of love.
"Hi, Osc," Lily smiled, sitting up straighter.
Oscar's gaze then shifted to you, and he gave you a friendly nod. "Y/N. Good to see you again."
"Hi, Oscar," you replied, a small smile on your face.
He walked over to the couch and leaned down, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to Lily's lips. "Missed you," he murmured against her mouth.
"You saw me an hour ago," she laughed, but she was beaming.
"An hour too long," he said, sitting down next to her and immediately putting his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. They started talking in low, murmured tones, their heads close together, sharing little inside jokes and soft smiles. They were so adorable, so comfortable and in love.
Watching them sent a sharp pang of guilt and longing through you. You missed Lando. You missed him so much it was a physical pain. You hadn't been this far away from him, this disconnected from him, since the moment you'd met. You missed his warmth, his scent, the way he always knew what you were thinking without you having to say a word. And now, watching Oscar and Lily, you couldn't help but feel guilty. He couldn't really control it, could he? The Alpha instincts. It wasn't really "his fault," not in the way you'd been treating it. It was an instinct, a biological imperative he was fighting against.
Even though you felt that way, you were still stubborn. He'd hurt you, and he'd embarrassed Will, and you were still angry about that. You didn't want to be the one to give in first. You wanted him to come to you, to show you he understood why you were really upset. So you just sat there, silently hoping he would come find you soon, even though you were still technically "angry" with him.
After a few more minutes of watching the sickeningly cute couple, Lily looked up at you. "We're going to grab some lunch before the next briefing. Want to come?"
You nodded, standing up on autopilot. "Sure."
You followed them out of the lounge and towards the large dining hall. The room was bustling with people from all the different teams. You found an empty table near the window and sat down, Oscar and Lily sliding into the seats opposite you.
"I'll go get us some food," Oscar said, standing up and smiling at Lily. "What do you want?"
"The same as you," she replied, smiling back at him. "And Y/N, what are you having?"
You shook your head, forcing another smile. "I'm not hungry yet, thanks. I'll just wait here."
Lily gave you a slightly worried look, but Oscar just nodded. "Okay. We'll be right back."
You watched them walk away, their hands intertwined, and you felt that familiar pang of longing again. You were just starting to scroll aimlessly through your phone, trying to distract yourself, when it happened.
An amazing, intoxicating smell washed over you. It was a scent you knew better than your own—a unique, warm blend of clean laundry, mint, and something that was purely, undeniably Lando. It was so strong, so overwhelming, that it felt like he was standing right next to you.
And then, a low, familiar masculine voice rumbled right behind your ear. "Hello, love."
Your heart did a frantic little flutter against your ribs. Before you could even process his presence, before you could turn around or form a single thought, you felt him place a short, soft kiss on your cheek. His lips were warm, and the contact sent a jolt straight through you. A warmth spread across your face, and you had to fight to hide the smile that was desperately trying to break free. You were supposed to be angry. You were supposed to be giving him the silent treatment. But your body, the traitor, was thrumming with a giddy, happy energy at his simple affection.
You kept your eyes fixed on your phone, your jaw set stubbornly. You didn't say a word. You didn't even look at him.
He didn't seem fazed. He just pulled out the chair next to you and sat down, his thigh brushing against yours under the table. "Want to come get some food with me?" he asked, his voice gentle, careful.
You shook your head, still not looking at him. "I'm not hungry," you mumbled, your voice flat.
To your surprise, he didn't push. He didn't argue or try to coax you. He just said, "Okay," and stood up, heading towards the food line.
A sharp, unexpected pang of disappointment hit you. What was wrong with you? You wanted him to leave you alone, but you were upset that he'd actually listened? You wanted him to fight for you, to take care of you, to show you that he needed you to eat. His easy acceptance felt like a rejection, and it stung more than you wanted to admit.
You stared at his retreating back, your chest tight. You felt the familiar burn of tears behind your eyes and blinked rapidly, trying to will them away. You were being so emotional, so ridiculous.
After what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a few minutes, he came back. He put a tray down on the table in front of you, and your heart clenched so hard it almost hurt. On the tray was a bottle of your favorite fancy mineral water, the one with the bubbles and the hint of lime. Next to it was a sandwich—your absolute favorite, the one with turkey, avocado, and sprouted grain bread that you'd mentioned once, weeks ago, was your go-to comfort food. And next to that was a small bowl of perfectly ripe, glistening slices of mango and kiwi.
He remembered. He remembered everything.
You couldn't look at him. If you looked at him, you were going to cry. You just stared at the food, your vision blurring. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice thick with unshed emotion.
"You're welcome, love," he said softly, and you could feel his eyes on you.
You both started to eat in a comfortable, if slightly tense, silence. Lando told you a bit about the media stuff he'd been doing—a boring interview about tire strategies and a cringey photoshoot for a new sponsor. You just listened, nodding occasionally, taking small bites of your sandwich. The food was delicious, and you realized you were starving.
After a few minutes, Lily and Oscar returned, their trays laden with food. Lily's eyes widened slightly when she saw your half-eaten sandwich. "Oh! I thought you weren't hungry," she said, a teasing note in her voice.
Your cheeks flushed instantly, and you ducked your head, mumbling quietly into your plate. "I, uh… I changed my mind."
Lily just grinned, but you could feel Lando's gaze on you, a warm, satisfied weight that made you shiver.
When you were all finished, Lando stood up and held his hand out to you. "Come on," he said softly. You hesitated for only a second before you took it. His fingers laced with yours, firm and warm, and he led you out of the cafeteria.
You could feel the tension in him, but it was different now. It wasn't the aggressive, dominant energy from before. It was softer, more careful. He could tell you were less angry, that the wall you'd built around yourself was starting to crumble. As you walked down a quieter hallway, he tried to start the conversation.
"You know I'm sorry, sweetheart," he began, his voice low and sincere.
You weren't quite ready to talk about it. The words were still too raw, too complicated. So instead of answering, you just made a small, irritated sound in the back of your throat—a low, frustrated moan.
Lando, of course, had to be Lando. He stopped walking and turned to you, a slow, cocky grin spreading across his face. "That was so hot," he said, his eyes glinting with mischief.
You rolled your eyes, but you felt a blush creeping up your neck.
"No, seriously," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive rumble. "That little sound you just made… it was really fucking hot. I bet you’d make that same sound when you've had too much of me between your legs, when I’ll be eating you out for hours and you can't take it anymore."
Your face erupted in flames. A fresh wave of need, hot and sharp, washed over you, and you silently cursed him and his stupid, sexy mouth. He said it as if it was just a matter of moments before it would happen. He was such an asshole.
He just laughed, a low, triumphant sound, and started pulling you along again. "Come on, I want to show you something."
By now, he'd dragged you back into the main garage. It was a hive of activity, but as soon as people saw you with him, a strange thing happened. They seemed to sense, or maybe they just knew, what had happened earlier with Will. They gave you a wide berth, nodding respectfully but keeping their distance. No one approached. No one tried to make small talk.
You found it kind of cute, the way he was so excited to show you his world. He led you over to his car, which was up on a stand, surrounded by a few mechanics. He started pointing things out, his voice animated and passionate as he explained the new front wing adjustments and the tweaks they'd made to the suspension. He was like a little kid showing off his favorite toy, his eyes bright with excitement.
As he was pointing out something on the floor of the cockpit, he looked away, his focus entirely on the intricate machinery. You took the opportunity. You leaned in close, your heart pounding, and pressed a quick, sweet kiss to his lips.
He was completely surprised. He froze for a second, then slowly turned to look at you, a wide, brilliant grin spreading across his face. It was the first real, genuine smile you'd seen from him all day, and it made your stomach do a funny flip.
The car ride home was quiet. The driver had the partition up, giving you privacy. Lando tried to put his hand on your thigh, a familiar, comforting gesture, but you shifted away, crossing your legs. You weren't ready for that yet. He didn't say anything, but you could feel his disappointment in the air. He pouted for the rest of the way home, staring out the window with a wounded, puppy-dog expression that you had to work hard to ignore.
Once you were back in the quiet, sterile luxury of the house, he turned to you, his expression serious again. "Please, Y/N," he pleaded, his voice soft. "Can we talk about what happened? I am so sorry."
You let out a long sigh, the fight draining out of you. "I know it isn't really your fault," you admitted, finally meeting his gaze. "The… the Alpha stuff. I know you can't help it. But I don't like it, Lando. I don't like that you make other people uncomfortable when you do it. It embarrassed me, too. It's just… a lot."
He listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours, a look of profound relief washing over his face as you spoke. "I know," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I know. I'll try harder. I swear."
You weren't upset anymore. The anger had been replaced by a tired, weary understanding. "I'm tired," you said. "Let's just get ready for bed."
He nodded, and you both went into the bedroom. The silence was no longer tense, but comfortable, filled with a quiet intimacy. You both started to undress, the movements familiar and easy. You shed your clothes until you were left in a simple matching set of black lace bra and panties. Lando stripped down to his boxers, his body lean and muscular in the soft lamplight.
You were just about to climb into bed when you felt his eyes on you. You turned, and your breath caught in your throat. He was just standing there, across the room, staring at you with an intensity that made your skin tingle. His gaze wasn't just looking; it was devouring. It was a hot, heavy weight that traced over every curve of your body, from the swell of your breasts in the lace cups of your bra, down over the soft skin of your stomach, to the sensitive skin of your thighs. His eyes darkened, the green turning into a deep, foresty shade, and you watched, fascinated, as a visible shudder ran through his entire frame.
His wolf was right there, just beneath the surface. You could feel it, a predatory, hungry energy that was suddenly filling the room, making the air feel thick and charged. He was looking at you like you were a feast laid out before a starving man, and you, the traitor, felt your body respond instantly. A low, deep ache started to build between your thighs, a slow, throbbing pulse of need that was impossible to ignore. He wanted to pleasure you. That was all he really, really wanted. You could see it in his eyes, feel it in the air. And even though you knew his wolf was begging for more, to mate with you, to claim you in the most primal way possible, he was holding back. He was fighting his own instincts, focusing only on you.
He took a slow step towards you, then another, his movements deliberate, almost predatory. He stopped right in front of you, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. He didn't touch you, not at first. He just stood there, his eyes burning into yours. Then, slowly, he raised his hand.
His fingers were warm, a little rough, as they came to rest on your leg, just above your knee. You tried to act nonchalant, to pretend his touch didn't affect you, but it was a losing battle. You held your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs.
He started to move his hand, sliding it upwards with excruciating slowness. His palm was a brand against your skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. It moved over your thigh, higher and higher, until his fingers were brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You let out a shaky breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. His touch was electric, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you, making your toes curl.
His other hand came up to rest on your stomach, his thumb stroking lazy circles over the soft skin just above the waistband of your panties. It was a possessive, grounding touch, and it made you feel both safe and incredibly turned on at the same time. You were trying so hard to maintain some semblance of control, to not just melt into a puddle at his feet, but it was getting harder and harder.
Then he leaned in. He ducked his head, his warm breath fanning against the sensitive skin of your neck. You felt the soft, ticklish brush of his curls against your cheek, and then his lips were on you. It wasn't a kiss, not really. It was just the soft, warm press of his lips against the side of your neck, right over your pulse point.
A soft, involuntary moan escaped your lips. It was a small sound, barely audible, but it was everything. It was a sound of surrender, of pleasure, of need.
He heard it. Of course, he heard it. A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest, and he responded by parting his lips. You felt the wet, gentle scrape of his teeth against your skin, and then he was nibbling at you, soft, playful little bites that made your whole body tremble. The pleasure was sharp, intense, and it shot straight to your core, making the ache there intensify into a desperate, throbbing need.
You couldn't hold it back. A louder, more desperate moan tore from your throat, your head falling back against his shoulder, giving him better access. He took full advantage, his mouth becoming more demanding, his bites a little harder, his tongue swirling over the sensitized skin to soothe the sting.
His hand, which had been resting on your stomach, started to move again. It slid upwards, slowly, until it was cupping your breast. He was touching you through the fabric of your bra, his palm warm and firm against you. He just held it there for a moment, letting you feel the weight of his hand, the possession in his touch. Then, his thumb began to move, stroking back and forth over the lace, searching for and finding your already hardened nipple.
He brushed his thumb over the peak, once, twice, a light, teasing touch that made you gasp. Then he did it again, this time applying a little more pressure, a slow, deliberate circle that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure straight through you. It was so much, and yet not enough. You were lost, completely and utterly lost in the sensation, your body arching into his touch, silently begging for more.
He was still nibbling at your neck, his mouth a hot, wet distraction, while his hand was working its magic on your breast, sending wave after wave of pleasure crashing over you. You were panting now, your hands clutching at his biceps, your knuckles white. You were so close, so incredibly close to the edge, and he hadn't even really touched you yet.
Just as you were sure you couldn't take anymore, he pulled his mouth away from your neck. He looked down at you, his eyes dark and feral, his lips swollen and wet. He saw the dazed, pleasure-drunk look on your face, and a slow, triumphant smirk touched his lips. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a low, husky whisper that made you shudder.
"See, sweetheart?" he murmured, his thumb stilling its torturous movements on your nipple. "I told you I could take care of you." His words, low and husky against your ear, sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through you. You wanted to argue, to make some snarky comeback about his arrogance, but you couldn't. Your brain felt like it had been short-circuited, fried by the overwhelming pleasure he was so effortlessly wringing from your body. All you could do was stand there, trembling in his arms, your body a live wire of desperate need.
He seemed to sense your complete and total surrender. A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, predatory triumph. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and intense as they roamed over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, your dazed, pleasure-drugged expression. He looked proud, impossibly so, like an artist admiring his masterpiece.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, his voice a low, reverent rasp. "How long I've wanted this. To touch you. To make you feel good."
His hand, which had been cupping your breast, started to move again. It slid down, slowly, over the curve of your ribs, his fingers tracing the line of your bra strap. His touch was a brand, a trail of fire that left you breathless and aching. His other hand, which had been resting possessively on your inner thigh, began to move as well, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there in lazy, maddening circles.
He leaned in again, his mouth finding the sensitive spot on your neck just below your ear. He wasn't nibbling this time; he was kissing you, slow, open-mouthed kisses that left a wet, warm trail on your skin. Each press of his lips sent a fresh jolt of pleasure straight to your core, and you couldn't stop the soft, breathy moans that were escaping your lips.
He was moaning too, low, guttural sounds of pleasure that vibrated against your neck and drove you absolutely wild. The sound of his need, his raw, unfiltered desire for you, was the most intoxicating thing you had ever heard. It made you feel powerful, desired, and so incredibly turned on you could barely think straight.
His hand, which had been stroking your inner thigh, started to move upwards, his fingers tracing a path of fire towards the edge of your panties. You held your breath, your whole body tensing in anticipation. He was so close, so impossibly close to where you needed him most.
Just as his fingers brushed against the delicate lace of your underwear, the world exploded.
A loud, shrill, piercingly insistent ringtone shattered the silence, cutting through the haze of lust and desire like a knife. It was his phone, buzzing and rattling on the nightstand across the room, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet, charged air.
Lando froze, his body going rigid. He pulled back slightly, a look of pure, unadulterated fury on his face. His eyes, which had been soft and worshipful just a second ago, were now hard and dangerous, a flash of the Alpha you'd seen earlier.
"Ignore it," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He started to lean back in, his intention clear, but the ringing continued, shrill and demanding, a harsh reminder of the world outside this room.
He let out a frustrated snarl, his hands tightening on your hips almost to the point of pain. He rested his forehead against your shoulder, his body trembling with a mixture of rage and frustration. The phone kept ringing, a persistent, annoying buzz that refused to be silenced.
He was fighting a battle with himself, a war between his primal need to claim you and the rational part of his brain that knew he had to answer. For a long, agonizing moment, you thought he was going to ignore it, that he was going to let his wolf take over.
But then, with a sigh that was pure, unadulterated defeat, he pulled away. He looked up at you, his eyes a storm of conflicting emotions—desire, frustration, and a deep, simmering anger.
"I have to," he said, his voice tight with barely restrained fury. "It's my team. It might be an emergency."
He pushed himself to his feet, his movements stiff and jerky. He grabbed the phone, his thumb stabbing angrily at the screen to answer it. "What?" he snapped, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
He listened for a moment, his back to you, his shoulders tense. You stood there, trembling, your body still humming with unfulfilled need, the sweet promise of pleasure snatched away from you at the last second.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he yelled into the phone, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "No. Absolutely not. I'm not coming in. Not tonight. Find someone else."
He listened for another moment, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone. "I don't care what Zak says. The answer is no. I'm busy."
He ended the call with a violent jab of his thumb, throwing the phone onto the bed with a frustrated curse. He turned back to you, his eyes still dark with anger, but it was different now. The fire was gone, replaced by a cold, hard fury that made your blood run cold.
"They want me to come back to the factory," he said, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion. "There's a 'problem' with the car. A 'potential issue' they need me to look at."
He took a step towards you, his eyes locking with yours. "They're doing it on purpose," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "They're trying to keep us apart."
❤︎ |6,2k| Summary: Y/n decides to go home and end her suffering from being around Lando. Fortunately Lando stops her and they “talk things out”.
The silence in the villa was a living, breathing thing. It was thick and heavy, a suffocating blanket that muffled the sound of her own heartbeat, a frantic, panicked drum against her ribs. Y/N lay on the bed, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling as if it held the answers to all the questions she was too afraid to ask. She had made her decision. She was leaving. It was the only way. The only way to save herself from the beautiful, destructive fire that was Lando Norris.
She had cried until she was empty, a hollowed-out shell of a person. The tears had been a catharsis, a final, painful purge of the hope she had allowed herself to feel, however briefly. Now, there was nothing left but a cold, hard resolve. A promise she had made to herself in the dark, a promise she intended to keep, no matter how much it shattered her soul to do so.
With a sigh that felt like it was dredged up from the very depths of her being, she pushed herself up off the bed. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet as she walked over to the closet, her movements stiff and robotic. She pulled out her suitcase, the one she had packed with such methodical detachment just hours ago, and placed it on the bed. She had been so sure, so decisive. But now, as she stood there, a nagging, persistent thought wormed its way into her mind.
Her charger. Her phone charger. She had forgotten her phone charger.
It was such a small, insignificant thing, a mundane detail in the grand, tragic opera of their lives. But it was enough to break the spell of her grim determination. She couldn't leave without it. She couldn't go home to a dead phone, a silent, useless brick that would sever her last tenuous connection to the world, to her new life, the life she was trying so desperately to build.
With a frustrated groan, she unzipped the suitcase, the sound loud and jarring in the quiet room. She rummaged through her neatly folded clothes, her fingers searching for the familiar, tangled cords, but they weren't there. Of course they weren't there. She remembered now. She had left it plugged into the outlet by the downstairs sofa, charging her phone while she had been trying, and failing, to watch a movie yesterday, before everything had gone to hell.
She zipped the suitcase back up, her movements sharp and angry. She was being tested. The universe was playing a cruel, twisted game with her, throwing this tiny, insignificant obstacle in her path, trying to see if she would break. Well, she wouldn't. She would go downstairs, get her charger, and come back up, and that would be it. The final act. The last scene. She would not be deterred.
She opened her bedroom door, her senses on high alert, listening for any sign of movement, any sound that would indicate he was awake. But the hallway was silent, the house still and sleeping. She tiptoed down the stairs, her heart in her throat, each creak of the floorboards sounding like a gunshot in the quiet. She found her charger tangled in the cord of the floor lamp, just as she had remembered. She snatched it up, her fingers closing around the plastic with a triumphant little squeeze, and turned to head back to the safety of her room.
But as she reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard it. A soft, hesitant knock on her bedroom door. A knock that was unmistakably his.
Her blood ran cold. He was awake. He was at her door. And she was trapped downstairs, a fugitive in her own life.
She stood there, frozen in the shadows of the hallway, her hand clutching her charger, her mind racing. What should she do? Should she answer him? Should she call out, tell him she was downstairs? No. That would only prolong the inevitable, only give him another opportunity to chip away at her defenses. Her only hope was to wait for him to give up, to go back to his own room, and then she could sneak back up, grab her suitcase, and disappear into the night.
She held her breath, listening, her entire being focused on the sound coming from upstairs. She heard the knock again, a little louder this time, a little more insistent. "Y/N?" he called out, his voice a low, hesitant murmur. "You awake?"
She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart aching at the sound of his voice, so raw and uncertain. She didn't answer. She couldn't.
She heard another soft knock, and then a long, agonizing pause. She waited, her body coiled with tension, praying for the sound of his retreating footsteps. But they didn't come. Instead, she heard the soft click of her doorknob turning.
He was coming in.
Panic, pure and unadulterated, surged through her. He was going to see it. He was going to see the suitcase, sitting there on her bed, a silent, damning testament to her intentions. He was going to know she was leaving, that she was running away from him again.
She wanted to run, to storm up the stairs and stop him, to throw herself in his path and beg him not to open that door. But her feet were rooted to the spot, her body paralyzed by a sick, creeping dread. It was too late. The damage was done.
She waited, her heart pounding a frantic, desperate rhythm against her ribs, for the sound of his discovery. She didn't have to wait long. She heard a sharp, indrawn breath, a soft, choked sound of pain and disbelief, and then a heavy, defeated silence.
He knew.
She took a deep, shaky breath, steeling herself for the confrontation. There was no escaping it now. She had to face him. She had to face the wreckage she had made.
She slowly climbed the stairs, each step a monumental effort, her legs feeling like they were made of lead. When she reached her doorway, she saw him. He was sitting on her bed, right beside the open suitcase, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed. He looked utterly, completely broken.
He looked up when he heard her approach, and the look in his eyes made her stomach clench. It wasn't anger. It wasn't even accusation. It was a deep, profound, soul-crushing sadness, a look of a man who had just been handed his death sentence. He had seen the suitcase, and he had understood. He knew she was going to run away from him again.
She opened her mouth to say something, anything, to break the suffocating silence, but he beat her to it. His voice was a low, bitter rasp, a sound that was laced with a pain so raw it was almost physical.
"Running from me, love?"
The question hung in the air between them, a stark, brutal accusation. There was no use in lying, no point in trying to deny the obvious. The evidence was right there, packed and ready to go. She let out a long, weary sigh, the sound filled with a resignation that was heavier than any words. She nodded, a slow, jerky movement that felt like it was tearing something inside her.
She had expected him to explode. She had expected him to yell, to rage, to call her a coward, a bitch, a heartless monster. She had braced herself for the storm, for the full force of his anger and his hurt.
But he didn't. He just stared at her, his expression a mask of stunned disbelief. He hadn't expected her to admit it. He had been prepared for a fight, for a denial, for a litany of excuses. But her quiet, honest confession had disarmed him completely. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say.
He stood up slowly, his movements stiff and uncertain, and took a step towards her. He reached out, his hand hovering in the space between them, a silent, pleading offer of comfort, of connection.
But she pulled away. She couldn't help it. His touch was a lit match, and she was a stick of dynamite, ready to explode. She couldn't let him touch her, couldn't let him near her, or she would crumble. She would fall apart, and she would never be able to put herself back together again.
"What we've been doing is wrong, Lando," she said, her voice a shaky, desperate whisper. She had to say it. She had to make him understand. "It's all wrong. There was a reason for our divorce, a good reason, and... and I can't do this. I can't see you anymore. I'm going home."
Her words were a knife, twisting in his gut. He flinched, his face crumbling, the hope in his eyes extinguishing, replaced by a raw, agonizing pain. But then, something shifted. A flicker of defiance, a spark of the old, stubborn fire she knew so well, returned to his gaze.
"Did it feel wrong?" he asked, his voice a low, intense challenge. "When you were in my arms, when I was inside you, did it feel wrong then?"
She couldn't answer. She couldn't lie, not to his face, not when he was looking at her with those eyes, those beautiful, broken eyes that saw right through her. She looked away, her gaze fixed on a spot on the floor, a silent, damning admission.
"It didn't feel wrong for me," he continued, his voice growing stronger, more passionate. He took another step closer, his body crowding hers, his presence a powerful, overwhelming force. "It didn't feel wrong at all. "It felt like the most right thing in the world. It felt like coming home."
His voice was a low, intense murmur, each word a deliberate, piercing stab at the flimsy armor she had constructed around her heart. He was so close now she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could see the tiny flecks of gold in his green eyes, could smell the faint, lingering scent of his cologne mixed with the clean, sleepy smell of his skin. He was a force of nature, a hurricane of emotion, and she was a flimsy shack in his path, about to be blown to pieces.
"So I'll ask you again," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that vibrated right through her. "Did it feel wrong for you?"
She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, a knot of unshed tears and unspoken truths. She shook her head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but it was enough. It was a confession. A surrender.
"I don't love you anymore."
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, a desperate, last-ditch attempt to salvage the wreckage of her resolve. They were brittle, hollow things, and they shattered in the air between them. She couldn't look at him. She stared at the floor, at the worn woodgrain, at anything but the devastating, beautiful man standing in front of her. She knew, with a certainty that made her feel sick, that he wouldn't believe her. He knew her too well. He knew the tells, the little tells she had never been able to hide.
And she was right.
"That's all I needed to know."
His voice was soft, a strange, almost gentle sound that was more terrifying than any shout. It was the sound of a man who had just been handed the key to his victory. She expected him to gloat, to push, to demand she admit her lie. She expected him to do something, anything.
But he didn't. He just stood there, and the silence stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken words. And then, he moved. He closed the remaining distance between them in a single, fluid motion. He reached out, his fingers gently tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were no longer filled with pain or anger. They were filled with a deep, unwavering tenderness, a look of such profound love and understanding that it made her heart ache with a pain so sharp it took her breath away.
He leaned in, his lips hovering just above hers, a breath away from a kiss. It was a question, a plea, a final, silent test. And she was about to fail. She could feel her resolve crumbling, her walls turning to dust. She was going to let him kiss her. She was going to let him win.
"No," she breathed, her voice a shaky, desperate whisper. She brought her hands up, pushing gently against his chest, a feeble, last-minute attempt to stop the inevitable. "Lando, what are you doing?"
He stopped, his lips a mere fraction of an inch from hers. He didn't pull away. He just looked at her, his eyes searching hers, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. "You can't fool me, Y/N," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble. "You didn't look me in the eyes. You never could lie to me when you looked me in the eyes."
Her heart clenched, a painful, convulsive squeeze. He was right. Damn him, he was always right. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat feeling like a piece of jagged glass. She was trying so hard to maintain her emotional distance, to build a wall between them, but he was already on the other side, dismantling it brick by brick with nothing but the truth.
He let out a soft, weary sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly, the mask of confidence falling away to reveal the raw, vulnerable man beneath. "I never stopped loving you," he said, his voice a choked, broken whisper. "Not for one single day. I never stopped thinking about you. You're the first thing I think about when I wake up, and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. Every single day, for two years. It's been... it's been hell."
He took a shaky breath, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, and her heart broke all over again. "And for what it's worth," he continued, his voice dropping to an even lower, more intimate tone, "I've never touched anyone else. The thought... the thought of being with someone else, it disgusted me. It felt like a betrayal. A betrayal of you, of us. I'd lie awake at night, sometimes, after... after I'd touched myself, thinking about you, and I'd just... I'd wonder. I'd lie there and wonder if you were sleeping with other men, if you were letting them touch you, if you were happy. And the thought would just... it would destroy me. It would rip me apart."
His words were a confession, a raw, unfiltered glimpse into the private hell he had been living in. It was the most vulnerable thing he had ever said to her, the most honest, the most real. And it was her undoing. The carefully constructed wall she had built around her heart crumbled into dust, blown away by the sheer, overwhelming force of his love, his pain, his devotion.
She tried to hold on, tried to cling to the last vestiges of her resolve, but it was useless. She was drowning in him, in the truth of his words, in the depth of his feeling. She had to push him away. She had to.
"I could never love a man like you," she said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "Not again."
It was the wrong thing to say. It was the very worst thing she could have said.
Something in him snapped. The vulnerability in his eyes vanished, replaced by a flash of raw, primal fury. The gentle, loving man was gone, and in his place was a cornered, wounded animal, lashing out with all the pain and frustration of the last two years.
"Stop lying!" he yelled, his voice a loud, desperate roar that made her flinch. "Just stop fucking lying! You look me in the eye and you tell me you don't love me! You look me in the eye and you tell me that last night meant nothing! That this morning meant nothing! You can't do it, can you? Because you're a coward! You're a fucking coward, and you're running away because you're scared! You're scared of how much you love me, and you're scared of how much I love you!"
And then, he crashed his lips against hers.
It wasn't a kiss. It was an attack. It was a punishment. It was a desperate, frantic attempt to force the truth out of her, to make her feel what he was feeling, to make her admit the lie she had been telling herself for two years. His lips were hard and demanding, his tongue a forceful invasion, and she fought him for a second, her hands pushing against his chest, her mind screaming at her to stop, to push him away, to run.
But then, her body betrayed her. Her treacherous, traitorous body remembered. It remembered the taste of him, the feel of him, the way he could make her come alive with just a touch. Her hands stopped pushing and started clutching, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his chest, pulling him closer. Her lips, which had been sealed in a tight line of resistance, parted under his, a soft, helpless sigh escaping her throat. She kissed him back. It was a frantic, desperate, messy kiss, a clash of teeth and tongues, a kiss that was two years of pent-up frustration, longing, and love, all exploding at once.
He felt her surrender, felt the way her body melted against his, and a low, guttural groan rumbled in his chest. He broke the kiss, his lips trailing a path of fire down her neck, his teeth nipping at her sensitive skin, marking her, claiming her. His hands were everywhere, tearing at her clothes, at the flimsy barrier of her dress. He found the hem and pulled it over her head in one rough, desperate motion, the fabric ripping slightly in his haste. He unhooked her bra, his fingers fumbling, clumsy with need, and then that was gone too, her breasts spilling into his waiting hands.
He took off his own shirt, breaking their kiss for only a second to pull it over his head, revealing the broad, sculpted planes of his chest, the muscles she knew so well, the muscles she had missed with an ache that was physical. Then his belt, and his pants, the sound of his zipper a loud, metallic rasp in the quiet room, leaving him in just his boxers, the thin fabric doing little to hide the thick, hard length of his arousal.
He dropped to his knees in front of her, his movements fluid, graceful, a predator worshipping at the altar of his prey. He looked up at her, his eyes dark and intense, burning with a raw, primal hunger that made her knees weak. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties, but then he stopped. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. He leaned in, his teeth closing gently over the fabric, and he dragged them down her legs, his lips and tongue tracing a path of fire on her skin as he went. It was the most erotic, most intimate, most possessive thing she had ever experienced, and a fresh wave of slick heat flooded her core. She was trembling, her entire body vibrating with a nervous, anticipatory energy that was part fear, part overwhelming desire.
When the panties were gone, discarded on the floor like a forgotten memory, he looked up at her, his eyes roving over her naked body with an expression of such raw, unadulterated reverence it made her feel like a goddess. He leaned in, pressing a soft, worshipful kiss to her hip bone, then another to the soft curve of her belly. His hands came up to grip her thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there, his touch both possessive and gentle.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice a low, reverent hum against her skin. "So fucking beautiful. I've dreamed about this. I've dreamed about you, just like this."
And then he lowered his head, his mouth finding the most sensitive part of her, and she cried out, a sharp, broken sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. His tongue was a master, a skilled artist, and he painted her with long, slow, deliberate strokes, learning her all over again, re-memorizing every curve, every fold, every sensitive spot that made her gasp and writhe. He was relentless, a man starved, and she was his feast. He built her up, higher and higher, a coil of tension tightening in her belly, a wave of pleasure cresting inside her, threatening to break.
Her hands flew to his hair, her fingers tangling in the soft, thick strands, holding him to her, her hips arching against his mouth, a silent, desperate plea for more. He gave her more. He slipped a finger inside her, then another, his mouth never ceasing its delicious assault, and the dual sensation was too much. The coil snapped, the wave broke, and she shattered, a cry of his name tearing from her throat as her orgasm washed over her, a powerful, all-consuming tide of ecstasy that left her breathless. The orgasm that Lando had wrenched from her with his mouth was a tidal wave, a force of nature that had ripped through her body, leaving her a boneless, trembling mess in his arms. She was gasping for air, her lungs burning, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her limbs felt like jelly, her mind a blissful, white-washed blank. All she could do was feel, and what she felt was him.
He didn't stop immediately. He stayed with her, his tongue gently lapping at her, his fingers still buried deep inside her, drawing out the last, shuddering waves of her pleasure. It was almost too much, a delicious, overstimulating agony that made her whimper and try to squirm away, but his grip on her thighs was firm, a silent command to stay, to take it, to let him have this. And she did. She let him have everything.
When the tremors finally subsided, leaving her limp and spent, he slowly, gently withdrew his fingers. He pressed one last, worshipful kiss to her swollen, sensitive clit, a soft, possessive brand that made her whole body twitch. He looked up at her, his face glistening with her arousal, his eyes dark and hooded with a raw, primal satisfaction that was both infuriating and incredibly arousing. A slow, wicked smirk played on his lips, the smirk of a man who had just won a war.
"You're so fucking beautiful when you come," he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated right through her. "I forgot how beautiful you are."
She couldn't speak. She could only watch him, her eyes wide and dazed, as he rose to his feet in one fluid, powerful motion. He was a predator, all lean muscle and coiled energy, and she was his willing, sated prey. He stood over her, his chest heaving, his green eyes burning with an intensity that made her breath catch. He looked down at her, at her naked, sprawled form on his bed, and the look in his eyes was so possessive, so full of raw, undisguised hunger, that a fresh wave of heat pooled in her belly.
He reached down, his fingers hooking under her arms, and he hauled her up into a sitting position. His movements were rough, impatient, a stark contrast to the gentle, worshipful way he had just brought her to orgasm. This was a different side of him, a harder, more demanding side, and it sent a thrill of fear and excitement skittering down her spine.
"Stand up," he commanded, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument.
Her legs were still shaky, her muscles weak and pliant from the force of her release, but she obeyed, pushing herself up off the bed. She swayed slightly, her knees feeling like they might give out, but he was there, his hands on her waist, steadying her, holding her upright. His touch was electric, a jolt of pure energy that shot through her, awakening every nerve ending.
He looked at her for a long, intense moment, his eyes roaming over her face, her neck, her breasts, as if he were trying to memorize her all over again. He was so close she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, could smell the faint, lingering scent of his cologne mixed with the clean, musky smell of sex. He was a force of nature, a hurricane of emotion, and she was a flimsy shack in his path, about to be blown to pieces.
And then, his gaze dropped, and he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers. He didn't take them off slowly. He didn't tease. He just shoved them down, his movements quick and impatient, and they pooled around his ankles. He kicked them away, and her breath hitched in her throat.
He was magnificent. He was hard and thick and ready for her, his arousal standing tall against his stomach, a testament to his desire for her. He was bigger than she remembered, more imposing, and a fresh wave of slick heat flooded her core. She wanted him. God, she wanted him so much it hurt.
He took a step closer, closing the distance between them until they were skin to skin, his chest pressed against hers, his arousal nudging her belly. He was so hot, so hard, so real. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his hands splayed across her back, pulling her flush against him. She could feel his heart beating against hers, a frantic, powerful rhythm that echoed her own.
"You have no idea," he murmured, his voice a low, guttural growl against her ear. "You have no fucking idea what you do to me."
And then, he moved. In one swift, fluid motion, he hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her up as if she weighed nothing. She cried out, a startled, breathless sound, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her arms circling his neck for support. He held her easily, his muscles flexing under her touch, and then he turned, pinning her against the wall.
The cold, hard plaster against her back was a shocking, delicious contrast to the heat of his body. He had her trapped, caged, completely at his mercy. He was in control, and the feeling was intoxicating, a heady mix of fear and arousal that made her head spin. He looked at her, his eyes dark and intense, burning with a raw, primal hunger that made her toes curl.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, husky whisper. "Look at me when I'm inside you."
And then he entered her.
He didn't ease into her. He didn't give her time to adjust. He slammed into her, one hard, deep, punishing thrust that stole her breath and made her see stars. He was so deep, so thick, stretching her, filling her in a way that was both painful and incredibly pleasurable. It was a claiming, a possession, a raw, primal act of dominance that made her whole body hum with a desperate, needy energy.
He didn't wait for her to get used to him. He started to move, his hips pistoning, his strokes hard and fast and rough. He was fucking her, really fucking her, against the wall, and it was the most erotic, most intense, most mind-blowing thing she had ever experienced. The sounds of their bodies slapping together, the ragged sound of their breathing, the low, guttural grunts that were escaping his lips, it all combined to create a symphony of pure, unadulterated lust.
He buried his face in her neck, his lips and teeth and tongue a frantic, desperate assault on her sensitive skin. He was marking her, branding her, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. He kissed her, his lips crashing down on hers, a rough, demanding kiss that was all teeth and tongue and desperation. It was a punishing kiss, a kiss that was meant to hurt, to punish, to claim.
"You're so stupid," he grunted, his voice a low, guttural growl against her ear. "So fucking stupid to think you could fool me. To think you could push me away."
He punctuated his words with a particularly hard thrust that made her cry out, a sharp, broken sound of pain and pleasure.
"Did you really think I wouldn't know?" he continued, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "Did you really think I wouldn't feel it? That I wouldn't know the second I touched you that you still love me?"
His words were a weapon, a sharp, piercing blade that he was using to dissect her, to lay her soul bare. He was tearing down her walls, brick by brick, with every thrust, every word, every punishing kiss. And she was letting him. She was letting him destroy her, because in the destruction, she was finding a new kind of freedom.
"I've been waiting for this," he grunted, his hips slamming into hers, the force of his thrusts making the wall shake. "I've been waiting for two years for you to stop lying. For you to admit that you're mine."
His hand snaked between their bodies, his fingers finding her clit, and she cried out, a sharp, desperate gasp. He started to circle her, his touch firm and demanding, a perfect, rhythmic pressure that sent jolts of pure electricity shooting through her. It was too much. It was too intense. The feeling of him inside her, the feeling of his fingers on her clit, the sound of his voice in her ear, it was all too much.
"I can feel you," he growled, his voice a low, triumphant rumble. "I can feel how close you are. Come for me, baby. Come all over my cock like a good girl."
His words were her undoing. The coil in her belly tightened, the wave of pleasure crested, and she shattered, a scream of his name tearing from her throat as her orgasm crashed over her, a powerful, all-consuming tide of ecstasy that left her breathless and trembling. It was a violent, explosive release, a catharsis of two years of pent-up frustration and longing, and it ripped through her with the force of a hurricane.
He felt her come, felt her inner walls clenching around him, pulling him deeper, holding him tight, and it was his undoing. With a loud, primal roar that was ripped from the very depths of his soul, he followed her over the edge. His hips slammed into hers one last time, a punishing, possessive thrust that pinned her to the wall as he spilled himself inside her, a hot, powerful flood that seemed to go on forever. His body shuddered against hers, a series of violent, convulsive tremors as he emptied himself into her, a final, undeniable claim. It was a raw, primal act of possession, a brand, a promise, and she took it all, her body still convulsing with the aftershocks of her own orgasm.
For a long, breathless moment, they just stayed like that, a tangled, sweaty, panting mess, pinned against the wall. The only sounds in the room were their ragged, gasping breaths, the frantic hammering of their hearts, and the faint, distant hum of the city outside. His forehead was pressed against hers, his body a heavy, grounding weight, his breathing hot and ragged against her neck. She could feel the frantic, fluttering beat of his heart against her own, a chaotic, desperate rhythm that was slowly, gradually beginning to calm.
She was limp, boneless, her legs still wrapped around his waist, but she didn't have the strength to hold on. She was completely dependent on him, trusting him to hold her up, to keep her from sliding to the floor in a heap. And he did. He held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his body a solid, unyielding wall of muscle and heat.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy with unspoken words. It was no longer an angry, charged silence. It was a quiet, sated, peaceful silence, a silence that was filled with a new, fragile understanding. The storm had passed, and in its wake, there was a calm, a stillness, a sense of rightness that was so profound it made her heart ache.
Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head, his eyes, which had been squeezed shut in the throes of his passion, slowly opening. They were dark, dazed, but the raw, primal fury was gone. In its place was a deep, unwavering tenderness, a look of such profound love and vulnerability that it made her breath catch. He looked at her, really looked at her, his gaze softening as it roamed over her face, as if he were trying to memorize every line, every curve, every freckle.
"Are you okay?" he murmured, his voice a low, husky whisper that was rough from his shouts and grunts. It was a gentle, caring question, a stark contrast to the rough, demanding man who had just fucked her against the wall.
She could only nod, her throat too tight to speak. She was more than okay. She was alive. She was whole. She was home.
He seemed to understand. A small, sad, beautiful smile touched his lips. He slowly, carefully, unwrapped her legs from his waist, his hands supporting her thighs as he helped her find her footing on the floor. Her legs were shaky, unsteady, and she would have fallen if he hadn't been holding her, his arms a strong, steady anchor around her waist.
He leaned in, his lips finding hers in a soft, gentle kiss. It was nothing like the punishing, demanding kisses from before. This was a kiss of apology, of reverence, of a love that had been tested by fire and had emerged stronger, more resilient. It was a slow, tender exploration, a silent conversation that said more than words ever could. His lips were soft and warm, his touch gentle and hesitant, as if he were afraid she might break. And she might have. She felt fragile, like a piece of fine china that had been shattered and then painstakingly, imperfectly, glued back together.
He pulled back, but only slightly. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed, his breath warm against her lips. He was giving her a moment, a space to breathe, to process, to come back to him. And she was grateful. She needed it. Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions, a chaotic mix of pleasure, pain, love, and fear. She had just surrendered everything, and the vulnerability was terrifying.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice a low, choked murmur that was barely audible. It wasn't a demand. It wasn't a weapon. It was a confession, a raw, unfiltered glimpse into his soul. It was the truth, the only truth that had ever mattered, laid bare between them.
The words hung in the air, fragile and precious, and Y/N felt a fresh wave of tears welling up in her eyes. This was it. This was the moment she had been running from for two years. This was the choice she had been so terrified to make. She could run again, could push him away, could retreat into the safe, lonely fortress she had built around her heart. Or she could stay. She could surrender. She could finally admit the truth she had been hiding from herself, from him, from the world.
She looked at him, really looked at him. She looked at the man who had been her first love, her first heartbreak, her first everything. She looked at the man who had chased her across continents, who had refused to give up on her, who had seen through her lies and her defenses and had loved her anyway. She looked at the man who had just given her the most intense, most mind-blowing sexual experience of her life, who had fucked her with a raw, primal passion that had left her breathless and spent, and then had held her with a tenderness that had made her heart ache.
And she knew. She had always known. There was no choice. There had never been a choice.
"I love you too," she whispered, her voice a shaky, tear-filled breath. It was the hardest thing she had ever said, and the easiest. It was a surrender, a defeat, a victory. It was the end of a war and the beginning of a new life.
A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek, and he caught it with his thumb, his touch gentle, reverent. He let out a long, shuddering breath, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, as if he had been holding it for two years. The tension in his shoulders eased, the hard lines of his face softened, and he looked at her with an expression of such pure, unadulterated joy that it made her heart ache with a happiness so intense it was almost painful.
"Thank god," he breathed, his voice a low, choked whisper.
❤︎ |8,9k| Summary: Y/n upsets Lando and their reunion dosen’t go nearly close to the way Y/n expected. And somehow the outcome excites her.
The first rays of sunlight were filtering through the heavy curtains when Lando stirred. He wasn't sure what had woken him, but he quickly became aware of the warm, soft weight tucked against his side. He blinked his eyes open, a slow, sleepy smile spreading across his face as he looked down at her.
Y/N was still fast asleep, her cheek pressed against his chest, one arm thrown over his stomach. Her breathing was soft and even, a gentle rhythm against his skin. She looked so peaceful, so vulnerable, curled up in his bed, wearing his t-shirt. A fierce wave of possessiveness washed over him. He wanted to wake up like this every morning. He wanted this to be his normal.
He couldn't resist her. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her cheek. Her skin was warm, smelling faintly of his soap and her own unique scent. He trailed his lips down to the sensitive skin of her neck, placing open-mouthed kisses against her pulse point. He felt her stir, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she slowly surfaced from sleep.
Her eyes fluttered open, hazy and confused for a moment before they focused on his face. A slow, sleepy smile spread across her lips, and then she was twisting in his arms, her hands coming up to cup his face as she pulled him down for a kiss.
It wasn't a gentle, good morning kiss. It was deep, and hungry, and demanding. Her tongue swept into his mouth, tangling with his, and he groaned, his arms tightening around her, pulling her flush against his already hardening body. He had missed this. He had missed her so fucking much.
Her hands started to wander, her fingers tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, making his muscles clench and twitch. He moaned into her mouth, his hips rocking against hers, a silent plea for more. Her fingers dipped lower, skimming along the waistband of his boxers, and his entire body tensed in anticipation.
And then her stomach let out a loud, undignified grumble.
Y/N froze, her hand stilling just above the elastic of his boxers. She pulled back from the kiss, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. "Oh my god," she muttered, burying her face in his chest.
Lando couldn't help it. He threw his head back and laughed, a deep, genuine rumble of amusement that shook his entire body. "Well, good morning to you too," he chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
She groaned, still hiding her face. "Shut up. I'm starving."
"Me too," he agreed, his voice still laced with laughter. He gently took her hand, lacing their fingers together and pulling it away from his crotch. "But I think that can wait. I'll just text my chef to whip something up for us. Then we can go down and eat."
She lifted her head, a grateful look on her face. "Okay," she agreed, a small smile playing on her lips. "That sounds good."
She slid out of bed, grabbing her clothes from yesterday and heading for the bathroom. Lando watched her go, his smile fading slightly as he reached for his phone. He quickly shot off a text to his chef, then set his phone back down, his eyes drifting towards the closed bathroom door.
Inside the bathroom, Y/N quickly used the toilet, her mind still foggy with sleep and the lingering warmth from Lando's embrace. She stood up, pulling on her grey shorts and tank top, and then froze. A cold dread washed over her. She had nothing. No pads, no tampons, nothing. She hadn't planned on staying the night, let alone two nights in a row.
"Lando!" she called out, her voice small and embarrassed. She hated this. She hated feeling so vulnerable, so dependent on him for something so basic, so… female.
The bathroom door opened a crack, and Lando's head poked in, his expression concerned. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she said, her cheeks burning. She couldn't look at him. "I just… I don't have anything. You know. For… my period."
Understanding dawned on his face, but there was no hint of disgust or annoyance, only a quiet concern. "Oh. Right. Okay, no problem," he said easily. "I'll just run to the shop quickly. What do you need? Just tell me what to get."
Y/N's face felt like it was on fire. "I… I can just send you pictures," she mumbled, pulling out her phone. "Of the stuff I usually use."
"Perfect," he said, completely unfazed. "Send them over. I'll be back in ten minutes."
And just like that, he was gone. Y/N quickly sent him the pictures, her stomach churning with a mixture of humiliation and something else, something warm and fuzzy that she refused to acknowledge. Ten minutes later, he was back, knocking softly on the bathroom door.
She opened it just a crack, her arm snaking out to grab the bag from him. "Thanks," she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper.
"No problem," he said, his voice soft.
She closed the door, her heart pounding. She quickly used the products, her movements jerky and awkward. As she did, a strange feeling settled in her stomach. It wasn't just the embarrassment. It was the fact that he had gone out and bought these things for her, without a second thought. It was the fact that he had seen her at her most vulnerable, her most messy, and he hadn't run away. He had taken care of her. And it was doing something to her, something terrifying.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself before opening the bathroom door. She couldn't look at him. She just couldn't. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor as she walked past him, heading for the bedroom.
Lando noticed immediately. He could always tell when something was wrong with her, could read the subtle shifts in her posture, the tension in her shoulders. "Y/N?" he asked, his voice gentle. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she said, her voice tight. She was a terrible liar.
"Are you embarrassed?" he asked, his tone knowing.
Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing with anger. "No!"
He just looked at her, his expression patient, and she felt her anger deflate, replaced by a wave of shame. He was right. She was embarrassed. So embarrassed she wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Y/N, that's silly," he said, his voice soft. "I mean, seriously. I had my fingers deep inside you yesterday while you were bleeding all over the place. I think I can handle buying you some pads and tampons."
Her face burned, but his words, crude as they were, had a strange calming effect. He was right. It was silly. She was being silly.
"Come on," he said, holding out his hand. "Let's go eat."
She took his hand, letting him pull her towards the door. They went downstairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon filling the air. Max was already in the dining room, and he looked up as they entered, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Hello there."
Lando flushed, a deep, angry red creeping up his neck. He shot Max a glare, gesturing for him to shut up. Max just chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender before turning his attention back to his phone.
They sat down, a tense silence settling between them as the staff placed plates of food in front of them. Lando cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
"So," he said, trying to sound casual. "I was thinking… I don't have your number. It would be easier, you know? If we could just text each other. Whenever we want to… you know." He trailed off, giving her a suggestive look, trying to make it sound as casual and purely sexual as possible.
Y/N looked at him, her expression unreadable. She knew what he was doing, and a part of her appreciated it. It made it easier to pretend. "Okay," she said, her voice quiet.
Lando's face lit up, a genuine, radiant smile spreading across his lips. He quickly pulled out his phone, handing it to her. She typed in her number, her fingers flying across the screen, before handing it back to him.
"Great," he said, his voice bright. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning.
"I have to go," she said, standing up. "I have… things to do."
"Right," he said, his smile faltering slightly. "Well, let me know when you're free. We could… do dinner? Tonight?"
"I'll think about it," she said, her voice noncommittal. She wouldn't. She knew she wouldn't.
She left without another word, her heart a strange, tangled mess of emotions. She went home, the small, sterile apartment she lived in a stark contrast to Lando's luxurious mansion. She quickly changed out of her borrowed clothes, pulling on her work attire: a black, tight-fitting catsuit that left little to the imagination, a thigh holster, and a sleek, silenced pistol. This was her. This was who she was. Not the girl who blushed and ate chocolate on a couch.
She checked her phone, a new message from her agency blinking on the screen. A new job. She accepted it without a second thought. She needed a distraction. She needed to forget Lando, to forget the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, the way he made her feel. She had caught feelings for him, and that was a liability she couldn't afford. He was being too sweet, too caring, and it was chipping away at the walls she had so carefully built around her heart. She had always been satisfied with their arrangement, with the mind-blowing, no-strings-attached sex. But now? Now she couldn't do it. It hurt too much.
She threw herself into her work with a ferocity that bordered on suicidal. She took on every job that came her way, no matter how dangerous, no matter how dirty. She became a ghost, a whisper in the underworld, a name that was spoken with fear and respect. She was good at what she did, one of the best, and the work paid for her small, expensive apartment in Monaco. It paid for the weapons, the equipment, the occasional rented car or designer dress she needed for a role. But it didn't pay for a car of her own, didn't pay for a life of luxury. It just paid for survival.
Even with the constant danger, the adrenaline, the blood, her mind would drift back to him. She missed his touch, not just the desperate, hungry sex, but the gentle way he held her, the way he rubbed her belly until her cramps disappeared, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world. Nothing compared. She thought about sleeping with someone else, about trying to fuck him out of her system, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. The thought of another man's hands on her was enough to make her feel sick.
Meanwhile, Lando was going insane.
He missed her with a desperation that was a physical ache in his chest. He was angry, a volatile, dangerous anger that simmered just beneath the surface, waiting for an excuse to explode. He was more ruthless than ever in the mafia world, his punishments becoming more brutal, his interrogations more violent. He snapped at his own men, at Max, at anyone who dared to look at him the wrong way. He was a walking, talking time bomb, and everyone knew it.
He had texted her, multiple times. At first, she answered, her replies short and dismissive. "Busy." "Can't talk." Then, she just stopped replying altogether, leaving him on read, a small, cruel checkmark that taunted him with her silence.
He was losing his mind. He needed to see her, to talk to her, to understand what the hell was going on. He couldn't stand not knowing, not being in control.
One night, fueled by a dangerous combination of whiskey and frustration, he sat down at his secure, encrypted computer. He was a lot of things, but he wasn't just a brute. He was smart, and he had resources. He hacked into the database of the assassin agency she worked for, his fingers flying across the keyboard, bypassing firewalls and security protocols with an ease that was terrifying. He found her file, her profile, her list of completed jobs. And then he saw it. A new job, a high-profile target.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. He knew the target. He knew where he would be, and when. He also knew that she would be there.
The night of the dinner, Lando was a vision of controlled chaos. He was dressed in a tailored tuxedo, his hair perfectly styled, his jaw clean-shaven. He looked like the wealthy, respectable businessman he pretended to be, but his eyes were cold, hard, and full of a dangerous, calculating light. He was there for business, a tense negotiation with a rival family, but his attention was elsewhere, his senses heightened, scanning the crowded ballroom for any sign of her.
He saw her just as the shots rang out.
It was chaos. People were screaming, running for cover as the rival family, who had clearly double-crossed them, opened fire. Lando's men were a well-oiled machine, returning fire with deadly precision, but Lando's eyes were fixed on the stage, where the target, a portly man in a ridiculously expensive suit, was slumping in his chair, a single, clean hole in his forehead.
And then he saw her. A flash of black, a ghost in the chaos, disappearing through a side door.
He excused himself from the firefight, his movements calm and deliberate, as if he were just leaving a boring party. He followed her, his long legs eating up the distance as he navigated the maze-like corridors of the hotel. He found her in a dark, deserted alleyway, her back pressed against the cold brick wall, her gun still in her hand.
"You shouldn't be here alone," he said, his voice low and dangerous, echoing in the narrow space.
She spun around, her gun raised, her eyes wide with surprise before they narrowed in recognition. "Lando," she said, her voice tight. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," he said, stepping closer, invading her personal space. "But I already know the answer."
He didn't give her a chance to respond. He closed the distance between them, pinning her to the wall with his body, his hands gripping her arms. He crashed his lips down on hers, a rough, desperate kiss that was full of weeks of pent-up frustration and longing. He had missed her so fucking much, missed her taste, her touch, the feel of her body against his.
She responded for a moment, her lips parting under his, a soft moan escaping her throat. Then, as if she had been shocked, she pulled away, turning her head to the side.
"Stop," she gasped, her voice strained. "Lando, stop."
He froze, his body still pressed against hers. He was shocked, confused. "What?" he asked, his voice rough. "Why?"
She wouldn't look at him, her gaze fixed on the grimy brick wall beside his head. "I just… I don't want to," she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion.
He knew that was a lie. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart, the way her body was still trembling from his kiss. "Bullshit," he growled, his grip tightening on her arms. "What's going on, Y/N? Talk to me."
She finally looked at him, her eyes cold and distant. "There's nothing to talk about," she said, her voice hard. "I found someone else. So I don't want to continue our… thing. It's over."
The words hit him like a physical blow, a punch to the gut that stole his breath. His heart shattered into a million pieces, the pain so sharp, so intense, it was all he could do not to double over. He stared at her, his mind reeling, trying to process what she was saying. Was she telling the truth? He couldn't tell. Her face was a mask, her eyes unreadable.
"Are you serious?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"Yes," she said, her voice unwavering. "I'm serious."
He believed her. And it broke him.
He slowly released her, taking a step back, his hands coming up to run through his hair in a gesture of disbelief and defeat. He looked at her one last time, his eyes full of a pain so raw and visceral it made her flinch. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the night.
Y/N stood there in the dark alleyway, her body trembling, her gun hanging limply at her side. She felt awful. A sick, gnawing guilt twisted in her stomach. She knew she had done the right thing, that it was for the best. But she already missed him. She missed him so much it hurt.
Lando stumbled back to his car, his vision blurred by a haze of unshed tears. He drove home on autopilot, the city lights a meaningless blur of color. He walked into his house, the silence a deafening roar in his ears, and went straight to Max's room, not even bothering to knock.
Max was sitting on his bed, cleaning his gun, but he looked up as Lando entered, his eyes widening in shock at the sight of his friend's face. Lando looked like he had been to hell and back, his expression one of utter devastation.
And then Lando broke.
He sank to his knees, a choked sob tearing from his throat, and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with the force of his sobs, raw, gut-wrenching cries of pain that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul.
Max was in shock. He had never seen Lando cry. Not ever. He had seen him shot, stabbed, beaten within an inch of his life, but he had never seen him cry. He quickly put his gun aside and rushed to his friend's side, pulling him into a tight hug.
"Hey, hey, what is it?" Max asked, his voice gentle. "What happened, Lando? What's wrong?"
Lando just shook his head, his sobs subsiding into quiet, broken whimpers. "Y/N," he choked out, his voice thick with tears. "She… she found someone else."
Max held him, letting him cry, his own heart aching for his friend. He had known this was coming. He had seen it in the way Lando looked at her, in the way he talked about her, in the fact that he hadn't fucked anyone else since he'd met her. Every time Lando said it was "just sex," Max had seen right through the lie. He knew his friend was in way over his head.
After a few minutes, Lando's sobs quieted, and he pulled back, wiping his face with the back of his hand, looking utterly defeated. Max kept a supportive arm around his shoulders.
"Do you love her?" Max asked, his voice soft but direct.
Lando didn't even have to think about it. He just nodded, his head hanging in shame. "Yeah," he whispered, the word barely audible. "Yeah, I do. I love her so fucking much, Max. And it's killing me."
Max sighed, pulling him into another brief, tight hug. "I know, man. I know."
About a week passed, a long, agonizing week for Lando. He was a ghost in his own house, moving through his days with a hollowed-out feeling in his chest. He threw himself into his work, but even the thrill of a successful deal or the satisfaction of eliminating a rival felt empty. He was just going through the motions, a robot programmed to kill and conquer, but the fire inside him had been extinguished.
He was at a club one night, a high-end, exclusive place that was usually buzzing with energy and life. Tonight, it just felt loud and oppressive. He was there for business, a tense meeting with a new supplier that had gone south. It had ended in a bloodbath, the back room of the club now a crime scene, his men efficiently cleaning up the mess. He was standing by the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the bitter taste of failure and violence on his tongue, when he felt it.
A familiar prickling sensation on the back of his neck.
He slowly turned, his eyes scanning the crowded dance floor. And then he saw her.
She was across the room, leaning against a pillar, a drink in her hand. She was wearing a little black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders. And she was looking at him.
It wasn't just a look. It was the look. The one he knew so well. The "fuck me" look. Her eyes were dark, smoldering, full of a heat that made his body respond instantly, despite the anger and hurt that was still simmering just beneath the surface.
She held his gaze for a long moment, a slow, deliberate smirk playing on her lips. Then, she pushed off the pillar and started walking, not towards him, but towards the hallway that led to the restrooms.
Lando's heart hammered in his chest. He was angry, he was hurt, he was confused. But he was also a man who had been starving for a week, and she had just offered him a feast. He slammed his glass down on the bar and followed her, his strides long and determined.
He found her standing outside the ladies' room, leaning against the wall as if she had been waiting for him. She didn't say a word. She just grabbed his hand, pulled him into the men's room, and locked the door behind them.
The moment the door clicked shut, she was on him. She didn't say hi, she didn't ask how he was. She just launched herself at him, her hands fisting in his hair as she pulled his head down and crushed her lips to his.
Lando was so stunned, so overwhelmed by the suddenness of it, that for a second, he just stood there. Then, instinct took over. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated need, and pulled her close. He kissed her back with a desperation that bordered on violence, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, claiming her, tasting her. He had missed her so fucking much.
His hands roamed her body, gripping her hips, pulling them flush against his. He could feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her dress, and he groaned again, his hands sliding down to cup her ass, squeezing the firm flesh through her dress. He was already hard, aching for her, a week's worth of frustration and longing culminating in this one, explosive moment.
He was lost in her, in the taste of her, the feel of her, the scent of her. But then, a sliver of sanity pierced through the fog of lust. He pulled back, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against hers.
"What happened to the other guy?" he asked, his voice rough, his eyes searching hers. "The one you found?"
Y/N looked at him, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, she sighed, a small, weary sound. "There is no other guy," she confessed, her voice quiet. "I lied."
Lando pulled back, his eyes widening in shock and confusion. "You lied?" he repeated, his voice incredulous. "Why? Why the fuck would you lie about that?" Y/N couldn't meet his gaze. She stared at a spot on his chest, her cheeks burning with a shame that was quickly being overshadowed by a confusing knot of emotions. She felt like an idiot. A cruel, stupid idiot. "I don't know," she mumbled, the words barely audible over the thumping bass from the club outside.
The silence in the men's room was thick enough to choke on, broken only by the muffled thump of the bass from the club outside. Lando stared at her, his expression a volatile cocktail of disbelief, fury, and a deep, wounded confusion that made her chest ache. "You lied?" he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos they had just been part of. "You looked me in the eye and told me you found someone else, and you lied? Why the fuck would you do that, Y/N?"
Y/N couldn't hold his gaze. The intensity in his eyes was too much, a piercing spotlight that illuminated the tangled mess of her own motives. She stared at a point on his chest, at the expensive fabric of his black shirt, and felt a wave of heat wash over her cheeks. "I don't know," she mumbled, the words feeling inadequate and pathetic even to her own ears.
"Bullshit," he snapped, his voice rising. "You don't do anything without a reason. So tell me. Was it a power play? Did you get off on watching me fall apart? What was it?"
His anger was a tangible thing, a force that pressed in on her from all sides. It should have sent her running, should have triggered the cold, calculating part of her brain that knew how to de-escalate a situation or end it with extreme prejudice. But it didn't. It just made her feel… small. And cornered.
"No," she said, her voice finally finding some strength as she lifted her chin. "It wasn't like that." She took a shaky breath, the confession feeling like it was being ripped from her throat. "I wanted to make you jealous. I thought… I thought if I made you angry enough, we could have… you know. Hot, rough, make-up sex. Like we always do when we fight."
Lando stared at her, his jaw working. He let out a short, sharp, utterly humorless laugh. "Make-up sex? Y/N, I wasn't angry. I was destroyed. I spent a week thinking about you with some other faceless bastard, and it was killing me. I cried in front of Max. Do you have any idea what that means? I haven't cried since I was twelve years old. And you did that to me… for what? For a better orgasm?"
The raw honesty in his voice, the unvarnished pain, was a physical blow. It was far worse than his anger. "I… I didn't know it would hurt you like that," she whispered, genuinely remorseful. "Lando, we have an agreement. No strings attached. That's the rule. That's the only reason this works."
"Is it?" he challenged, stepping closer again, his presence overwhelming. "Is that the only reason? Because if it is, then my feelings shouldn't matter to you at all. If you really feel nothing for me beyond the physical, then what does it matter if I'm in love with you?"
The words hung in the air between them, so stark and so final that for a moment, Y/N thought she had misheard him. She froze, her mouth falling open slightly, her breath catching in her throat. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the thumping bass from the club fading into a distant, irrelevant drone. In love with you. The phrase echoed in her mind, each word a hammer blow against the walls she had spent a lifetime building.
"Say something," he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation. "Anything. Yell at me. Hit me. Just… say something."
But she couldn't. Her vocal cords were paralyzed. All she could do was stare at him, her eyes wide with a terror so profound it felt like a physical entity clawing its way up her spine. This was her worst nightmare come to life. This was the one vulnerability she could never afford, the one chink in her armor that could get her killed. Love was a liability. It was a weakness. And Lando, the one man she had allowed herself to feel anything for, had just handed her a loaded gun and pointed it at her own heart.
The silence stretched, agonizing and heavy. Finally, something inside her snapped. The fear curdled into a hot, defensive anger. It was easier to be angry. Anger was a weapon she knew how to use.
"What do you want me to say?" she shot back, her voice laced with a venom she didn't have to fake. "That I love you back? That I've been secretly pining for you, dreaming of a white picket fence and a happily ever after? Is that what you want to hear?" She took a step forward, getting in his face, her eyes flashing. "Well, I don't. I don't feel anything for you. It's always been about the sex. The mind-blowing, no-strings-attached sex. And now you've gone and ruined it by getting feelings. This is your fault, not mine. So this is over. We're done."
She watched his face, searching for a sign that her words had hurt him, that they had pushed him away. But instead of the pain she expected, she saw a flicker of something else in his eyes. Understanding. And it infuriated her.
"We're not done," he said, his voice calm now, eerily so. "My feelings don't change the physical aspect of this. In fact, they might make it better for you. I'm more motivated than ever to make you feel good."
"You're insane," she scoffed, turning away from him, needing to escape the suffocating intensity of his gaze.
"No, I'm practical," he said, his voice close behind her. He gently turned her back to face him. "Think about it, Y/N. If you really feel nothing for me, then it shouldn't be a problem for you that I have feelings for you. It doesn't affect you. You can still use me for whatever you need, and I'll still be here, ready and willing. The only thing that changes is that I'll be handling the emotional fallout on my own. You don't have to do anything."
His logic was a trap, a beautifully constructed, inescapable trap. He was daring her, challenging her to call his bluff, to admit that she wasn't as cold and detached as she claimed. If she walked away now, she would be proving him right. She would be admitting that his feelings did affect her, that she did care. And that was a concession she refused to make.
"Don't you want to hurt me?" he pressed, his voice a low, seductive murmur. "Here's your chance. Use me. Take what you want from me and leave. If you really don't care, it should be easy."
Her mind was racing, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was trapped between a rock and a hard place of her own making. She could walk away and lose him forever, or she could stay and play his dangerous game, a game she wasn't sure she could win. But the thought of him seeing through her, of him knowing the truth, was more terrifying than any physical danger she had ever faced.
"Fine," she snapped, her voice tight with resentment. "Fine. We'll continue your little arrangement. But don't come crying to me when you get your heart broken."
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Lando's face. It was the smile of a predator who had just cornered his prey. "I won't," he promised. And then he was on her.
His lips crashed down on hers, a punishing, possessive kiss that was all teeth and tongue and desperation. It wasn't gentle; it was a claiming, a branding. He was staking his claim, reminding her who she belonged to, who she had always belonged to. And damn her, she responded with a ferocity that matched his own. She kissed him back with a hunger that bordered on violence, her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel him, to taste him, to lose herself in him.
He moaned against her mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her entire body. His hands roamed her body, gripping her hips, pulling them flush against his already hardening length. He squeezed her ass, his fingers digging into the firm flesh through the thin material of her dress, and she arched into him, a soft moan escaping her lips. She had missed this. God, she had missed this so much.
His hand slid up her thigh, his fingers tracing a path of fire on her skin. The anticipation was agonizing, a delicious torture that had her trembling in his arms. He reached the edge of her panties, his fingers hesitating for a moment before slipping beneath the delicate lace. He pulled the fabric to the side, his fingers exploring her slick, wet folds before sliding two deep inside her.
Y/N gasped, her head falling back against the wall as a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washed over her. "Lando," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper.
He started to move, his fingers pumping in and out of her in a slow, deliberate rhythm. He circled her clit with his thumb, the dual sensations sending jolts of electricity through her. She could only see his forearm, the muscles flexing beneath his skin as his hand worked its magic under the hem of her dress. The sight of it, the knowledge of what he was doing to her, was almost as arousing as the act itself.
She bit her lip, trying to stifle the moans that threatened to escape, but it was useless. Lando could feel her response, could feel the way her body was tightening around his fingers, the way her breath hitched in her throat. He leaned in, his lips capturing hers in a searing kiss that was all tongue and teeth and desperation. He nipped at her bottom lip, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, and she gasped into his mouth.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low growl against her lips.
She forced her eyes open, her gaze meeting his in the dimly lit mirror behind the sinks. The sight was almost enough to undo her completely. Her, flushed and disheveled, her dress pushed up around her hips. Him, fully clothed, his expression dark and possessive, his hand buried between her legs.
"You're such a good girl for me," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "Taking my fingers so well. So fucking wet for me. Is this all for me, Y/N? Is this pussy dripping because you love having my fingers inside you?"
His words, his dirty talk, sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. She couldn't speak, could only nod, her eyes locked on his in the mirror as he sped up the pace of his fingers, pumping into her faster, harder, his thumb rubbing her clit in relentless, merciless circles.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice rough. "Tell me how much you want it."
"I want it," she gasped, her voice breathy and strained. "Lando, please..."
"Please what?" he urged, his fingers curling inside her, hitting that spot deep within her that made her see stars. "Tell me what you want."
"I want to come," she cried, her body arching off the door. "Please, Lando, let me come."
"Then come for me, baby," he growled, his voice a low, dominant rumble that vibrated through her entire body. "Come all over my fingers. Let me feel you."
His words were her undoing. With a cry that was half his name and half a sob, she shattered. The orgasm ripped through her, a tidal wave of intense pleasure that left her breathless and trembling. Her inner walls clenched around his fingers, her body convulsing as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over her. She gripped his wrist, her nails digging into his skin, holding on for dear life as he continued to pump his fingers, drawing out her orgasm, milking every last drop of pleasure from her.
When she was finally spent, a limp, trembling mess in his arms, he slowly withdrew his fingers. He brought them to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers as he tasted her, a low, satisfied hum rumbling in his chest.
"Perfect," he murmured, before kissing her again, a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of her and of him, of the passion that still burned between them, hotter and more dangerous than ever before.
"Let's go home," he said, his voice husky, his forehead resting against hers.
He took her hand, his fingers lacing with hers, and led her out of the bathroom. They navigated the crowded club, a bubble of intense, private energy in a sea of strangers. No one looked twice at the handsome man in the tailored suit and the beautiful woman in the little black dress, their hands clasped tightly, their faces flushed with a secret they shared.
He led her to his car, a sleek, black Aston Martin that was parked in a secluded, VIP spot. He opened the door for her, his hand lingering on the small of her back in a gesture that was both possessive and surprisingly tender, before she slid into the plush leather passenger seat.
The drive to his house was silent, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. It was heavy, charged with the unspoken words that hung between them. Lando focused on the road, his profile sharp and handsome in the glow of the dashboard lights, but Y/N could feel the tension radiating from him, a palpable energy that was both exhilarating and terrifying.
She stared out the window, the city lights a blur of color, her mind a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He loves me. The phrase echoed in her mind, a constant, terrifying refrain. It was a vulnerability, a weakness, a liability. It was everything she had ever fought against, everything she had sworn she would never allow herself to feel. And yet, a treacherous part of her, a part she had tried so hard to suppress, felt a thrill of something that was dangerously close to joy.
As they pulled into his driveway, the automatic lights illuminating the sprawling, modern mansion, her stomach churned with a nervousness that was both unfamiliar and unwelcome. This was Lando. This was the man who had been inside her more times than she could count, who had made her scream his name until she was hoarse, who had seen her at her most vulnerable, at her most messy. Why was she so nervous?
He parked the car, cutting the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening. He turned to her, his eyes dark and intense, searching hers. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice soft.
"Fine," she lied, her voice a little too bright. "Why wouldn't I be?"
He didn't answer, just gave her a knowing look that made her heart skip a beat. He got out of the car and came around to open her door, ever the gentleman. But as she stepped out, he didn't let her go. He crowded her against the car, his body pressing against hers, his hands framing her face.
"Last chance to back out," he murmured, his thumb stroking her cheek. "If you're not sure, Y/N, if you're scared, tell me now. We can pretend this never happened."
She looked up at him, at the raw, unguarded emotion in his eyes, and felt a surge of something she couldn't name. It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger. It was… something else. Something warm and dangerous and terrifyingly close to hope.
"I'm not scared," she said, her voice firm, even as her heart hammered against her ribs. "And I'm not backing out."
A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. "Good," he said, before capturing her lips in a kiss that was both a promise and a threat.
He took her hand again, leading her into the house. The moment they were inside, he was on her. He kicked the door shut behind them, the sound echoing in the vast, empty space, and then he was dragging her towards the stairs, his movements urgent, demanding.
He didn't give her a chance to look around, to acclimate to the familiar surroundings. He just pulled her up the stairs, down the hallway, and into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.
The room was dark, the only light the soft glow of the moon filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He spun her around, his hands gripping her hips as he pulled her flush against him. He kissed her, a deep, hungry kiss that was full of a week's worth of pent-up frustration and longing. He had missed her. God, he had missed her so fucking much.
He pulled her towards the bed, his movements clumsy with urgency. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, pulling her down with him, guiding her to straddle his lap. She settled against him, her thighs on either side of his, her core pressing against his already hardening length.
And then, the nervousness returned, a cold, clammy feeling that made her stomach churn. She had never been nervous about sex before. Never. But this… this was different. Knowing that he loved her, that this wasn't just about physical release for him, that there was an emotional component to his desire, changed everything. It made her feel exposed, vulnerable in a way she had never felt before.
She tried to push the feeling down, to bury it under a layer of practiced seduction. She bit her lip, looking at him from under her lashes, trying to see him without the admiration she felt for him showing through. He was so handsome. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen from her kisses, and his eyes… his eyes were burning with an intensity that was almost frightening. It wasn't just lust. It was something more. Something that looked a lot like love.
She felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the force of his gaze. She needed to regain control, to put herself back in the driver's seat. She reached for the hem of his shirt, her fingers fumbling with the buttons for a moment before she managed to undo them. She pushed the shirt open, her hands exploring the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his stomach.
He groaned, his head falling back as her hands roamed his body. Encouraged, she leaned in, her lips tracing a path down his neck, her teeth nipping at his collarbone. She could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a rapid, steady beat that matched her own.
She pulled back, her hands moving to the hem of her own dress. She crossed her arms, grabbing the fabric and pulling it over her head in one smooth, fluid motion. She tossed it aside, leaving her in only her black lace bra and panties.
Lando's eyes darkened, his gaze roaming her body, taking in every curve, every inch of exposed skin. He looked like he was starving, and she was the only thing that could satisfy his hunger.
She reached for the button of his pants, her fingers deliberately slow and teasing. She popped the button, then slowly, torturously, pulled down the zipper. He groaned, his hips bucking up in a silent plea for more. She smirked, a flicker of her usual confidence returning. She enjoyed this, enjoyed the power she held over him, the way she could make him lose control with just a touch.
She hooked her fingers in the waistband of his pants, pulling them down, along with his boxers, freeing his erection. He was hard, so hard it looked almost painful, the head an angry, swollen red. A bead of pre-cum glistened at the tip, and she felt a surge of feminine pride, a primal satisfaction that she was the one who did this to him.
She wrapped her hand around him, her fingers barely meeting around his thick girth. He was hot and heavy in her hand, a living, breathing thing that pulsed with life. She started to stroke him, her movements slow and deliberate, her thumb brushing over the sensitive head on each upstroke.
"Y/N," he groaned, his voice a low, guttural growl. "Fuck."
She looked up at him, a smirk playing on her lips. She could feel the tension coiling in his body, see the desperate need in his eyes. She knew he was close, knew that he wouldn't last long, not after a week of abstinence.
But just as she felt him start to twitch, just as she knew he was on the verge of release, he stopped her. His hand covered hers, stilling her movements.
"Stop," he gasped, his breathing ragged. "I want to come inside you."
Y/N's smirk widened. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. “You can get hard again."
He groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated torture, but he didn't stop her as she resumed her stroking, her movements faster this time, more insistent. She twisted her wrist with each stroke, her spit on his dick making slick, wet sounds in the quiet room. She used the moisture to lubricate her movements, her hand flying up and down his shaft, her grip firm and sure.
"Fuck, Y/N," he gasped, his hips bucking up to meet her strokes. "I'm... I'm gonna..."
With a loud, strangled cry, he came. His body arched off the bed, his back bowing as he spilled himself into her hand, hot and thick and endless. She kept stroking him, milking every last drop of his release, until he was spent, a limp, trembling mess beneath her.
She let go of him, wiping her hand on the tissue he offered her, a small, satisfied smile on her lips. She had done that. She had made him lose control, had made him forget everything but the pleasure she could give him. It was a powerful feeling, a heady rush that went a long way towards soothing the frayed edges of her nerves.
He pulled her down for a kiss, a deep, languid kiss that tasted of satisfaction and something more, something she couldn't quite name. They kissed for a long time, their hands roaming, relearning each other's bodies, the frantic urgency from earlier replaced by a slower, more intimate exploration.
His hands slid up her back, his fingers deftly unhooking her bra. He tossed it aside, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples. She moaned into his mouth, her body arching into his touch.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing a path of fire down her neck, behind her ear, a spot that never failed to make her weak in the knees. She moaned, her head falling back, giving him better access as he nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of marks in his wake.
He laid her back on the bed, his body hovering over hers. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties, pulling them down her legs and tossing them aside. She was completely naked now, exposed and vulnerable under his intense gaze.
But she wasn't just a passive observer. She reached for him, her hands exploring his body, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his stomach, the dip of his hips. She teased him, her fingers dancing along his inner thighs, her nails scraping lightly against his skin, enjoying the way his body responded to her touch, the way his muscles clenched and twitched.
She felt him harden again, his erection pressing against her thigh. She looked up at him, a silent question in her eyes, and he nodded, his gaze dark and intense.
She kissed him, a slow, deliberate kiss that was a promise of things to come. He reached for the nightstand, fumbling in the drawer for a moment before pulling out a foil packet. He ripped it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving hers as he rolled the condom down his length.
There was something undeniably hot about it, about the sight of him taking control, of him preparing to take her. It was a primal, possessive gesture that sent a thrill through her.
He positioned himself between her legs, his body covering hers. He guided himself to her entrance, the head of his cock nudging against her wet folds. He didn't enter her right away, just held himself there, teasing her, making her want it, making her need it.
"Please, Lando," she begged, her voice a breathy whisper. "I need you."
With a low groan, he thrust into her, sliding in slowly, inch by delicious inch. He was big, bigger than she remembered, and the initial stretch was a shock, a sharp, sweet pain that made her gasp. He gave her a moment to adjust, to get used to him, his body still, his weight a comforting, grounding presence on top of her.
And then he started to move.
At first, his movements were slow, gentle, a slow, deep rhythm that allowed her to stretch around him, to accommodate his size. But it wasn't long before the gentle rhythm gave way to something more primal, more demanding. He started to pound into her, his movements rough, punishing, his hips slapping against hers with a force that stole her breath.
They both moaned, a chorus of pleasure and pain that filled the quiet room. It was raw, and it was real, and it was everything she had been missing. He was everything she had been missing.
Downstairs, Max let himself into the house, his footsteps silent on the marble floors. He had been out with some of the guys, a rare night off that had done little to lift his spirits. He was worried about Lando. He had never seen his friend like this, so broken, so devastated. He had tried to talk to him, to distract him, but Lando had been lost in his own private hell, a ghost in his own life.
He was heading for the kitchen to grab a beer when he heard it. A faint sound from upstairs, a muffled cry that was quickly followed by a deeper, guttural moan.
Max froze, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. He shook his head, a chuckle escaping his lips. "Nasty bastards," he muttered to himself, a fond amusement in his voice.
He was happy, truly happy for his friend. Lando had been miserable, a shadow of his former self. And now, to hear him like this, to know that he was with her, that whatever had happened between them had been resolved… it was a relief. It was good to have the old Lando back.
He grabbed his beer and headed for his own room, deciding to give them some privacy. He could still hear them, the faint, rhythmic thumping of the headboard against the wall, a soundtrack to his friend's happiness. He smiled, taking a long drink of his beer. It was about damn time.
Back in the bedroom, Lando was relentless. He spread her legs wider with his hands, his thrusts becoming deeper, more powerful, hitting that spot deep within her that made her see stars. He was a man possessed, driving into her with a single-minded focus that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. "You're so tight around me," he whispered, his voice a low, guttural growl. "So fucking perfect. This pussy was made for me."
His words, his dirty talk, sent a jolt of electricity through her. She could feel the tension building inside her, a coil of pleasure that was about to snap.
"Lando," she gasped, her nails digging into his back. "I'm... I'm close."
"Come for me, baby," he urged, his voice a low, dominant rumble. "Come with me."
With a cry that was half his name and half a sob, she shattered. The orgasm ripped through her, a tidal wave of intense pleasure that left her breathless and trembling. He followed her over the edge a moment later, his body tensing as he came with a loud, guttural groan, his release hot and deep inside her.
He collapsed on top of her, his body heavy and limp, his face buried in the crook of her neck. They were both breathing heavily, their bodies slick with sweat, the room filled with the scent of their sex.
He didn't move, and she didn't want him to. She could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a rapid, steady beat that was slowly starting to return to normal. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, a strange sense of peace settling over her. For the first time in a long time, the constant, churning anxiety in her gut had quieted. The world outside this room, with its dangers and its demands, had faded away, leaving only the sound of their breathing and the steady, reassuring weight of his body on hers. It was a dangerous kind of peace, a treacherous calm that she knew she couldn't afford, but in that moment, she didn't care. She just wanted to stay here, in his arms, forever.
❤︎ |7,7k| Summary: Lando and Y/n are travelling to Texas for the Grand Prix. Unfortunately they aren’t alone for their travel and Lando becomes quite difficult to keep calm. Once they arrive Lando upsets Y/n and the night ends in tears.
The first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains, painting stripes of gold across the rumpled bedsheets. You were still curled in Lando's arms, his body a warm, solid presence behind you, his breath a gentle rhythm against your neck. You'd slept more deeply than you had in years, a sense of safety and rightness enveloping you, a stark contrast to the chaos of the previous day.
You felt a soft, feathery touch against your skin, just below your ear. It was followed by another, and another. A slow, sleepy smile spread across your face as you realized what was happening. Lando was kissing you awake. His lips were soft and warm, trailing a path of gentle, lingering kisses down the column of your throat. Each touch was a brand of possession, a silent claim, but it was tender, sweet, and filled with an affection that made your heart swell.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated through your entire body. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, as if he were trying to breathe in your very essence.
"Morning," you whispered back, your voice thick with sleep. You tilted your head to the side, giving him better access, a soft sigh escaping your lips as he continued his ministrations. He shifted, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against your back, the warmth of his chest seeping through the thin fabric of your pajama top.
"Sleep well?" he asked, his lips brushing against your skin with every word.
"Better than ever," you admitted. You turned in his arms, wiggling around until you were facing him. His hair was a mess, a riot of dark curls falling over his forehead, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep, but they were clear and bright, the green swirling with a familiar, possessive warmth. He looked… happy. Truly, deeply happy. The fear and vulnerability from yesterday were gone, replaced by a contentment that was so palpable it was almost tangible.
He grinned, a wide, unguarded smile that made your stomach flip. "Me too." He leaned in and captured your lips in a slow, sweet kiss. It was gentle, exploratory, a lazy, morning-after kiss that held the promise of so much more. His tongue swept across your lower lip, a silent request for entrance, and you opened for him without hesitation. The kiss deepened, his tongue delving into your mouth, tasting, exploring, claiming. It was a slow, sensual dance, a languid, passionate embrace that made your toes curl and your body hum with a gentle, growing warmth.
You lost track of time, lost in the sensation, in the taste of him, in the overwhelming feeling of being wanted, cherished, loved. His hand, which had been resting on your hip, began to move, sliding up your side in a slow, deliberate caress. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, the dip of your ribs, before coming to rest on the swell of your breast. He didn't move further, just held the weight of it in his palm, his thumb brushing back and forth over the sensitive peak, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core.
A soft moan escaped your lips, and you felt him smile against your mouth. He was pleased with your reaction, with the effect he had on you, and it was a heady, powerful thing. But as much as you were enjoying this, as much as you wanted to see where it would lead, you remembered the plan.
"Texas," you breathed, pulling back slightly, your lips swollen and tingling. "We have to pack."
He groaned, a low, dramatic sound of protest. "Screw Texas," he mumbled, burying his face in your hair. "Let's stay here. In this bed. Forever."
You laughed, a light, airy sound that was filled with genuine amusement. "As tempting as that sounds, I think Zak and Jon might be a little confused if we don't show up."
He sighed, a long, put-upon sound, but he pulled away, a reluctant smile playing on his lips. "Fine," he conceded. "But we're packing fast. And then we're coming right back here."
"Deal," you agreed, pressing a quick, hard kiss to his lips before scrambling out of bed.
You spent the next hour in a whirlwind of activity, pulling clothes out of drawers and stuffing them into the suitcase you'd found in the closet. You were trying to be methodical, to fold things neatly, but you were too excited, too energized by the prospect of a trip with Lando, a real trip, just the two of you (and a few others, but still). You were humming to yourself, a random, tuneless melody, as you arranged your shoes in the bottom of the suitcase, when you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind.
"Having fun?" he murmured, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. He started kissing you again, a series of soft, open-mouthed kisses that made your knees go weak. One of his hands slid down from your waist, splaying across your stomach, his palm warm and firm against your abdomen. He started rubbing slow, deliberate circles, the touch both comforting and incredibly arousing.
"Lando," you protested, your voice a little breathless. "I'm trying to pack."
"I'm helping," he countered, his voice a low, teasing rumble. He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth scraping gently against your skin, and a shiver ran down your spine. "This is much more fun than folding clothes."
You could feel him, hard and insistent, pressing against your ass. Even through the layers of your clothes and his, the heat of him was undeniable, a blatant, unapologetic display of his desire. Your body responded instantly, a wave of heat washing over you, your core clenching with a need that was becoming harder and harder to ignore.
"You're impossible," you muttered, but there was no real heat behind it. You were smiling, leaning back into his embrace, enjoying the feeling of his body against yours, his hands on you, his mouth on your skin.
He just chuckled, a low, deep sound that vibrated through your entire body. His hand on your stomach stilled, his fingers splaying wide, as if he were trying to cover as much of you as possible. "I can't help it," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "Having you here… it's driving me crazy. I want you all the time."
You turned in his arms, wrapping your own around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss. It was meant to be a quick, playful peck, but the moment your lips met, it deepened, turning into something hungry, demanding. His hands slid down to your hips, gripping you tightly and pulling you flush against his body, and you could feel the hard, thick ridge of his erection pressing against your stomach. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
Then, with a surge of willpower you didn't know you possessed, you pushed him away. "Okay, okay," you said, laughing as you held him at arm's length. "We really need to finish. We're going to be late."
He pouted, a full-on, bottom-lip-jutting-out pout that was so ridiculously endearing it made your heart ache. "You're no fun," he grumbled, but there was a twinkle in his eye that told you he wasn't really upset.
"I'm plenty of fun," you retorted, poking him playfully in the chest. "Now go pack your own bag, Alpha."
He just grinned, a wide, triumphant grin that made your stomach flip. He leaned in and gave you one last, sweet kiss. "Yes, ma'am," he said, his voice a low, respectful rumble that sent shivers down your spine.
The car ride to the airport was a study in contrasts. The city outside was a blur of motion and noise, but inside the car, there was a quiet intimacy that was almost palpable. Lando was sitting in the backseat with you, but he wasn't just sitting next to you. He was pressed against you, his thigh flush against yours, his arm draped possessively over the back of the seat behind you. He kept his hand on your leg, his thumb stroking back and forth in a constant, hypnotic rhythm. At every stop, he'd lean over, his lips finding your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, in a series of small, possessive kisses that were both sweet and undeniably proprietary.
The private airport was a hive of activity, but it was a different kind of activity than the commercial terminals you were used to. It was quieter, more exclusive, filled with people who moved with a sense of purpose and confidence. Lando's driver pulled up to a sleek, modern hangar, and the moment you stepped out of the car, you saw them.
Zak and Jon were standing near the entrance to the private jet, deep in conversation. They looked up as you approached, and their faces broke into wide, welcoming smiles.
"Lando!" Zak boomed, his voice echoing across the tarmac. He opened his arms, and Lando immediately let go of your hand, striding forward to wrap him in a tight, back-slapping hug. "Good to see you, man."
"You too, Zak," Lando said, his voice warm and genuine. He pulled away from Zak, a genuine, easygoing smile on his face that made your heart melt. "Good to see you, man," Zak boomed, his voice echoing across the tarmac as he wrapped Lando in a tight, back-slapping hug.
"You too, Zak," Lando said, his voice warm and genuine. He clapped Jon on the shoulder next, pulling him into a similar embrace. "Jon, how have you been?"
"Can't complain," Jon replied, grinning as he stepped back. His friendly gaze then landed on you, and he extended a hand, his smile open and welcoming. "Hi, it's great to finally meet you. I'm Jon."
You opened your mouth to return the greeting, a polite smile on your face, but you never got the words out. A blur of motion, and Lando was there. He didn't just step in front of you; he moved with a predatory swiftness that stole the air from your lungs, his broad shoulders forming an impenetrable wall between you and Jon. A low, guttural growl ripped from his chest, a primal sound of possession that was far more intimidating than it had been in the apartment. It was a clear, undisputed warning.
Zak let out a hearty, booming laugh, completely unfazed by the display of raw alpha aggression. "Easy there, Lando," he chuckled, clapping him on the back. "He's not going to steal her. He's just saying hello."
Lando's response was to snarl, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a way that was both terrifying and, shamefully, a little thrilling. The sharp points of his fangs were clearly visible, a visceral reminder of the wildness that thrummed just beneath his skin. Jon took a hasty step back, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and amusement.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You reached out, your fingers gently wrapping around Lano's tense bicep. "Hey," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "It's okay. Calm down."
The effect was instantaneous. The rigid lines of his back softened, the growling ceased, and he turned to you, his eyes, which had been blazing with a feral light, now softening into something warm and apologetic. "Sorry," he murmured, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.
Jon and Zak, however, were incredibly understanding. "Don't worry about it," Jon said, his smile returning easily. "We get it. We're just really happy to see you like this, Lando."
"Yeah, man," Zak added, his grin widening. "It's about time."
The interior of the private jet was a sanctuary of plush cream leather and polished wood. You settled into a wide, comfortable seat, and Lando immediately claimed the one beside you, his thigh pressing firmly against yours, his arm draped possessively over the back of your seat. Zak and Jon took the row across the aisle, giving you a modicum of privacy. The flight was scheduled to be four hours long, and you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that Lando wouldn't sleep a wink. He'd be too busy watching you, too on edge with the presence of other males, even if they were his trusted friends and colleagues.
You decided to help him relax. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you began to rub his chest, your hand moving in slow, soothing strokes up and down, then side to side. A low, deep purr rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure contentment that vibrated through your entire body. His eyes fluttered closed, and you could feel the fight in him as he struggled to stay awake, his instincts warring with his exhaustion. After about half an hour, his breathing evened out, and he was asleep, his head lolling heavily against yours, his weight a comforting, grounding presence.
You finally allowed yourself to relax, closing your eyes and ready to drift off. But just as you were on the verge of sleep, you felt him stir. He was restless, his legs shifting, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap. He let out a soft, distressed whimper, and then another, the sound pulling you from your own drowsiness. You looked down, concerned, and saw that his slacks were fighting for dear life, the fabric stretched taut over his impressive erection. Your breath hitched, a blush creeping up your neck. This was definitely not the time or the place. Luckily, he was still asleep, lost in whatever dream was causing such a reaction.
You flagged down a stewardess with a discreet wave of your hand. "Could I have a blanket, please?" you asked, your voice a little shaky.
"Of course," she said with a professional smile. "Are you cold?"
"Yes," you lied, your blush deepening as you avoided her gaze.
She returned a moment later with a soft, wool blanket, and you took it, your fingers trembling slightly as you draped it carefully over Lando's lap, hiding the evidence of his dream. Not long after, he woke up with a sharp intake of breath. You heard his breathing change, becoming heavy and ragged. You looked over at him, and your breath caught in your throat. His pupils were blown wide, his eyes almost completely black, his cheeks flushed, and his chest rising and falling with the force of his breathing. He looked at you, a knowing, desperate look in his eyes, and you looked back, your own desire rising to meet his, a slow, creeping heat that pooled in your core.
He reached for you, his hand trembling slightly, but you were quick to move away, just out of his grasp. He looked offended, hurt, and you leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "What's gonna happen if I let you touch me?"
A pained groan escaped his lips, and he clung to his seat, his fingers turning white. "Go take care of yourself in the bathroom," you whispered, your voice firm but laced with a sympathy you couldn't quite hide.
"I can't," he choked out, his voice strained, raw with a need that was almost palpable.
"Why not?" you asked, confused, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
"I need to be close to you," he admitted, his voice a ragged whisper. "I... I can't... not without you."
Your cheeks burned, but you understood, the confession sending a fresh wave of heat through you. "How can we both go to the bathroom without it looking suspicious?" you asked, your mind racing.
"The bathroom is behind a curtain," he explained quickly, his words tumbling over each other in his haste. "They won't be able to see us go in at the same time. We just both have to go."
You nodded, your throat dry. You both stood up, trying to act casual as you made your way down the aisle, the blanket still draped over Lando's lap. Once you were behind the heavy curtain, you slipped into the bathroom. It was bigger than you expected, with a large sink, a toilet, and plenty of space.
The moment the door clicked shut, Lando was on you. He attacked you with kisses, his mouth devouring yours, hungry and demanding. You found it difficult to hold in your moans, the passion of his kisses overwhelming. He moaned loudly into your mouth, his hands groping your body eagerly, touching you everywhere—your ass, under your shirt, behind your thighs. You could feel his hard erection pressing against your stomach, and you decided to help him.
You fumbled with his pants, your fingers trembling with anticipation as you unbuttoned them and slid down the zipper. You fumbled with his pants, your fingers trembling with anticipation as you unbuttoned them and slid down the zipper. The sound of the metal teeth parting was obscenely loud in the small, enclosed space, a sharp hiss that seemed to echo the frantic beating of your own heart. Lando's breath hitched, his hands flying to your waist, his grip tight and almost desperate as he held you steady. His eyes were locked on yours, dark and fathomless pools of need, and the raw, unfiltered desire you saw there sent a jolt of pure electricity straight through you.
With a surge of newfound confidence, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers. The soft cotton was warm from his body heat as you slowly, deliberately, slid them down his toned thighs. They pooled around his ankles, and he stepped out of them clumsily, his movements clumsy with urgency. And then he was there, fully exposed to you in the dim light of the bathroom. He was beautiful. Hard and thick and straining towards you, the tip flushed a deep, angry red and already glistening with a bead of moisture that spoke volumes of his arousal. A shyness warred with your own excitement, a dizzying cocktail of innocence and a burgeoning, powerful desire to please him.
You reached out, your hand shaking slightly, and wrapped your fingers around his rigid length. The velvety skin was hot to the touch, the steel-hard core beneath pulsing with a life of its own. You gave a gentle, experimental squeeze, and Lando's entire body jolted as if he'd been struck by lightning. A loud, unrestrained moan tore from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that was far too loud for the confines of an airplane bathroom.
Your eyes widened in panic, and you immediately clapped your free hand over his mouth, your palm pressing against his lips. "Shh!" you hissed, your own voice a frantic whisper. "You have to be quiet, Lando! They'll hear you!"
His eyes, which had been squeezed shut in ecstasy, flew open. They were wild and dazed, but a flicker of understanding cut through the haze of his arousal. He nodded against your palm, his breath coming in ragged pants against your skin. You slowly removed your hand, and he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Okay," he breathed, his voice a strained, hoarse whisper. "Okay. I'll be quiet."
You took a deep, steadying breath and began to move your hand. You started with slow, tentative strokes, your grip firm but gentle, sliding from the base to the tip and back again. He was slick and wet, his own arousal making the movement easy, a smooth, glide that was intoxicating. You watched his face, mesmerized by the play of emotions that crossed it. His head was thrown back, the strong line of his throat exposed, his lips parted as he panted for breath. His eyes were closed again, his brows furrowed in concentration, as if he were trying to memorize every single sensation.
You remembered something you'd read once, a fleeting piece of information from a magazine you'd skimmed years ago. At the top of each stroke, you paused, your thumb swirling over the sensitive, swollen head of his cock, smearing the bead of moisture that had gathered there.
"Oh, fuck," he choked out, his hips bucking involuntarily, pushing himself deeper into your hand. "Yes... right there... do that again."
You did it again, and again, a slow, deliberate circle that made his whole body tremble. His reaction was immediate and visceral. A low, guttural groan rumbled in his chest, a sound that was muffled but no less powerful. He was completely gone, lost in a haze of pleasure, his body buzzing with an energy that was almost palpable. His hands, which had been gripping your waist, moved to your ass, pulling you closer, grinding his hardness against your stomach. His hips began to move in a rhythm that matched your strokes, a slow, deep thrusting that was both primal and incredibly erotic.
Across the aisle, Zak leaned back in his seat, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "I give them ten minutes before he's back out here, looking like a kicked puppy because she wouldn't let him do what he really wants to do."
Jon chuckled, shaking his head. "You're underestimating him. I give him five." He was about to say more when a sound, loud and unmistakable, cut through the low hum of the plane's engines. It was a moan, a deep, guttural sound of pure pleasure that was followed by a muffled thud.
Zak's eyes widened, and then he burst out laughing, a loud, booming sound that turned a few heads. "Well, I guess he's not wasting any time."
Jon was laughing too, his shoulders shaking. "I haven't heard him that worked up since he won his first race in Miami." They fell silent, listening intently, their expressions a mixture of amusement and brotherly exasperation. And then they heard it. A faint, rhythmic, wet sound that was unmistakable.
"Oh, for God's sake," Jon groaned, though he was still grinning. "They're not even trying to be discreet."
Zak just shook his head, his grin widening. "Let him have his fun. He's been wound tighter than a drum for months. It's good to hear him... unwind."
You could feel the tension coiling in Lando's body, a tight, spring-like pressure that was building with every stroke of your hand. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving, and his hips were moving faster, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. He was chasing his release, and you were determined to give it to him. You tightened your grip, your strokes becoming faster, more confident, your thumb continuing its relentless assault on the sensitive head of his cock.
"I'm... I'm close," he panted, his voice a strained, desperate whisper. "So close... don't stop... please, don't stop."
You had no intention of stopping. You were completely caught up in the moment, in the power you held, in the overwhelming need to see him fall apart in your hands. You could feel him twitching, a series of small, involuntary spasms that heralded his impending release. And then, with a final, guttural cry that he managed to muffle against your shoulder, he was cumming. He came hard, his body shuddering violently, his hot, thick release spilling over your hand, coating your fingers in his essence.
You held him through it, your strokes slowing as he rode out the waves of his pleasure, his body finally slumping against yours, his weight a welcome, grounding presence. For a long moment, you just stood there, the only sound in the small bathroom his ragged breathing and the frantic beating of your own heart.
He slowly lifted his head, his eyes heavy-lidded and sated, a soft, contented smile playing on his lips. He leaned in and captured your mouth in a sweet, tender kiss, a slow, languid exploration that was a stark contrast to the frantic passion of moments before. It was a kiss of gratitude, of affection, of a connection that went far beyond the physical.
"Wow," he breathed, his voice a husky whisper. "Just... wow."
He was still slumped against you, his weight a comforting, heavy blanket that anchored you to the spot. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his breathing slowly returning to a more normal rhythm, but you could still feel the frantic flutter of his heartbeat against your own. It was in this quiet, post-orgasmic state that you remembered. This was the other side of the coin to his alpha possessiveness. After the intense, almost feral passion, came this. A profound, almost childlike clinginess that was both endearing and, if you were being honest with yourself, a little overwhelming. He needed to be close, to touch, to reconnect and reassure himself that you were still there, still his.
You felt him shift slightly, and then he was pulling back, just enough to look down at your hand, which was still held between you. His release was cooling on your skin, a sticky, intimate reminder of what had just transpired. A deep blush, not of arousal but of a sweet, shyness, colored his cheeks. He took your hand in his, his grip impossibly gentle, a stark contrast to the desperate way he'd been clutching at you moments before.
"Let me," he murmured, his voice soft and thick with emotion. He reached over with his free hand and grabbed a handful of tissues from the small dispenser on the wall.
You watched, fascinated, as he began to clean your hand. He wasn't just wiping it away; he was meticulous, his movements slow and deliberate. He dabbed carefully at each of your fingers, his touch so light it was barely there, as if he were afraid of hurting you. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his lips parted slightly as he focused on the task. It was an act of such tender, unexpected intimacy that it made your heart ache. He wasn't just cleaning up a mess; he was worshipping the hand that had given him pleasure, his reverence for you so palpable it was a physical presence in the small, steamy room.
When he was satisfied that your hand was clean, he didn't let go. He brought it to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your palm, his eyes closing as he inhaled deeply, as if he were trying to memorize the scent of your skin mingled with his own.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice hoarse with an emotion that went far beyond simple gratitude.
You didn't know what to say, so you just nodded, your throat tight. He finally straightened up, tucking himself back into his pants with a sigh of contentment. He looked at you then, his eyes soft and sated, a lazy, happy smile spreading across his face. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek.
"You're amazing," he said, his voice full of a sincerity that made your stomach flip. When he finally pulled away, he took your hand again, his fingers lacing with yours. "Ready?" he asked, his voice soft, his eyes searching yours.
You nodded, and he opened the door, peeking out to make sure the coast was clear before leading you back to your seats. You tried not to look at Zak and Jon as you made your way back to your seats, your face burning with a mixture of embarrassment and a secret, thrilling satisfaction.
Lando, on the other hand, was incredibly sated and satisfied. He was calm, the restless energy that had been thrumming through him completely gone.
As soon as you were settled, he pulled you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you tightly, and he held you like that for the rest of the flight, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your hair and your neck, a low, contented purr rumbling in his chest. You knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that he wouldn't let you go until the plane landed. And, you thought with a private smile, you didn't really want him to.
The plane touched down with a soft, definitive bump, a gentle jolt that signaled the end of your four-hour sanctuary in the clouds. Lando's arms, which had been wrapped around you like a second skin for the entire journey, tightened instantly, a reflexive, protective gesture against the intrusion of the outside world. You blinked, trying to clear the sleep from your eyes, and peered out the small, oval window. The Texas sun was a brilliant, blinding gold, bathing the sprawling private airfield in a warm, hazy light.
"Time to go, love," Lando murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just behind your ear. His voice was a low, reluctant rumble, a clear sign he was just as content as you were to remain in their little bubble.
You stretched, feeling the pleasant ache in your muscles from being held for so long, and followed him out of the plush leather seat. As you walked down the aisle, you caught Zak and Jon already gathering their things, their expressions a mixture of brotherly amusement and something that looked suspiciously like relief. You did your best to ignore them, your cheeks still burning with the vivid, thrilling memory of what had transpired in the cramped airplane bathroom.
The moment the cabin door hissed open, the dry, heated air of Texas rushed in to greet you. But it wasn't the chaotic roar of a fan crowd that met you. Instead, it was a low, professional murmur of welcome. Standing a respectful distance from the bottom of the stairs was a small, select group of people. Four of them, to be precise. A man and a woman, both impeccably dressed in elegant, understated business attire, and two men who had the look of high-level security or personal assistants. They were important, you could tell. The kind of people who didn't just show up for a random driver's arrival.
Lando was at your side in an instant, his hand finding yours and gripping it firmly, his fingers lacing through yours in a gesture that was both comforting and possessive. He positioned himself slightly in front of you, his broad shoulders a familiar, reassuring shield, and began to lead you down the narrow steps.
"Mr. Norris, welcome to Austin," the man at the front of the group said, his voice a smooth, polished baritone. He was older, perhaps in his late fifties, with silver hair at his temples and a warm, genuine smile. "I'm Richard Sterling, the owner of the Sterling Hotel. It's an absolute honor to have you and your team with us."
"Richard, it's great to see you," Lando said, his voice warm and professional, though you could feel the tension thrumming through him. He extended his free hand, and they shook, a brief, firm clasp.
You tried to offer a polite smile to the woman standing beside Richard, who had a kind, welcoming face and her hand already extended in greeting, but Lando was already pulling you along, his grip on your hand almost painful. He kept you tucked securely behind him, his body a wall that you couldn't see around, effectively blocking you from the conversation.
"Lando," you said, your voice a low, urgent whisper. "Slow down."
He didn't seem to hear you, his focus fixed on the car that was waiting for them at the edge of the tarmac. You could feel the frustration building inside you, a hot, prickly anger that was rapidly rising to the surface. You weren't his possession to be hidden away. You were his partner, and this was a professional setting, not a battlefield.
"Lando, stop," you said, your voice sharper this time, laced with a warning. You dug your heels in, pulling back on his hand with all your strength.
He finally turned to look at you, his eyes wide with a confusion that quickly morphed into a familiar, stubborn possessiveness. "What's wrong?" he asked, his brow furrowed in a way that you were quickly learning meant he was on the defensive.
"What's wrong?" you repeated, your voice rising with indignation, though you kept it low enough to avoid causing a scene. "You're treating me like a child! I want to say hello. These are your hosts, not a pack of wolves."
"No," he said, his voice firm, his jaw set in a hard line. "It's not necessary."
"It is necessary," you argued, your patience wearing dangerously thin. "It's called being polite. It's called showing respect to the people who are putting us up for the weekend. Don't you dare embarrass me in front of them."
You saw the conflict in his eyes, the war between his alpha instincts and his desire to please you. He was struggling, and you knew you were pushing him, but you were tired of being hidden, tired of being treated like a fragile object he needed to protect from the world. With a surge of pure frustration, you wrenched your hand out of his and stepped out from behind him, squaring your shoulders.
The effect was immediate. The woman with the kind smile, who you now assumed was Richard's wife or partner, stepped forward, her hand still extended. "Welcome," she said warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm Eleanor Sterling. We're so delighted to have you both here."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Eleanor," you said, your voice bright and friendly, a stark contrast to the tense whisper you'd just used with Lando. You reached out and took her hand, giving it a firm, confident shake. "I'm Y/N."
She beamed, her grip warm and genuine. "Y/N, what a lovely name. We've heard so much about you."
You smiled, turning to the next person in line, a younger man in a sharp suit who you assumed was one of the hotel's executives. He had his hand already extended, a polite, professional smile on his face. "Hi, I'm Y/N," you said, reaching out to shake his hand.
The moment your fingers were about to touch his, a low, dangerous growl ripped from Lando's throat. It was a sound you'd heard before, but this time it was laced with a fury that was truly terrifying. Before you could even register what was happening, you felt a strong arm wrap around your waist from behind. With a grunt of pure, primal effort, Lando lifted you clean off the ground.
You let out a shocked gasp, your feet dangling in the air as he turned and began striding towards the waiting SUV. You were completely immobilized, his grip like a steel band around your midsection. The world tilted, a dizzying blur of tarmac and stunned faces.
"Lando! Put me down right now!" you shrieked, your voice a mix of shock and pure rage. You struggled against his hold, kicking your legs and pounding your fists against his back, but it was like trying to fight a statue. He was impossibly strong, his focus absolute.
"Stop it," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous warning in your ear. "You're making a scene."
"You're the one who's making a scene!" you shot back, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and a humiliating sense of helplessness. "You're acting like a caveman! Put me down!"
He ignored you, his long legs eating up the distance to the car. You could hear the hurried, apologetic voices of Zak and Richard behind you, their words a meaningless jumble of placations and excuses. You buried your face in Lando's back, your cheeks burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the Texas sun. You had never been so mortified in your entire life.
He finally reached the SUV, yanking open the back door and unceremoniously depositing you on the leather seat. He didn't follow you in, instead leaning down, his face inches from yours, his eyes blazing with a feral, possessive light.
"Stay," he commanded, his voice a low, guttural snarl.
And then he slammed the door, leaving you alone in the cool, quiet confines of the car, your heart hammering against your ribs, your entire body shaking with a fury so intense it was almost blinding.
A few moments later, he slid in beside you, followed by a quietly fuming Zak and a deeply amused Jon. The car pulled away from the curb, leaving the awkwardness and the humiliation on the tarmac behind.
You didn't look at him. You didn't even look at Zak or Jon. Instead, you pulled your phone out of your pocket, your fingers trembling with rage as you fumbled with the case until you had your AirPods in. You tapped the screen, putting on your favorite playlist, and turned the volume all the way up, drowning out the world, drowning out him. You could feel Lando's eyes on you, a heavy, questioning weight, but you refused to meet his gaze, your anger a cold, hard shield around you.
The car was silent for a long time, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the faint, tinny beat of your music leaking from your earbuds. You stared out the window, watching the city of Austin blur past, your jaw tight with unspoken resentment. You could feel Lando's sadness, a palpable wave of misery that radiated from him, but you were too angry, too hurt, to care. He had crossed a line. A big one. He had humiliated you in front of his colleagues and his hosts, and he wasn't going to get away with it.
He was trying. You could feel it. He shifted in his seat, his thigh brushing against yours, a tentative, questioning touch.
You could feel the tentative warmth of his thigh against yours, a silent plea for forgiveness, a bridge he was trying to build across the chasm of his own making. Without a moment's hesitation, you shifted away, sliding your body closer to the door until there was a noticeable gap between you. The movement was small, but in the suffocating silence of the car, it was a deafening rejection. You felt him flinch, a sharp intake of breath beside you, the sting of your action hitting its mark.
He didn't give up. A moment later, his arm came down, draping itself over the back of the seat behind you, his fingers brushing against your shoulder. It was a casual, possessive gesture he'd used a hundred times, but now it felt like an intrusion. You tensed, your shoulders hunching slightly, and after a few agonizing seconds of him just resting there, he slowly, reluctantly, retracted his arm. He tried again, a light tap on your shoulder, his touch hesitant and questioning. You kept your eyes fixed on the world outside the window, your face a mask of indifference, the music in your ears a wall he couldn't penetrate. His sigh was a soft, defeated sound, barely audible over the bass from your playlist.
The car finally rolled to a stop in front of a grand, glittering hotel. The moment the engine quieted, you were moving. You pushed the door open and slid out, not waiting for him, not even glancing back. You could hear his door opening, his hurried footsteps on the pavement, and then you felt his fingers brush against yours, trying to capture your hand. You reacted instinctively, pulling your hand away as if you'd been burned and tucking it into your pocket, striding towards the entrance without breaking your stride. You heard his soft, wounded sound, a whimper of pure pain that almost made you falter, but your anger was a shield, hard and impenetrable.
The elevator ride was a special kind of hell. It was a mirrored box, forcing you to see his reflection, his tall, slumped form, the utter misery etched onto his handsome face. His eyes were locked on you, a desperate, pleading gaze that you could feel like a physical touch. You stared resolutely at the lit numbers climbing above the door, your jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Zak and Jon stood awkwardly on the other side, their presence a silent, heavy judgment on the entire situation. The air was thick with unspoken words, with his silent apologies and your silent refusals.
The doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a short hallway leading to a single, grand door. The penthouse suite. Zak swiped a key card, and the door swung open into a sprawling, luxurious space of floor-to-ceiling windows and opulent furnishings. You didn't stop to admire the view. You walked straight past the living area, your eyes scanning for an escape. You found it down a short hallway – a bathroom, large and marble-clad. You stepped inside, and without a second thought, you clicked the lock into place.
The silence lasted for all of five seconds. Then, the pounding began.
"Y/N," his voice came through the door, deep and frantic. "Open the door. Please. Just talk to me."
You ignored him, turning on the faucet to drown him out. You splashed cold water on your face, the shock of it doing little to cool the fire of your rage.
"Y/N, I'm sorry!" he shouted, the pounding growing more insistent. "I'm so, so sorry! I was an idiot. A fucking caveman, just like you said. Please, open the door. I can't stand this."
You turned off the faucet and reached into the shower, turning the knobs. The sound of the water spraying against the tile was a welcome roar, a wall of noise that finally muffled his voice. You stripped off your clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and stepped under the hot, punishing spray. You let the water cascade over you, washing away the stickiness of travel and the humiliation of the tarmac, but it couldn't wash away the hurt. You could still hear him, a faint, desperate shouting beyond the rush of water, but you closed your eyes and focused only on the heat, letting it scald your skin until you felt raw.
When you finally emerged, the steam billowing out with you, you grabbed a fluffy towel from the rack. You wrapped it securely around your body and bent to scoop up your discarded clothes. As you straightened up, you saw him. He was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, his broad shoulders filling the frame, his expression one of utter devastation. He was wearing only his boxers, his tanned, muscled torso on full display. A traitorous heat bloomed low in your belly, a familiar ache stirring between your thighs as your eyes traced the defined lines of his abs, the powerful muscles of his thighs. Your gaze dropped, against your will, to the significant bulge straining against the soft cotton of his boxers, a blatant testament to his desire, even in his misery.
You hated your body in that moment. You hated its betrayal. You looked away quickly, your cheeks burning, and brushed past him without a word, heading for the walk-in closet where your suitcase was, to find something to wear. You could feel his eyes on you, a physical weight that followed your every move. You pulled on a simple tank top and a pair of sleep shorts, your movements sharp and angry.
When you came out, he was in the main bedroom, pacing back and forth across the plush carpet like a caged animal. His hands were raking through his hair, his movements restless and agitated. The sight of his powerful body, coiled with tension and regret, sent another unwanted jolt of desire through you. You pushed it down, hard, and marched over to the king-sized bed, pulling back the duvet and sliding underneath, turning your back to the door and burrowing into the pillows.
The bed dipped behind you as he got in. You could feel the warmth of his body, a mere inch away, the heat radiating from him like a furnace. You squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body rigid with anticipation. You could feel him shifting, the rustle of the sheets, and then you felt it – the warmth of his hand hovering over your hip, so close you could almost feel the ghost of his touch. The air crackled with his intent.
"Don't even think about it," you said, your voice a cold, sharp warning in the dark room.
The warmth vanished. You heard his sharp, pained inhale, and then nothing. He didn't move away, but he didn't touch you either. He just lay there, a silent, wounded presence beside you.
You tried to sleep. You closed your eyes and commanded your body to relax, but it was useless. You could feel his eyes on you in the dark, a heavy, suffocating weight. You could feel the tremor that ran through his body, the barely suppressed energy of an alpha in distress. The silence stretched on, broken only by your own shallow breaths and the frantic, silent beating of your heart.
And then, you heard it. A soft, broken sound. A whimper, so filled with pain it made your own chest ache. It was followed by another, a quiet, choked sob. You could hear the sound of sniffling, the wet, ragged breaths of someone trying desperately not to cry out loud. He was crying. Silently, miserably, right there beside you.
You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, a single, hot tear escaping and sliding down your temple to soak into the pillow. You ignored him. You forced yourself to lie still, to breathe evenly, until the sounds of his quiet misery faded, replaced by the even, deep breathing of sleep. But your own sleep wouldn't come. Your mind raced, replaying the day's events, his humiliation, his apology, his tears. And through it all, one thought kept circling, a bitter, ironic twist of fate. Tomorrow was media day. The first Grand Prix of the season. The first time you would be attending together, as a couple. It was supposed to be sweet and you had been so excited for it. And now you were going to have to face it all with this chasm between you, your anger a cold, heavy stone in your gut. The timing, you thought with a fresh wave of resentment, was absolutely fucking perfect.
❤︎ |6,5k| Summary: Lando is disappointed to find Y/n gone in the morning. When he meets her the next day she’s full of attitude and on her period. Luckily Lando is there to help her feel better.
The house was quiet as Lando carried Y/N through the front door, the only sound the soft thud of his footsteps on the marble floor and her gentle, even breaths against his chest. The moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the pristine white walls. He navigated the staircase carefully, one arm secured under her knees, the other supporting her back, her head lolling against his shoulder.
She felt impossibly small in his arms, fragile in a way she never was when she was awake and fighting him with every sharp word and defiant glance. Asleep, she was soft, vulnerable, and his heart ached with a fierce protectiveness that both terrified and exhilarated him.
He reached his bedroom and gently laid her down on the king-sized bed, her body sinking into the plush duvet. He stood there for a moment, just watching her sleep, the moonlight catching in her hair, highlighting the gentle curve of her cheek. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly, and brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face.
The touch was feather-light, but it was enough.
Her eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. For a moment, she looked dazed, her gaze unfocused as she tried to piece together where she was and how she'd gotten there. Then her eyes found his, and she just stared. There was no anger, no defiance, no teasing mask. Just a raw, curious, almost admiring gaze that made his breath catch in his throat. She looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time, really seeing him.
Then, as if the intensity of her own gaze scared her, her expression shifted. A soft whine escaped her lips, and she started pulling at the silk dress she wore, her movements clumsy and desperate. "This dress," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "I can't breathe in it. It's... suffocating."
She twisted, trying to reach the zipper at the back, but her arms weren't long enough, her movements too sluggish from sleep. She let out a frustrated little huff. "Zipper," she said, her voice a quiet plea. "Can't reach it."
Lando didn't hesitate. He sat on the edge of the bed, his movements gentle. "Turn over," he said softly.
She complied, rolling onto her stomach with a soft sigh, exposing the long line of her back and the delicate zipper nestled between her shoulder blades. His fingers brushed against her warm skin as he found the small metal tab, and he slowly drew it down, the sound a soft, metallic whisper in the quiet room. The silk parted, revealing the smooth expanse of her back, the delicate curve of her spine.
He helped her sit up, and the dress pooled around her waist. She shimmied out of it, letting it fall to the floor in a heap of silk, leaving her in just her matching black lace bra and panties. He then knelt, his fingers finding the delicate straps of her heels. He unbuckled them carefully, his touch lingering on her ankles, and slipped them off, placing them neatly on the floor.
She was already asleep again before he even straightened up. She just collapsed back against the pillows, her body curling into itself, a soft, contented sigh escaping her lips as she burrowed under the duvet.
Lando watched her for a long moment, a small smile playing on his lips. He quickly shed his own clothes, pulling on a pair of loose boxers before sliding into bed beside her. He didn't touch her, just lay there, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body, listening to the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing. He fell asleep with the image of her peaceful face etched behind his eyelids.
The morning light filtering through the curtains was a soft, golden-gray. Lando surfaced from sleep slowly, his consciousness drifting upward through layers of warmth and safety. He reached out, his hand searching for her, for the warm body that had been beside him when he fell asleep.
His hand met only cool, empty sheets.
He sat up, his eyes scanning the room. She was gone. Her dress was gone. Her shoes were gone. It was as if she had never been there at all.
A wave of frustration washed over him, hot and sharp. He threw back the covers and stood up, running a hand through his already messy hair. He knew she was always quick to leave, always the first one out the door after they were done. But this was different. She had stayed the night. She had been here when he fell asleep. He had carried her to his bed, undressed her, taken care of her. And she had just... vanished. No note. No message. Nothing.
He walked into the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, trying to shake off the sting of her disappearance. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his jaw tight. He was being ridiculous. This was what they were. This was the arrangement. No strings attached.
But then it hit him, a thought so staggering it made him freeze, his hand gripping the edge of the sink.
He didn't have her number.
God, he didn't even have the fucking number of the girl he was completely, utterly obsessed with. He knew her body, her taste, everything physical but he couldn't just text her, couldn't call her, couldn't send her a simple "Where the fuck did you disappear to?" He was completely at her mercy.
"Fuck," he muttered, slamming his palm against the counter.
He got dressed, his movements jerky and angry, and stomped downstairs, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. He needed coffee. He needed to forget about her for five minutes.
He found Max already in the dining room, sitting at the large oak table, a newspaper spread out in front of him and a cup of coffee in his hand. Max looked up as Lando entered, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"Rough night?" Max asked, his tone teasing. "Or should I say, rough morning? I saw Y/N leaving your room at the crack of dawn. Looked like she was in a hurry."
Lando just rubbed his face with his hands, his exhaustion and frustration palpable. "I don't know, Max," he said, his voice muffled by his hands. "I honestly don't know."
Max's smirk faded slightly, replaced by a look of genuine concern. "Hey, you okay?"
Lando dropped his hands and sank into the chair opposite Max. "She was gone when I woke up," he admitted, his voice quiet. "Just... gone. No note, no nothing."
Max sighed. "Lando, what did you expect? You said it yourself, it's just sex. No strings, remember?"
"I know," Lando said, his voice tight. "I know. But this time felt... different."
"Did it?" Max asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or did you just want it to be?"
Lando didn't have an answer to that. He just stared into his empty coffee cup, the bitter taste of her absence stronger than any caffeine.
The next day, Lando decided he needed some air. He went for a walk along the harbor, the salty breeze a welcome distraction from the thoughts that had been swirling in his head for the past twenty-four hours. He watched the yachts bobbing in the water, the tourists milling about, the rich and famous going about their daily lives.
And then he saw her.
She was standing by the harbor, leaning against a weathered wooden piling, looking out at the sea. The breeze whipped her hair around her face, and she wore a simple pair of grey shorts and a grey tank top, a stark contrast to the elegant dresses he usually saw her in. She looked... normal. Real. And his heart did that stupid little flip it always did when he saw her.
He didn't think. He just walked.
His footsteps were determined, and she must have heard them approaching because she turned her head slightly, her eyes widening in recognition when she saw it was him. He didn't give her a chance to run.
"Fancy seeing you here," he said, his voice casual, but his eyes were locked on hers, intense and unwavering.
"Lando," she said, her voice neutral. She didn't smile, but she didn't immediately tell him to fuck off either. That was a good sign.
"Come over," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement, a demand.
She let out a small, humorless laugh and shook her head. "No."
"Why not?" he pressed, stepping closer, invading her personal space. He could smell the salt on her skin, the faint scent of her perfume.
"I have things to do," she said, turning her gaze back to the water, effectively dismissing him.
"Like what?" he pushed. "More important than me?" He knew he sounded like a petulant child, but he couldn't help it. Her disappearance this morning had left a raw, gaping wound, and he needed to see her, to touch her, to remind himself that she was real and that he hadn't just dreamt her.
She finally looked at him, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. "Yes, Lando. More important than you."
He wasn't deterred. He was used to this by now. "Come on," he cajoled, his voice softening. "Just for a little while. I'll make it worth your while."
She finally turned to face him fully, a skeptical arch to her eyebrow. "Oh, will you now?" she challenged, her lips quirking into a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes. "And how exactly do you plan on doing that?"
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a hot whisper against her skin. "I'll fuck you so good you won't be able to walk tomorrow, and I'll make you come as many times as you’d like. How does that sound?"
A shiver ran through her, despite her best efforts to remain unaffected. He could see the desire warring with her resolve in her eyes. He had her. He knew he did.
But then she seemed to collect herself, taking a small step back. "I'm not in the mood," she said, her voice clipped.
Lando's gaze slowly, deliberately, dropped from her face down to her legs. He raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Really? Then why are your thighs clenched so tight together?"
Her face flushed, a beautiful pink that spread across her cheeks. He loved it when he made her blush. "Because I'm on my period," she snapped, as if that was the ultimate conversation ender. "So I'm definitely not in the mood to deal with your... proposition."
He just shrugged, completely unfazed. "So? You can still come over. I've got snacks."
She stared at him, dumbfounded. "You want me to come over... to eat snacks?"
"And watch a movie. And just be together. Is that so hard to believe?" he asked, his tone genuinely curious now.
"Yes," she said bluntly. "It is."
"Please?" he asked, and he hated how pathetic he sounded, but he didn't care. He needed her near him. "Just for a little while. I promise I'll behave."
She let out a long, dramatic sigh, but he could see the fight leaving her eyes. "You are so incredibly annoying," she muttered, but she was already reaching for her bag.
A triumphant grin spread across his face. "So I've been told," he said, holding out his hand. This time, she didn't hesitate before placing her own in it. "So, is that a yes?"
"Fine," she said, her voice resigned. "But only for the snacks."
"Of course," he said, his smile widening as he laced his fingers through hers. "Only for the snacks."
The walk back to his house was quiet, but not uncomfortable. He couldn’t focus on anything but their joined hands, a small, contented smile on his face. He could feel her eyes on him occasionally, but he didn't look at her, just kept walking, enjoying the simple act of holding her hand, feeling the weight of it in his own.
Once inside, he led her straight to the kitchen, true to his word. He rummaged through his pantry, pulling out a bag of chips, a box of cookies, and a bar of her favorite chocolate. "Here," he said, handing her the chocolate. "Get started."
She took the chocolate, a small smile playing on her lips as she broke off a piece. He watched her eat, his own hunger forgotten. She was so fucking cute when she was eating, her eyes closing in bliss as she savored the sweet treat.
They settled on the couch, the bag of chips between them, a random action movie playing on the giant TV screen that neither of them was watching. He couldn't stop himself from asking, the question that had been burning a hole in his gut since he'd woken up to an empty bed.
"Why did you leave this morning?" he asked, his voice quiet.
Her hand, halfway to the bag of chips, froze. She slowly lowered it, her expression shuttering. "Why not?” "What does it matter anyway?" she asked, her eyes challenging him.
He didn't have an answer to that. Because she was right. It didn't matter. Not according to their rules. But it mattered to him. It mattered a hell of a lot.
She pressed, her gaze unwavering. "Why does it matter, Lando?"
He opened his mouth to tell her. To tell her that he was completely, utterly, head-over-heals in love with her. But the words got stuck in his throat, choking him. She didn’t feel the same, he knew that, she had made that pretty fucking clear. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she held herself so stiffly, so defensively. Telling her now would only scare her away, and he couldn't risk that.
So he settled for something else, something safer. "Because I would have liked to fuck you first thing in the morning," he said, his voice rough. "And then again in the shower."
She rolled her eyes, a small, amused huff escaping her lips. "Men," she muttered, but the tension had broken.
He smiled at her, relieved. "Guilty." He turned his attention back to the movie, but he could feel her shifting beside him, her movements restless. She kept squirming, a slight frown on her face.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his concern returning.
"Cramps," she muttered, her hand pressed to her lower stomach.
"Period cramps?" he asked.
She shot him a look. But she settled for a surprisingly civil answer. "Yes”.
"Do you want some painkillers? I have pretty much everything. Advil, Tylenol, Midol..."
"No," she said, shaking her head. "I don't like taking pills. They're not good for you."
"Right," he said, falling silent. He hated seeing her in pain, even if it was just something as mundane as period cramps. He wanted to fix it, to make it go away, but he didn't know how.
He picked up his phone, searching for how to help ease period pain. Did he search How to help ease your girlfriends period pain? Definitely not. Suddenly he could feel her mood shift, could feel the distance growing between them again.
My stomach was still churning, a dull, persistent ache that made me want to curl into a ball and disappear. I risked a glance at him. He was slumped back against the couch cushions, his phone held up in front of his face, his thumb scrolling endlessly. The blue light from the screen illuminated his sharp features, making him look distant, almost cold. He hadn't said a word in ten minutes.
A bitter taste filled my mouth, and it had nothing to do with the chocolate I'd just eaten. He was bored. Of course he was. I'd basically told him I was off-limits, sexually speaking. The whole reason I was here, the entire foundation of our… arrangement, was off the table. He was probably just waiting for me to leave so he could call someone else, someone who could actually satisfy him. The thought made my stomach cramp up even worse. Why was it starting to do that every time I thought about him with someone else?
This was a mistake. I never should have come. I had let my guard down, let his promise of snacks and his stupidly charming smile lure me in, and now I was just sitting here, feeling like an unwanted guest while the man I was having meaningless sex with silently wished I would go away. The intimacy from earlier, him rubbing my belly, felt like a lifetime ago, a trick my mind had played on me.
I couldn't do this. I couldn't just sit here in his suffocating silence, feeling like a consolation prize. I started to shift, getting ready to make my excuses.
"Come here," he said, cutting me off. He'd put his phone down, screen down on the cushion beside him, and was looking at me now, his expression unreadable.
My defenses shot back up. "Why?" I asked, my voice wary. I was already bracing myself for him to tell me to leave, to get it over with.
He patted his lap, the gesture simple and direct. "Because I want to help you."
I stared at him, completely baffled. Help me? By scrolling through Instagram while I was in pain? "What are you talking about?"
"Just… come here. Please?" The please was soft, almost vulnerable. It disarmed me. Against my better judgment, I found myself moving. I shifted on the couch, turning my back to him and leaning back. He guided me, his hands firm but gentle on my hips, until I was settled with my back against his chest, my head resting on his shoulder. His arms came around me, one across my ribs, the other resting low on my stomach.
I was tense, every muscle in my body coiled tight. This was too close. Too much like something a couple would do. I had run from this exact feeling this morning, the terrifying warmth of being cared for by him.
Then his hand started to move. It was just a slow, gentle pressure at first, his palm flat against my lower belly. He began to rub small, slow circles, the heat from his skin seeping through the thin cotton of my tank top. It was… nice. The warmth was soothing, the steady, repetitive motion strangely calming. I felt the knot of pain in my stomach begin to loosen, just a little.
His fingers trailed down, skimming along the waistband of my shorts before moving under my shorts to continue the circles, lower this time, right over the source of the ache. A small, involuntary sigh escaped my lips. It felt too good. My brain was screaming at me, telling me this was dangerous, that this was intimacy, this was caring, and I needed to run. But then again there could only be one reason to why he was doing this. He was obviously hoping to ease my pain so we could have sex, no not sex he probably finds that disgusting since I’m on my period. Then he could have called anyone else. No he probably was hoping that I’d suck him off once my pain was gone. Probably why he looked so disappointed earlier when I refused the painkillers as well. But despite knowing this my body betrayed me, melting against him, my muscles unclenching one by one. My heart gave a painful clench. This was so much worse than sex. This was something I couldn't pretend didn't mean anything.
The steady motion of his hand, combined with the deep, rhythmic beat of his heart against my back, was a potent lullaby. I felt my eyelids grow heavy, the fog of sleep pulling me under despite my desperate attempts to fight it. I was so tired, and he was so warm, and his hands felt so good…
I suddenly felt her go very quiet. Her body, which had been stiff and tense against mine, seemed to go boneless. Her breathing, which I could feel against my chest, deepened and slowed, becoming soft and even. I looked down and saw that her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted in sleep.
My heart melted. Right there, in my chest, just turned into a giant, gooey puddle. She was asleep. On me. Because she felt safe enough to fall asleep. I couldn't stop the huge, dopey grin from spreading across my face. I kept rubbing circles on her belly, my touch feather-light now, not wanting to wake her. I just sat there, holding her, watching the movie I wasn't paying any attention to, and enjoying the feeling of her in my arms, peaceful and trusting. I could stay like this forever.
She woke up slowly, a warm, heavy weight pinning her down. For a moment, she panicked, her assassin instincts kicking in, before she realized where she was. She was still on Lando's lap, his arms wrapped around her like a security blanket. He was looking down at her, a soft, sweet smile on his face that made her stomach do a weird flip-flop.
"Hey," he said, his voice a low rumble against her ear.
"Hey," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. She started to sit up, feeling awkward and exposed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Don't be sorry," he said, his smile widening. "You looked too peaceful to wake up." He shifted, adjusting his position. "Are you tired? Do you want to go up to my bed? It'll be more comfortable."
She hesitated. Going to his bed felt like crossing another line, one she wasn't sure she was ready to cross. But the thought of moving from his warm, solid presence was unbearable. "Okay," she agreed softly.
Before she could even try to stand, he was moving. He slid an arm under her knees and another behind her back, lifting her effortlessly into his arms as he stood up. "Lando!" she squeaked, wrapping her arms around his neck. "I can walk!"
"I know," he said, completely ignoring her protest as he started towards the stairs. "But I'd rather carry you."
A secret part of her, the part she tried desperately to ignore, found it incredibly hot. And sweet. So, so sweet. She rested her head against his chest, letting him carry her up the grand staircase and into his massive bedroom. He laid her down gently on the bed, pulling the duvet over her before sliding in beside her.
He cuddled up to her, pulling her back against his chest, his arm draped over her waist. But the comfort she'd felt on the couch was gone, replaced by the sharp, insistent pain of her cramps, which seemed to have worsened while she was asleep. She couldn't get comfortable, shifting restlessly, a small groan escaping her lips.
He must have felt her tense up, because he propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at her in the dim light. "Still hurting?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.
She just nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"I read something," he said after a moment, his tone hesitant. "I read that an orgasm can help with period pain. Like, really help."
She rolled her eyes, even though he probably couldn't see it. "I'm not in the mood for sex, Lando," she said, her voice tight. The last thing she wanted was for him to think the only reason she was here was because she might eventually put out.
"I wasn't even thinking about sex," he said quickly, his voice earnest. "I was thinking about pleasuring you. Only you."
She let out an exasperated huff. "It's messy. And disgusting."
"Have you ever tried it?" he asked.
"No," she admitted grudgingly.
"Me neither," he said. "But I'm pretty sure it's not disgusting. It's natural. And honestly?" He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I think it's kind of hot. It means you're fertile. It's like… a biological sign that your body is working perfectly. I find that incredibly sexy."
Y/N's face burned. She was shocked, utterly floored by his words. Why would he care about her being fertile? Was that actually a turn-on for him? The thought was so bizarre, so unexpectedly intimate, that it short-circuited her brain. She found herself nodding slowly. "Okay," she whispered.
A wide, triumphant grin spread across his face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," she said, a small smile playing on her own lips.
"Good," he said, leaning down to kiss her, his soft lips moving over hers. "Just relax. I'll be right back."
He disappeared into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a fluffy, dark-colored towel and a package of wet wipes. He kissed her again, a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of chocolate and promise. He spread the towel out on the bed, the dark fabric a stark contrast against the pristine white duvet.
"There," he said, his voice soft, almost reverent. "Get comfortable."
Her brain was screaming. This was too much. This was intimacy on a level she hadn't signed up for, a level she'd actively been running from. This wasn't just sex; this was care. This was seeing her at her most vulnerable, her most uncomfortable, her most… female. And not running away. It was terrifying.
But her body, the traitorous thing, didn't listen. It leaned into him, seeking his warmth, his solid presence. Her muscles unclenched, her breathing evened out.
He settled beside her, his weight dipping the mattress. He didn't rush. He just looked at her, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical touch. "You're sure about this?" he asked, his voice low.
She just nodded, unable to form words. Her throat was tight with a mix of fear and anticipation.
His fingers found the waistband of her grey shorts. He hooked his thumbs into the fabric, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of her stomach. "Lift up for me, baby," he murmured.
The endearment sent a jolt through her. Baby even though she didn’t want to admit it she absolutely loves it when he calls her that. It was so simple, so domestic, and it made her heart ache in a way that was both painful and pleasant. She complied, lifting her hips so he could slide the shorts down her legs. He tossed them onto the floor, his movements unhurried.
And then his hands were back, this time at the edge of her panties. Her breath hitched. Panic, cold and sharp, seized her.
"Wait," she whispered, her hand flying down to cover his. "Stop."
He froze instantly, his eyes widening with concern. "What's wrong? Are you changing your mind? It's okay if you are, Y/N. We don't have to—"
"No," she cut him off, shaking her head. "It's not that." She was wearing a pad, and that just seemed so private and disgusting that he would be able to see that once he pulled off her panties. She took a shaky breath, forcing the words out. "I just… I need a second," she whispered, her cheeks burning with shame.
"Take all the seconds you need," he said softly. He didn't move his hand, just let her hold it there, a silent anchor in her sea of panic.
She closed her eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. She opened her eyes and looked at him, really looked at him. He was watching her with an expression of such unwavering patience and tenderness that it made her chest hurt.
Leaning in, she pressed her lips to his. It was a soft, tentative kiss at first, a thank you, a silent apology for her hesitation. He responded immediately, his lips moving against hers with a gentle pressure that was both comforting and arousing. She deepened the kiss, pouring all her fear and all her burgeoning trust into it. When she finally pulled back, she felt a little steadier.
"Okay," she whispered, nodding. "I'm okay."
He smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that made her stomach flutter. "Okay," he echoed, his thumb stroking her hip. He hooked his fingers back into the waistband of her panties. This time, she didn't stop him.
He slowly peeled the fabric down, revealing the small, white pad nestled between her thighs. He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just continued pulling the panties down her legs until they were free, and tossed them carelessly on the floor.
And then his eyes were on her. On her. All of her. Bloody and exposed and vulnerable.
And his gaze darkened.
A low groan rumbled in his chest, and she watched, fascinated, as the front of his pants suddenly became impossibly tight. He was hard. So fucking hard. The sight of her, messy and bleeding, had made him hard.
"God," he breathed, his voice rough with lust. "Look at you."
He shifted, and she could see the prominent bulge straining against the fabric of his pants. Something about it, about his obvious, unashamed arousal at seeing her like this, was the most erotic thing she had ever experienced. It wasn't just about sex anymore. This felt… primal. Intimate. Like he was seeing a part of her no one else ever had, and he wasn't just accepting it, he was worshipping it.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice a low growl. He was looking at her exposed core, but his question was for her, for all of her.
She could only manage a shaky nod, her breath caught in her throat.
He knelt between her legs, his hands gently parting her thighs. The air felt cool against her heated, slick flesh. He leaned in, not to taste her, but just to look. His gaze was intense, focused, as if he was memorizing every detail.
"So perfect," he whispered, and then his fingers were on her.
He started with her clit, using his thumb to draw slow, gentle circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves. A soft gasp escaped her lips. It felt different than usual. More intense. The heightened sensitivity of her body, combined with the taboo nature of what they were doing, sent sparks of pleasure shooting through her veins.
"Like that?" he murmured, his eyes fixed on her face.
"Y-yes," she stammered, her hips arching slightly.
He continued his ministrations, his touch steady and sure. He watched her every reaction, learning her body, responding to her every gasp and shiver. The pleasure built slowly, a warm, pooling heat in her belly that did wonders to chase away the dull ache of her cramps.
"I'm going to touch you inside now," he said, his voice low and serious. "You tell me if anything hurts, or if it's uncomfortable. Okay? I mean it, Y/N. Your word is law here."
"Okay," she breathed, her heart pounding with a mixture of nerves and anticipation.
He gently eased one finger inside her. The sensation was… strange. Familiar, but not. She could feel the slick, wet heat of her own blood coating his finger as he slid deeper. And she could feel her muscles clenching around him instinctively.
"Fuck," he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. "You're so tight. Even tighter than usual."
He began to move his finger, a slow, gentle in-and-out motion that had her moaning. The sounds were torn from her throat, raw and uninhibited. She was never this vocal, never this loud. But she couldn't help it. It felt too good. The combination of his thumb on her clit and his finger inside her was a potent cocktail of pleasure.
He seemed to love it. A triumphant grin spread across his face as he listened to her moans. "That's it, baby," he coaxed, leaning down to kiss her. "Let me hear you."
He added a second finger, stretching her carefully. The stretch was a delicious burn, a feeling of being so full, so completely possessed by him. He continued to pump his fingers in and out, his thumb never ceasing its maddening circles on her clit.
And then he curled them.
A strangled cry escaped her lips, her back arching off the bed. "Lando!"
He found it. That spot deep inside her that made her see stars. He rubbed it relentlessly, his fingers crooked just so, hitting that perfect spot over and over again.
"Right there?" he asked, his voice smug and satisfied.
She couldn't answer. She could only moan, her head thrown back, her eyes squeezed shut in a frown of pure pleasure. Her hand shot out, gripping his wrist, anchoring herself to him as the waves of pleasure crashed over her, threatening to pull her under.
Lando was absolutely loving this. He couldn’t stop but let out loud groans at the sight if her. He didn’t know where to look. At her beautiful face where her eyes were closed and her eyebrows knitted together in a frown of pleasure. Or her pussy, where the blood was gushing out of her, coating his fingers, his hand. Small droplets of blood flying around, some landing on his forearm, some on his face. He was loving this so much. And he was absolutely certain that it wouldn’t be the last time they were doing something like this.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough.
She forced her eyes open, her vision blurry with pleasure. He was staring down at her, his eyes dark with a possessive lust that took her breath away.
"You're so fucking beautiful like this," he growled. "All messy and mine."
That was it. That was all it took. The combination of his words, his touch, the sight of his blood-stained fingers pumping into her, sent her over the edge. Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, a violent, shattering crash that stole her breath and her vision. A scream tore from her throat, raw and primal. Her body convulsed, her inner walls clamping down on his fingers in a frantic, rhythmic pulse. She was completely gone, lost in a sea of sensation, her mind wiped blank by the sheer force of her release. She could feel the wet gush of her orgasm mingling with the blood, a messy, primal flood that seemed to go on forever.
Lando watched her, mesmerized. He had never seen her come this hard. Never seen her so completely undone. It was the most beautiful, most erotic thing he had ever witnessed. He felt her spasm wildly around his fingers, her body arching off the bed, a silent scream on her lips. He didn't stop, didn't let up, his thumb still circling her clit, his fingers still pressed against that sensitive spot deep inside her, helping her ride out the waves, drawing out her pleasure until she was a limp, trembling mess beneath him.
When the final shudder subsided, she collapsed back against the bed, her chest heaving, her body slick with sweat. He slowly, gently withdrew his fingers, his gaze fixed on the evidence of their intimacy coating his hand. It was a mess. A beautiful, fucking mess.
He waited, giving her a moment to come back to herself, to drift down from the incredible high. He watched as her breathing slowly evened out, as the frantic pounding of her heart against his chest subsided.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, his voice full of a tenderness that surprised even him.
Her eyes fluttered open, and they were completely glazed over, hazy and unfocused. She looked drunk, high on pleasure. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, but no sound came out. She just stared at him for a long moment, her expression one of dazed wonder. Then, she slowly nodded.
A small, proud smile touched his lips. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, a gentle, reassuring press of his lips against her sweat-damp skin. "Good," he murmured.
He moved off the bed, his movements careful. "Stay there," he said, his voice soft. "Don't move."
She didn't seem capable of moving anyway. She just lay there, watching him with those dazed, sated eyes as he walked into the bathroom. He returned a moment later with a warm, wet washcloth. He sat back down on the edge of the bed, his touch impossibly gentle as he began to clean her up.
He wiped away the blood, his movements slow and methodical, almost reverent. He was so careful, so attentive, it made her heart ache. He wasn't just cleaning up the mess; he was taking care of her. He was cherishing her. He wiped down her thighs, her stomach, the sensitive folds between her legs, his touch leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. When he was done, he balled up the soiled towel, along with the dark towel from the bed, and carried them into the bathroom, disposing of them discreetly. He returned from the bathroom, his movements quiet and deliberate in the dim light of the room. He stood beside the bed for a moment, just looking at her, a soft smile playing on his lips. She was still lying where he'd left her, looking completely boneless and sated, a faint blush still coloring her cheeks.
"Here," he said softly, walking over to his dresser. He pulled out a plain black t-shirt, the fabric soft and worn. He brought it over to her, holding it out. "Put this on. It'll be more comfortable than your tank top."
She slowly pushed herself up, her muscles protesting with a pleasant ache. She took the shirt from him, her fingers brushing against his. The shirt smelled like him, clean and masculine, with a faint hint of his cologne. She pulled it over her head, the soft fabric swallowing her, the hem falling mid-thigh. It was huge on her, and she felt a strange, unfamiliar sense of comfort being enveloped in his scent, in his clothes.
She hesitated for a moment, then reached down and picked up her panties from the floor, pulling them back on. She left her bra where it lay, a forgotten piece of lace on his expensive rug. She felt exposed, but not vulnerable. It was a strange combination.
He watched her, his eyes dark and appreciative. He quickly shed his own pants, leaving him in just his boxers. He slid back into bed beside her, the mattress dipping with his weight. He immediately cuddled up to her from behind, his chest pressed against her back, his arm wrapping around her waist. He was so warm, a solid, comforting presence behind her.
His hand found its way to her stomach, his palm flat against the soft cotton of his shirt. He began to rub slow, gentle circles, the heat from his skin seeping through the fabric.
"Is it better now?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear.
The pain was gone. Completely. In its place was a warm, pleasant languor that settled deep in her bones. She shifted, pressing back against him, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
"It is," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet room. "Much better."
Hey! Just wanted to ask when you think you’ll be updating the ex wife series? I recently found your blog and im in love.
Unfortunately not sure, I will try to update it as quickly as possible but first I will do another part of some of my other stories including the no strings attached series ♥️
❤︎ |15,4k| Summary: Lando shows his possesive side when him and Y/n swings by Lily and Oscar’s house, and Y/n’s parents place. Later that day he completely loses control and needs help.
Lando's fingers hovered at the hem of your shorts, his touch electric even through the thin fabric. You could feel the heat radiating from his hand, the promise of pleasure just inches away from where you needed it most. Your heart was pounding, your body aching with a desire that was both unfamiliar and overwhelming.
"You're so responsive," Lando murmured, his voice deep and husky with desire. "I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me."
He was right. You did want him. Your body was screaming for his touch, for release. But as his fingers began to slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, a wave of panic washed over you. This was moving too fast. You weren't ready, not yet.
Lando must have sensed your sudden tension, because his movements stilled. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with concern. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice gentle. "Did I do something? Say something?"
You shook your head, feeling embarrassed and confused. "No," you whispered. "You didn't do anything wrong. I just... I can't."
"Can't?" he repeated, his brow furrowed with confusion.
"I don't want to," you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. "Not yet. I'm sorry."
Lando's expression softened, and he immediately withdrew his hand. "Hey," he said softly, reaching up to cup your cheek. "Don't apologize. It's okay. Really."
"But you were... you were so..." you trailed off, feeling your cheeks flush.
"I was getting ahead of myself," Lando admitted with a sheepish grin. "I got caught up in the moment. But your comfort is more important to me than anything. We can wait. As long as you need."
You looked up at him, surprised by his understanding. "Really?"
"Really," he confirmed, leaning in to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. "We have all the time in the world, remember?"
You sighed against his lips, feeling a wave of relief wash over you. You had been so caught up in your desire for him, so blinded by lust, that you had almost forgotten your own boundaries. You were grateful that he had noticed your discomfort, that he had stopped when you couldn't find the words to.
"I just need a little more time," you admitted softly. "This is all so new to me. So overwhelming."
"I know," Lando said, his thumb stroking your cheek gently. "And I'm sorry if I've been pushing too hard. It's just... being near you, touching you... it drives me crazy. In the best possible way. But I'll control myself. For you. Always."
He shifted, settling onto his side and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. You snuggled against him, your head resting on his chest, his heartbeat steady and reassuring beneath your ear.
"We'll take things at your pace," he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair. "However slow you need. I'm not going anywhere."
You closed your eyes, feeling a sense of peace wash over you. For the first time since you had met Lando, you felt truly safe, truly cherished. And you knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified you, that you were exactly where you were meant to be.
The next morning, you slowly drifted back to consciousness. The first thing you became aware of was the warmth—a solid, radiating heat beneath you. The second was the weight—your body draped over something solid and muscular, your legs tangled with his. And the third was the pressure—a hard, insistent pressure against your stomach.
Your eyes fluttered open, and you realized with a start that you were lying on top of Lando, facing him, your head pillowed on his chest. He was still asleep, his features relaxed in the morning light, his lips slightly parted. And he was hard. Very, very hard. His erection was pressing against your stomach, a clear indication of his desire even in sleep.
You blushed, feeling a mix of embarrassment and arousal. You had never been this close to a man before, never been in this position, and the intimacy of it was both overwhelming and thrilling. You shifted slightly, trying to create some space between you, but your movement only seemed to make things worse, grinding your body against his.
Lando stirred, his eyes fluttering open. They were a soft, sleepy green in the morning light, free of the intense glow of the night before. He blinked slowly, focusing on your face, and a slow, lazy smile spread across his lips.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
"Morning," you replied, your voice soft.
His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. "This is a nice way to wake up," he said, his nose nuzzling your neck. "Very, very nice."
He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. You responded eagerly, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. But as the kiss deepened, you became acutely aware of your position—straddling him, his erection pressing against you—and you felt a wave of shyness wash over you.
You pulled back, trying to shift off him, but Lando wouldn't let you. His arms tightened around your waist, holding you in place.
"Don't go," he murmured, his eyes still closed. "Stay. Just a little longer."
"Lando," you said softly, trying to reason with him. "I need to get up. I have things to do today."
"What things?" he asked, his eyes fluttering open. "Things more important than cuddling with me?"
You laughed, shaking your head. "Yes, actually. I need to go back to my parents' house and get all of my stuff. Since I'm supposed to be staying here now”.
Lando's face lit up at your words, a wide, happy smile spreading across his lips. "You're staying?" he asked, his voice filled with excitement. "Really?"
You nodded, feeling your cheeks flush. "Well, I have to, don't I? Isn't that the rule with werewolf mates? The woman has to stay with the alpha?"
Lando's expression softened, and he reached up to stroke your cheek. "It is the rule, yes," he confirmed gently. "But I was hoping you'd want to stay, not just because you have to."
"I... I do want to," you admitted softly. "It's just... a lot to take in, you know?"
"I know," Lando said, his voice understanding. "And we'll take it one day at a time. But yes, you'll be staying here. With me. In our home."
Our home. The words sent a thrill through you, a mix of excitement and apprehension. This was really happening. You were going to be living with Lando, starting a new life as his mate.
"I also want to see them," you continued. "My parents, I mean. And I want to go visit Lily, talk to her, just hang out for a bit."
"Okay," Lando agreed, his expression still bright with happiness. "We can do all of that. We'll go together."
You rolled your eyes, trying to act annoyed, but you couldn't hide the smile that tugged at your lips. "You don't have to come with me, you know. I can handle a few hours on my own."
"I know you can," Lando replied, his tone serious. "But I don't want to be away from you. Not even for a few hours. I'll go with you. I'll wait outside if you want privacy, but I'm not leaving you."
You sighed, but you knew he was right. The thought of being away from him, even for a few hours, was unsettling. You had grown accustomed to his presence, to his warmth, to the way he made you feel safe and cherished.
"Fine," you agreed, trying to sound reluctant. "You can come. But you have to behave yourself."
"I'll be on my best behavior," Lando promised.
He finally let you go, and you climbed off the bed, feeling a strange mix of relief and disappointment. You grabbed your clothes from the night before and headed to the bathroom, closing the door behind you.
As you got ready, you couldn't help but think about the day ahead. You were excited to see your parents and Lily, to tell them about everything that had happened, but you were also nervous. How would they react to Lando? To your sudden decision to move in with him? To the intensity of your relationship?
You pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the task at hand. You showered quickly, then dressed in a pair of jeans and a simple t-shirt, pulling your hair back into a messy bun. When you emerged from the bathroom, you were surprised to find Lando standing in the middle of the room, completely naked.
And he was hard. Very, very hard. His erection stood tall and proud, pointing slightly toward his stomach, a clear indication of his desire.
You immediately covered your eyes with your hands, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "Lando!" you yelped. "What are you doing? Put some clothes on!"
Lando just laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest. "Why?" he asked, his voice teasing. "It’s nothing you haven’t seen before”.
“Lando! Just put on some clothes please” you squeaked, keeping your eyes firmly covered. Lando's laughter echoed through the room. "It's a natural reaction to having a beautiful woman in my bed all night”. You peeked through your fingers, immediately regretting it as your gaze fell on his impressive erection. "Can you please put some pants on?" you begged, feeling your cheeks grow even hotter. "Alright, alright," he conceded, still chuckling as he moved toward his closet. "But you're missing quite a view."
You waited until you heard the rustle of fabric before lowering your hands, relieved to find him pulling on a pair of jeans. The sight was still distracting—his muscular chest, and huge arms, but at least the most... prominent part was now covered. "Better?" he asked, turning to face you with a smirk.
"Much," you replied, trying to sound casual despite the butterflies in your stomach.
Lando crossed the room, pulling you into his arms. "You're adorable when you're flustered," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. The simple gesture sent a wave of warmth through you, a stark contrast to the charged moment just seconds before.
"Come on," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble. "Let's get some food in you."
Instead of just leading you, he surprised you by sliding one arm behind your knees and another around your back, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. You let out a small gasp, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck for balance.
"Lando! What are you doing? I can walk," you protested, though without any real conviction.
"I know you can," he replied, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he carried you toward the kitchen. "But I like carrying you."
He set you down gently on one of the stools at the large kitchen island, the cool leather a welcome sensation against your warmed skin. He didn't move away, instead placing his hands on the counter on either side of you, caging you in. He was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, see the different shades of green in his eyes, smell the clean, masculine scent that was uniquely his.
"There," he said softly, his gaze roaming over your face. "Perfect view."
You felt your cheeks flush under his intense scrutiny. "You're going to cook like this? Hovering over me?"
"Maybe," he murmured, leaning in closer until his lips were just a breath from yours. "Or maybe I just want to look at you for a minute."
Your heart hammered against your ribs as you waited, breath held, for the kiss you knew was coming. But at the last second, he pulled back with a knowing smirk, as if he was fully aware of the effect he had on you.
"Patience," he teased, finally straightening up and moving toward the refrigerator. "We'll get to that later."
You watched as he moved around the kitchen, his movements fluid and confident. He pulled out eggs, bacon, and milk, setting them on the counter before grabbing a pan from a hanging rack. Even the simple act of cooking seemed graceful when he did it, the muscles in his back flexing with each movement.
"Can I help?" you offered, feeling a bit useless just sitting there.
Lando glanced over his shoulder, a smile playing on his lips. "Nope. Just sit there and look pretty. It's your only job this morning."
You rolled your eyes, but couldn't help smiling. "That's not a job."
"It is when you look like you do," he replied, turning back to the stove. The bacon sizzled as he laid strips in the pan, the delicious smell soon filling the kitchen.
As he cooked, you found yourself studying him—really studying him. The way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the strong line of his jaw, the broad expanse of his shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist. He was, without a doubt, the most attractive man you had ever seen. But it was more than just physical attraction. There was something about him that called to something deep inside you, something primal and undeniable.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked without turning around, as if sensing your intense gaze.
You jumped, caught off guard. "Nothing," you said quickly.
Lando turned, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "Doesn't look like nothing."
You sighed, deciding there was no point in trying to hide your thoughts from him. "I was just thinking... this is all happening so fast. A week ago, I didn't even know you existed. Now I'm moving in with you."
He turned off the stove, giving you his full attention. "Do you regret it?"
"No," you said immediately, surprised by how certain you felt. "Not at all. It's just... a lot to process."
"I get it," he said, moving to stand in front of you again. "But think of it this way—some people search their whole lives for what we found in a matter of days. We're just... lucky."
"Lucky," you repeated, testing the word. It felt right.
"Very lucky," he confirmed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your lips.
After breakfast, Lando drove you to Lily's house. The moment you settled into the passenger seat of his sleek black car, you were overwhelmed by his scent. It was everywhere—on the leather seats, in the air vents, on the floor mats. It was a warm, masculine scent of pine and something uniquely Lando that made your head spin and your body hum with desire. You pressed your thighs together, trying to relieve the sudden ache between them, confused by how strongly you were reacting. You'd been close to him before, even in his bed, but this felt different—more intense, more primal.
Lando glanced over at you, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Everything okay over there?" he asked, his voice low and teasing.
"Fine," you squeaked, keeping your eyes firmly on the road ahead.
A moment later, his hand was on your thigh, high enough that his thumb was brushing against the seam of your jeans. The heat from his touch seared through the denim, making you gasp softly.
"Relax," he murmured, his thumb stroking small circles that sent jolts of electricity straight to your core. "We're almost there."
You bit your lip, trying to focus on anything other than the way his hand felt on your skin, the way his scent was filling your lungs, the way your body was responding to him with an intensity that both thrilled and terrified you.
Luckily, you arrived at Lily's house a few minutes later.
You scrambled out, your legs feeling unsteady, and practically jogged to the front door, knocking frantically, as if you were fleeing for your life.
The door swung open to reveal Lily, her blue eyes wide with amusement. "Well, look who it is," she grinned, leaning against the doorframe. "I was wondering when you'd resurface. Or should I say, when he'd let you resurface?"
You launched yourself at her, wrapping your arms around her in a tight hug, burying your face in her shoulder. "Oh my god, Lily," you whispered, relief flooding through you. "I've missed you so much."
"Hey, I missed you too," she laughed, hugging you back. "Even if you have been completely MIA since Mr. Tall, Dark, and Possessive entered the picture."
You pulled back, rolling your eyes. "I have not been MIA. And he's not that possessive."
A low, dangerous growl ripped through the air behind you, so loud and menacing it made the hair on your arms stand up. You turned to see Lando standing right behind you, his body coiled like a spring, his eyes locked on someone just over your shoulder. Oscar, Lily's boyfriend, was standing there, his friendly smile frozen on his face, his hands held up in a placating gesture.
"Whoa, Lando," Oscar said softly. "Easy, man. I was just coming to say hello."
Lando ignored him. In a movement too fast to track, he grabbed your arm and yanked you behind him, placing his body as a solid barrier between you and Oscar. Another growl, even louder this time, vibrated from his chest. It wasn't a warning; it was a threat.
"Lando!" you hissed, trying to peer around his broad back. "Stop it! You're being ridiculous!"
"Don't touch her," Lando snarled, his voice distorted, barely human. His canines were descended, sharp and white, and his eyes glowed with a fierce, possessive light.
"I wasn't going to!" Oscar exclaimed, taking another step back, his hands still raised. Lily grabbed your hand and yanked you away from Lando's protective cage. "Come on, you. Let's go inside before he challenges Oscar to a dominance duel on the front lawn."
She dragged you into the house, with Lando following so close behind you could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was a silent, brooding presence at your back as you led Lily into the living room and collapsed onto the couch.
Lando immediately tried to sit beside you, but you put a hand on his chest, stopping him. "Nope," you said, trying to sound firm. "Girl talk. You go... over there. With Oscar."
His face fell, his plush lower lip jutting out in a pout so exaggerated it would have been comical if not for the lingering intensity in his eyes. "But I want to stay with you," he whined, his voice dropping into a pathetic, pleading whimper that tugged at your heartstrings despite your annoyance.
You sighed, standing up and wrapping your arms around his neck. "I'll be right here," you promised softly. "We just need a little privacy, okay? I'll be in your sight the whole time. Just... give me an hour."
He leaned in, his eyes closing, aiming for your lips. At the last second, you turned your head, letting his mouth press against your cheek. You were still too shy, too aware of Oscar and Lily's curious gazes, to engage in a full-blown kiss with him.
Lando's pout deepened, but he nodded reluctantly, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He trudged over to the armchair where Oscar was sitting and flopped down, staring at you with the wounded expression of a kicked puppy.
You settled back onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. "Okay," you said, turning to Lily. "Spill. What have I missed?"
Lily's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Oh, I think the better question is, what have i missed? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've been claimed by the most possessive alpha in the territory."
You groaned, letting your head fall back against the couch cushions. "He's not usually this bad," you insisted. "Or maybe he is, I don't know. It's all so... intense."
"Intense how?" Lily pressed, leaning forward. "Give me the good stuff. The mate bond, the... you know."
You felt your cheeks flush. "The mate bond is... a lot. It's like this constant hum under my skin. When he's near, I feel... complete. Safe. But when he looks at me... it's like he sees right through me, like he wants to own every part of me. It's terrifying and exhilarating all at once."
"And the other stuff?" Lily waggled her eyebrows. "The bedroom stuff? Is it as hot as they say? With an alpha you know.."
You bit your lip, your gaze flicking to Lando, who was still staring at you with an unnerving intensity. "We haven't... not yet," you admitted in a low whisper not feeling like telling her about the time you watched him masturbate and finished him off.
Lily's jaw dropped. "You're joking. You've been with him for almost a week and you haven't done anything?"
"Five days," you corrected. "And I'm not ready. It's just... too fast. He's been surprisingly patient about it, though."
"Huh," Lily said, glancing over at Lando. "Patient. I never thought I'd hear that word used to describe Lando Norris."
You spent the next hour catching up, Lily filling you in on the latest pack gossip, and you trying to articulate the whirlwind of emotions that had become your life. Through it all, you were acutely aware of Lando's gaze, a heavy, possessive weight that never left you. It was like being under a spotlight, a constant, tangible reminder of the new reality you were living in.
When it was finally time to go, you hugged Lily tightly. "Call me," she whispered in your ear. "For real this time. And don't let him keep you on too short a leash."
"I'll try," you laughed, pulling back.
Lando was already at the door, his expression tight with impatience. He took your hand the moment you were close enough, his grip firm and possessive. "Let's go," he said, his voice low and urgent.
The drive to your parents' house was even more tense than the drive to Lily's. Lando's hand remained on your thigh, his fingers digging into your flesh almost to the point of pain. He was silent, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
Your parents were waiting on the porch when you arrived, their expressions a mixture of excitement and apprehension. As soon as you stepped out of the car, your mother was there, pulling you into a tight hug. “Oh, my sweet girl," your mother murmured, her voice thick with emotion as she squeezed you tightly. "We've missed you so much."
"I've missed you too, Mom," you replied, your own voice a little watery as you hugged her back, the familiar comfort of her embrace a welcome anchor in the sea of chaos your life had become.
She pulled back, her hands cupping your cheeks, her eyes shining. "Look at you. You look... different. Happier."
Before you could respond, your dad was there, his arms open wide, his familiar, beaming smile spreading across his face. "There's my girl," he said, his voice warm and full of love. "Come give your old man a hug."
You smiled, your heart swelling with affection, and opened your own arms, ready to step into his comforting embrace. You took one step forward.
A deafening, guttural roar ripped through the air, so loud and violent it made you physically flinch. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated menace, a promise of pain. In a blur of motion, Lando moved. He didn't just step in front of you; he body-checked you, shoving you roughly behind him with enough force to make you stumble back a step. He planted himself firmly between you and your father, his entire body radiating a terrifying aggression.
And then he snarled.
It wasn't just a sound; it was a full-body threat. His lips peeled back from his gums, revealing his razor sharp canines in threat. A low, continuous growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating through the ground at your feet. His eyes, usually a warm, captivating green, were now blazing with a furious, possessive golden light, locked onto your father with murderous intent.
Your father froze, his arms still outstretched, his smile vanishing, replaced by a look of shock and then a carefully blank neutrality. He slowly lowered his arms, taking a small, deliberate step back.
"Lando!" you shrieked, your voice cracking with disbelief and fury. You shoved at his rigid back, trying to push him aside, but it was like trying to move a mountain. "What the hell is wrong with you?! Stop it! Right now!"
He didn't even acknowledge you. His focus was absolute, his entire being consumed by the perceived threat of your father. The snarling intensified, a low, vicious warning.
"He's just my dad!" you yelled, hitting his shoulder with your fist. "Lando, look at me! He's my father! He was going to hug me! There is nothing wrong with that!"
The golden light in his eyes flickered, the furious glow receding slightly, replaced by a dawning confusion, as if he was waking from a trance. The snarls subsided, replaced by heavy, panting breaths. He blinked, looking from your furious face to your father's calm one, and then back again. A flicker of shame crossed his features.
"I..." he started, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry."
Your father gave a slight nod, his expression relaxing into one of understanding. "It's alright, son. It's instinct. Let's all just go inside, shall we? It's getting a bit chilly out here."
Lando's arm shot out, wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. He didn't let go for a second as you all filed into the house. He kept you locked against him, his hand resting possessively on your hip, his body a constant, suffocating presence.
You sat on the couch in the living room, and Lando sat right beside you, so close there was no space between you. He angled his body toward yours, his arm draped over your shoulders, his leg pressed firmly against yours, as if he was afraid you might bolt at any second. He was a heavy, warm, oppressive weight, a constant reminder of the scene on the porch.
"So," your mother began, her voice a little too bright as she tried to break the tension. She sat in the armchair opposite, fussing with a pillow. "Lando, it's... a pleasure to have you in our home properly. We've heard so much about the pack, about your leadership. It's an honor."
Lando's gaze flickered to her, but immediately returned to you. "Thank you," he said, his voice still a low rumble.
Your father, who had taken the other armchair, cleared his throat. He was looking at Lando, a serious, protective expression on his face. "We love our daughter very much, Lando. She's our only child. We've always tried to give her everything, to protect her."
"You did a good job," Lando said, his hand tightening on your shoulder. "She's strong. Resilient. But she's mine now. My responsibility. My priority."
There was an awkward silence. You could see your parents exchange a worried glance. This wasn't the charming, polite getting-to-know-you they had probably envisioned.
"Right," your dad said, leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees. "And about that... Lando, we need to know that you'll treat her right. This bond, it's new to her. To all of us, really. We need to know that you'll be patient with her, that you'll respect her feelings and her choices."
Lando's eyes narrowed, his protective instincts clearly triggered again. "I would die for her," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, which somehow made it sound more sincere. "There is nothing I wouldn't do for her. No one I wouldn't kill to keep her safe. She will want for nothing. She will be cherished. That is my promise."
It was both the most romantic and most terrifying thing you had ever heard. Your parents seemed to think so too, their eyes wide.
"Okay," your mom said after a moment, forcing a smile. "That's... very reassuring. Thank you."
"Right," you said, standing up abruptly, needing to escape the intensity of the conversation. "I'm just going to go get my things. I'll be quick."
You didn't wait for an answer, just turned and headed for the stairs, with Lando, of course, right behind you. He followed you into your childhood bedroom, closing the door behind him. He leaned against it, watching you as you pulled out your old suitcase from under the bed and started throwing clothes onto it.
"Are you mad at me?" he asked, his voice quiet.
You stopped, your back to him, taking a deep breath. "Yes, Lando. I am mad at you. You embarrassed me. You terrified my father. You acted like a complete animal, just like with Oscar."
"I know," he said, his voice laced with genuine regret. "I couldn't... I saw him reaching for you and something in me just... snapped. All I could think was that you’re mine. I'm sorry.
You turned to look at him. He looked truly remorseful, his shoulders slumped, his eyes fixed on the floor. You sighed, your anger deflating. "I know you can't help it sometimes. But you have to try. For me."
"I will," he promised, pushing off the door and coming to help you. He started folding your t-shirts with surprising efficiency, placing them neatly in the suitcase. You worked in silence for a few minutes, the awkwardness slowly fading.
You moved to your dresser, pulling out your favorite sweaters and jeans. You opened the top drawer to grab your socks and froze. Lando, who had been putting your folded shirts into the case, had reached for the next drawer down. The underwear drawer.
He pulled it open, and his movements stilled. He just stared for a moment, his gaze fixed on the neatly folded array of your panties and bras. Then, slowly, almost reverently, he reached in and picked up a pair of black lace panties. He brought them to his face, closing his eyes, and inhaled deeply. A low, satisfied hum vibrated in his chest.
"Lando!" Your voice was a horrified squeak, a sound of pure mortification that echoed in the small, familiar space of your childhood bedroom. You lunged forward, snatching the delicate scrap of black lace from his hand as if it were contaminated. "What are you doing? You can't just… you can't just… sniff my underwear!"
He blinked, the hazy, lustful fog in his eyes clearing slightly as he registered your tone. He looked down at his now-empty hand, then back at your furious, flushed face. A slow blush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones. "I… I'm sorry," he stammered, looking genuinely ashamed. "I couldn't help it. It just… it smells like you. So much stronger than on your clothes. It's… intoxicating."
"It's private!" you hissed, stuffing the panties deep into the suitcase, burying them under a pile of folded sweaters as if trying to hide the evidence of his transgression. "It's… it's gross, Lando! You can't go around sniffing my panties!"
"I know," he said, his voice low and earnest. He took a step closer, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender. "I know it's weird. I'm not trying to be a creep. It's just… the wolf. It's so much closer to the surface right now. Being here, in your territory, surrounded by your scent… it's overwhelming. All I can think about is you. Your scent, your skin, your taste. It's driving me insane."
You wanted to stay angry. You wanted to maintain your righteous indignation. But looking at his face, at the genuine conflict and remorse in his eyes, you felt your anger melting away, replaced by a weary sense of resignation. This was your life now. A life with a man whose animal instincts were so powerful they led him to commit acts of panty-sniffery in your childhood bedroom.
"Just… help me pack," you sighed, turning back to the dresser and slamming the underwear drawer shut with a little more force than necessary. "And try to control yourself. Please."
"I will," he promised, his voice soft. He moved to the other side of the bed, carefully avoiding the underwear drawer, and started helping you fold the rest of your clothes. The rest of the packing proceeded in a tense but manageable silence. You could feel the waves of regret rolling off him, and you knew he was mentally kicking himself. When the suitcase was finally zipped shut, you took one last look around your room. It looked smaller than you remembered, a relic of a life that felt a lifetime away.
"Ready?" Lando asked, his hand hovering near the small of your back, not quite touching, as if afraid you might flinch away.
You nodded. "Yeah. I'm ready."
The goodbyes were awkward. Your parents hugged you tightly, their embraces tinged with a sadness that made your chest ache. They were polite to Lando, but you could see the fear in their eyes, the memory of his possessive snarling still fresh in their minds. Lando, for his part, was the picture of restraint. He kept a respectful distance, his hands shoved in his pockets, his expression solemn. He murmured the right things—"Thank you for having me," "I'll take good care of her"—but the tension was a palpable thing, a third person in the room.
As you walked out to the car, your father pulled you aside for a moment. "He loves you," he said, his voice low and serious. "I can see that. But he's… powerful. More powerful than anyone I've ever met. Be careful with him, sweetheart. And with yourself."
"I will, Dad," you promised, your heart swelling with love for him.
Lando was already holding your door open, his expression unreadable. The drive home was quiet, the air thick with unspoken words. His hand found your thigh again, but this time his touch was gentle, almost hesitant, his thumb stroking your skin in a slow, soothing rhythm. He didn't speak, and you didn't push him. You just leaned your head against the cool glass of the window and watched the familiar streets of your neighborhood blur past, knowing you were leaving them for good.
When you arrived back at his—their—house, he carried your suitcase inside, setting it down in the grand entryway. "So," he said, his voice a little uncertain. "Home."
You looked around at the high ceilings and the spacious, open-plan living area. It was beautiful, but it still felt like his house, not yours. "Where… where should I put my stuff?" you asked, feeling suddenly small and out of place.
A slow, genuine smile spread across Lando's face, lighting up his eyes. "I was hoping you'd ask," he said, taking your hand and leading you toward the master bedroom. "Come on."
He led you into the room, the one you'd been sleeping in, and gestured toward the large walk-in closet. You stepped inside and gasped. One side of the closet was clearly his—his clothes hung with meticulous precision, his shoes lined up on the floor, his colognes arranged on a shelf. But the other side… the other side was completely empty. The hanging rods were bare, the shelves were clear, and several empty drawers sat waiting.
"I made space for you," Lando said softly from behind you. "I thought… I mean, I know it's fast, but I want you here. With me. In every way. Your clothes, your things… I want them next to mine."
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was such a simple gesture, but it meant everything. It was an acceptance, a welcome, a promise that this wasn't just his house anymore. It was theirs.
"Thank you," you whispered, turning to wrap your arms around his waist. "This is… this is perfect."
He hugged you back, his chin resting on top of your head. "I'm glad you think so," he murmured. "I want you to be happy here."
You spent the next hour unpacking. It was a strangely domestic, and surprisingly intimate, experience. You pulled your clothes out of the suitcase and hung them in the empty closet, your t-shirts and jeans hanging next to his expensive-looking button-downs and tailored trousers. You put your socks and underwear—after a moment's hesitation—in the empty drawers, your mundane, cotton items a stark contrast to whatever you imagined he kept in his. Lando didn't help you this time. He just stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching you with an unreadable expression on his face.
"What?" you asked, finally breaking the silence. "Why are you staring?"
"Because I like it," he said simply. "I like seeing your things here. I like the thought of you getting ready in the morning, right here next to me. It feels… right."
Your heart fluttered. "It does feel right," you admitted, folding a sweater and placing it on a shelf.
"I'm going to start dinner," he said, pushing off the doorframe. "Are you hungry?"
"Starving," you admitted. The emotional rollercoaster of the day had left you drained.
"Good," he smiled. "I'll make something good. Just… come find me when you're done."
You watched him walk away, a warmth spreading through your chest. You finished putting your things away, arranging your few knick-knicks and books on the empty shelves, slowly but surely making the space your own. When you were finally done, you felt a sense of accomplishment, of belonging. This was your room now. Your closet. Your home.
You found him in the kitchen, as he had been that morning. He was standing at the stove, stirring something in a large pot, his back to you. The delicious aroma of garlic, tomatoes, and herbs filled the air, making your stomach rumble. He was wearing a simple black t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, and the sight of him, so domestic and so undeniably masculine at the same time, sent a jolt of pure desire straight through you.
He must have heard you come in, because he turned, and the moment his eyes met yours, something shifted. The domestic, gentle man from a moment ago vanished, replaced by the predatory, possessive alpha. A slow, dangerous smirk spread across his lips, and his eyes darkened, the green swirling with a predatory gold.
"Come here," he commanded, his voice a low, husky rumble that sent shivers down your spine.
You obeyed without thinking, your feet moving of their own accord, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. You stopped just a few feet away, your heart hammering against your ribs.
He turned off the stove, abandoning the dinner, and closed the distance between you in two long strides. He didn't say a word. He just cupped your face in his hands and crashed his lips down on yours.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a hungry, demanding, possessive kiss. His lips slanted over yours, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming, tasting, devouring. His hands slid from your face down to your hips, gripping you tightly and pulling you flush against his body. You could feel the hard, solid ridge of his erection pressing against your stomach, a clear, undeniable proof of his desire. You moaned into his mouth, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. You were lost in the sensation, in the taste of him, in the overwhelming feeling of being wanted so completely, so desperately.
He kissed you until you were breathless, until your lungs burned and your head swam. His hands were everywhere, roaming over your back, your hips, your waist, branding you with his touch. You could feel the raw, untamed energy thrumming through him, a coiled spring of potent masculinity that both terrified and exhilarated you. Just when you thought your knees might give out, he pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing with a fierce, possessive light.
"Fuck," he breathed, his voice rough and gravelly. "I've been wanting to do that all day." He rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. "Having you here, in our home… it's doing things to me. Things I'm not sure I can control."
You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your throat was tight, your body humming with a desire so intense it was almost painful. You just stood there, pressed against him, letting the frantic beating of his heart echo against your own.
After a moment, he took a deep, shuddering breath and stepped back, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "Dinner," he said, his voice a little more stable. "I should… I should finish dinner."
You watched as he turned back to the stove, his movements a little less fluid than before, a little more constrained. He stirred the sauce, his shoulders tense, and you knew he was fighting for control. It was a heady, powerful thing, knowing you had that effect on him.
"What is it?" you asked, your voice soft as you leaned against the counter beside him.
"Spaghetti bolognese," he replied, not looking at you. "It's… it's my mom's recipe. Or close to it, anyway."
The mention of his mother surprised you. You knew so little about his family, about his life before he became Alpha. "What's she like?" you asked gently.
A small, sad smile touched his lips. "She was… amazing," he said, his voice quiet. "Strong, fierce, but with the kindest heart you could imagine. She would have loved you."
The past tense hung in the air between you, heavy and unspoken. "I'm sorry," you said softly.
He shook his head. "It was a long time ago. But yeah… she would have loved you. She always told me that when I found my mate, I'd know. She said the bond would be the most powerful thing in the world, stronger than anything, even the Alpha power." He finally looked at you, his eyes clear and honest. "She was right."
Your heart ached for him, for the loss he carried, but it also swelled with a warmth that spread through your entire body. "She sounds like she was a very wise woman."
"She was," he agreed. He dished the pasta onto two plates, topped it with the rich, fragrant sauce, and carried them to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. "Come on. Let's eat."
The dinner was surprisingly normal, a quiet, comfortable interlude in the midst of the chaos. You talked about nothing and everything—about your favorite movies, about the books you liked, about the ridiculous gossip from your old pack. You learned that he hated mushrooms, that he was a terrible singer, and that he had a secret weakness for cheesy sci-fi shows. He learned that you couldn't cook to save your life, that you'd always wanted to travel, and that you had a habit of talking in your sleep. It was easy, natural, and for a little while, you could almost forget that you were a human mated to a powerful werewolf Alpha. You could almost pretend you were just a normal couple, getting to know each other over a plate of spaghetti.
When you were finished, he cleared the plates, and you sat back in your chair, sipping a glass of wine he'd poured for you. "So," he began, his voice casual as he loaded the dishwasher. "I was thinking… tomorrow, if you're up for it… we could go into the city. Do some shopping."
You looked at him, surprised. "Shopping?"
"Yeah," he said, turning to lean against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "You need stuff. Clothes, whatever. Your stuff. And I want to buy it for you."
You immediately shook your head. "No, Lando. I can't let you do that. I have my own money."
He sighed, running a hand over his face. "I know you do. But this isn't about money. It's about… providing for you. Taking care of you. It's an instinct, okay? Let me do this. Please."
The please was your undoing. It was such a simple word, but coming from him, it was a powerful thing. You knew how important this was to him, how deeply ingrained this need to provide was in his Alpha nature.
"Okay," you agreed, a small smile playing on your lips. "But we're setting a limit. A very, very generous limit, but a limit nonetheless."
A wide, triumphant grin spread across his face. "Deal," he said, his eyes twinkling. "We'll leave after breakfast."
Later that night, you stood in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, your mind still reeling from the day. It felt like you'd lived a month in the span of a few hours. You'd said goodbye to your old life, moved in with your werewolf mate, and witnessed a display of possessive aggression that would have sent a lesser woman running for the hills. And yet, here you were, feeling a strange sense of peace, of rightness.
You finished in the bathroom and opened the door, stepping into the dark bedroom. The only light came from the moon, filtering through the large windows, casting a silvery glow over the room. And there he was.
He was lying in the center of the bed, on his back, on top of the duvet. He was shirtless, his muscular chest and arms bathed in moonlight, a study in masculine perfection. But it was what was below his waist that made your breath catch. He was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants, and they did absolutely nothing to hide his state of arousal. His erection was a thick, rigid ridge straining against the soft fabric, a blatant, unapologetic display of his desire.
He wasn't asleep. He was watching you, his eyes glinting in the dim light. As you stood there, frozen in the doorway, a slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips. He shifted slightly, the movement causing the fabric of his sweatpants to pull taut over his impressive length, drawing your gaze like a magnet.
"Like what you see?" he asked, his voice a low, teasing drawl that vibrated through the quiet room.
You felt a blush creep up your neck, heating your cheeks. You rolled your eyes, trying to project an air of nonchalance you were far from feeling. "You're ridiculous," you muttered, moving toward the bed.
"I'm just getting comfortable," he replied, his smirk widening. "It's not my fault you find me so irresistible."
You didn't bother to deny it. It would have been a lie, and you had a feeling he would have known anyway. You slid into the bed beside him, the cool sheets a welcome sensation against your heated skin. You lay on your side, facing him, trying to keep a respectful distance.
He immediately turned onto his side to face you, propping his head up on his hand. His eyes roamed over your face, a hungry, possessive gleam in their depths. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice softening. "Do you know that?"
You just shook your head, unable to speak, your heart pounding in your chest.
He reached out with his free hand, his fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw. "I've never seen anyone as beautiful as you." He leaned in closer, his face just inches from yours. "And you're all mine."
Then, he did that thing. The thing that never failed to make your heart melt. He retracted his upper lip, proudly displaying his canines. They weren't fully descended, not like when he was angry or aroused, but they were longer and sharper than a normal human's, a subtle but undeniable reminder of the wolf within. He looked at you, his eyes filled with a boyish pride, as if he were showing you his most prized possession.
You couldn't help but smile. It was such a strange, endearing quirk. "Showoff," you whispered.
He just grinned, his canines glinting in the moonlight. He leaned in and captured your lips in a deep, sweet kiss. It was gentle, tender, a stark contrast to the hungry, demanding kiss from earlier. You sighed into his mouth, your body relaxing, your hand coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.
But the sweetness didn't last. It was like a switch had been flipped. The kiss deepened, his tongue delving into your mouth with a new urgency. A low moan rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. His hand, which had been resting on your hip, slid around to your lower back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel the hard, insistent pressure of his erection against your stomach, and a wave of arousal washed over you, so intense it made you dizzy.
"Lando," you breathed against his lips, a weak protest.
He didn't seem to hear you. He was lost. His kiss became frantic, almost desperate, his mouth slanting over yours, his tongue claiming every inch of your mouth. The low moan in his chest escalated into a series of deep, guttural groans, sounds of pure, primal pleasure that vibrated through your entire body. He was kissing you like a man starving, and you were the only meal he'd ever wanted.
You felt a shift in the atmosphere, a sudden, sharp increase in the intensity that was already overwhelming. The hands on your hips, which had been holding you with a firm but gentle pressure, suddenly tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh almost to the point of pain. He was no longer just kissing you; he was consuming you.
Then, he began to move.
His hips started to rock against yours, a slow, deliberate grinding motion that sent jolts of electricity straight to your core. You could feel the hard, thick length of his cock through the thin fabric of your pajama pants and his sweatpants, each thrust a blatant, unapologetic promise of what he wanted to do to you. The friction was maddening, a delicious torment that made your body ache with a need you were still too scared to fully acknowledge.
"Lando," you gasped, tearing your mouth away from his, trying to catch your breath. "Lando, wait."
He didn't wait. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hot, damp breath fanning across your skin. His hips continued their relentless grinding, the movements becoming more erratic, more urgent. He was like a man possessed, driven by an instinct so powerful it had completely overridden his rational mind.
"God, you feel so good," he groaned, his voice a thick, slurred murmur against your ear. "So fucking good. I can't… I can't stop."
His lips found the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he nipped at it, his teeth scraping against your skin. You shivered, a mix of pleasure and fear coursing through you. This was different. This was more than just desire. This was something else, something wild and untamed.
"Lando, please," you whispered, trying to push gently against his shoulders. "You're scaring me."
He seemed to register your words, but they didn't have the effect you'd hoped for. Instead of stopping, his movements became even more frantic. His hips bucked against you, his grinding becoming more forceful, more desperate.
"I'm aching for you," he growled, his voice low and rough, distorted by the wolf. "I'm aching to feel you around my cock. I'm going to fuck you so good, baby. So deep. I'm going to fill you up until you can't think of anything but me."
Even though his words normally would deeply arouse you, they did the absolute opposite in this situation, cause he clearly wasn’t himself. So instead they sent a thrill of terror straight through you. This wasn't Lando. Not the Lando who made you breakfast, who was patient with you last night, who looked at you with such tenderness. This was the Alpha. The wolf. And he was completely, terrifyingly, in control.
You tried to push him away again, this time with more force. "Lando, stop! You're hurting me!"
He didn't stop. His grip on your hips tightened, his body a heavy, suffocating weight on top of yours. He was lost in a haze of primal lust, his mind consumed by the instinct to mate, to claim, to possess. He couldn't hear you. He couldn't feel your fear. All he could feel was his own overwhelming need.
Panic began to set in. This wasn't just a case of him getting carried away. This was something else entirely, something dangerous. You remembered what he'd told you, about the wolf, about the instincts that were sometimes too strong to control. You remembered the emergency kit in the drawer, the syringe filled with a sedative that was supposed to be used in situations just like this.
With a surge of adrenaline, you managed to squirm out from under him slightly, creating just enough space to reach for the bedside table. Your hand fumbled with the drawer, your fingers shaking so badly you could barely grip the handle. You finally managed to pull it open, your eyes scanning the contents until they landed on the small, plastic case containing the syringe.
You grabbed it, your heart pounding in your chest, a wild, frantic drumbeat against your ribs. You pulled the syringe out of its case, your thumb hovering over the plunger. You didn't want to do this. The thought of hurting him, of sedating him, was sickening. But you were scared. You were really, truly scared.
"Lando," you said, your voice trembling as you held up the syringe, hoping the sight of it would snap him out of it. "Lando, look at me. Look what I have."
He pulled back from your neck, his eyes meeting yours. And for a moment, you saw a flicker of recognition, a hint of the man you knew. But then his gaze dropped to the syringe in your hand, and a low, menacing growl ripped from his throat. It wasn't a sound of pleasure this time. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated rage.
In a movement too fast to track, he knocked the syringe out of your hand. It flew across the room, clattering against the far wall and falling to the floor, forgotten and useless.
"No," he snarled, his eyes blazing with a furious golden light. "No!"
You stared at him, your mind racing, your heart hammering against your ribs. He'd pushed away the one thing that could have stopped him. He was completely lost to the wolf, and you were trapped.
You watched in horror as a sudden change came over him. His body, which had been coiled with tension, began to tremble. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on his skin, glistening in the moonlight. He was panting, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps, as if he were struggling for air. His hips continued their frantic grinding against yours, but the movements were no longer driven by pleasure. They were desperate, almost convulsive.
"Make it stop," he whimpered, his voice a broken, pathetic cry. "Please, make it stop."
Tears began to stream down his face, mixing with the sweat on his cheeks. He looked utterly tormented, a man caught in the throes of an agony so profound it was physically painful to witness. He was trying to fight it, you could see that now. He was fighting the instinct, the primal urge that was consuming him from the inside out. And he was losing.
He reached down, his hands fumbling with the button of his sweatpants. His fingers were clumsy, shaking so badly he couldn't get a grip on it.
"Help me," he sobbed, his voice cracking with desperation. "Please, help me. Call 911. Please, baby, call 911."
You didn't hesitate. You scrambled away from him, your hands fumbling for your phone on the bedside table. Your fingers were shaking so badly you could barely dial the number, your mind a chaotic mess of fear and confusion.
"911, what's your emergency?" a calm, professional voice answered on the other end.
"I need an ambulance," you sobbed, your voice barely a whisper. "Please, hurry. My mate… something's wrong with him. He's… he's not himself."
"What's your address, honey?" the operator asked.
You rattled off the address, your eyes never leaving Lando. He had managed to get his pants unbuttoned, and he was now struggling with the zipper, his body wracked with tremors.
"He's having some kind of seizure," you lied, not knowing how else to explain the situation. "Please, just hurry."
"We're on our way, honey," the operator said. "Stay on the line with me."
But you didn't. You ended the call and threw your phone aside, your attention focused solely on Lando. He had managed to get his zipper down, and he was now trying to pull his pants down, his movements clumsy and desperate. You knew you had to get out of there. You had to get away from him before he completely lost control.
You scrambled off the bed, your legs feeling like jelly, and made a run for the door. But you were too slow. He was on you in an instant, his body pinning you down onto the floor, his weight crushing you. He had managed to get his pants unbuttoned and half zipped down, but they were still on as well with his boxers. He was a frantic, sobbing mess, his body trembling uncontrollably, his tears soaking your shoulder.
"I'm so sorry," he cried, his voice a broken, agonized whisper. "I'm so sorry, baby. I can't… I can't control it."
You kept your eyes on him and felt more sorry for him than yourself, you could see the clear pain in his eyes and how much he fought with himself. Just as you felt his hands start to tear at your pajama shorts, you heard it. The distant wail of a siren.
It was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard.
The siren grew louder and louder, and within moments, you heard the sound of heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. The bedroom door burst open, and two paramedics rushed in, their expressions grim and determined.
They took one look at the scene—you pinned beneath the sobbing, half-naked man on the floor—and they sprang into action. One of them, a large, burly man with a kind face, grabbed Lando by the shoulders, trying to pull him off you. Lando fought back, a snarl ripping from his throat, but he was too weak, too lost in his own agony to put up much of a struggle.
The other paramedic, a woman with a calm, reassuring presence, knelt beside you. "Are you okay, honey?" she asked, her voice gentle as she helped you sit up.
You just nodded, unable to speak, your body trembling with shock and relief. You watched as the male paramedic managed to pin Lando's arms behind his back. Lando struggled for a moment, a weak, pathetic growl rumbling in his chest, but then he seemed to give up, his body going limp.
The paramedic pulled a syringe from his bag, a much larger one than the one you had, and plunged the needle into Lando's thigh. Lando cried out, a sharp, pained yelp, and then, almost instantly, his body went slack. The tension drained from his muscles, the tremors subsided, and the frantic, desperate look in his eyes faded, replaced by a dazed, glassy stare.
He didn't fall asleep. He just went… calm. The wolf receded, and the man returned, looking lost and confused.
The paramedics helped him to his feet, and he stood there, swaying slightly, his pants still unbuttoned. He looked around the room, his eyes wide with bewilderment, and then his gaze landed on you.
The moment he saw you, his expression crumbled. His face, which had been blank and confused, was suddenly filled with a raw, agonizing remorse. His lower lip began to tremble, and his eyes filled with tears.
"Y/N," he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. He took a step toward you, his arms outstretched, a silent plea for forgiveness.
The paramedic holding him tightened his grip, stopping him. "Whoa, there, buddy. Easy now."
But Lando wasn't listening. His entire being was focused on you. He looked at you, his heartbreak and regret so palpable it was like a physical blow. He whimpered, a soft, pathetic sound that was more painful than any of the snarls or growls.
"Baby," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Please. I'm so sorry."
He started to struggle again, not with the ferocity of the wolf, but with the desperate urgency of a man who was terrified of losing the one thing that mattered. He tried to pull away from the paramedic, his eyes fixed on you, a pout so deep and so sorrowful it made your chest ache.
"Let me go to her," he begged, his voice a choked sob. "Please, just let me touch her. I need to touch her."
The paramedic looked at you, his expression questioning. You just shook your head, not sure what to do, what to say. You were still so scared, so shaken, but seeing him like this, so broken and vulnerable, made your heart hurt.
"It's okay, Lando," you said, your voice soft, trying to soothe him. "It's okay. I'm right here."
He seemed to take some comfort in your words, but the pout didn't leave his lips. He just stood there, his arms still reaching for you, his eyes begging you to come to him, to forgive him, to tell him that everything was going to be okay.
"We need to take him to the hospital," the female paramedic said gently, placing a hand on your arm. "Just to get him checked out, make sure he's stable."
You nodded, your eyes still locked on Lando's. "Okay," you agreed. "I'll come with you."
The paramedics led him out of the room, Lando walking with a shuffling, defeated gait. He kept looking back at you, his eyes filled with a desperate, pleading sadness, as if he were afraid you would disappear if he looked away.
You followed them down the stairs and out to the waiting ambulance. They helped Lando into the back, and you climbed in beside him, sitting as far away from him as you could, your heart still pounding in your chest. He immediately tried to move closer to you, his arms reaching for you, but the paramedic gently held him back.
The ride to the hospital was silent and tense. Lando didn't speak. He just sat there, his eyes fixed on you, his expression a mixture of remorse and longing. He looked like a lost little boy, and you felt a wave of protectiveness wash over you, a stark contrast to the fear you had felt just moments before.
When you arrived at the hospital, they led him into a private room in the emergency ward. A nurse came in, took his vitals, and asked him a series of questions, which he answered in a quiet, subdued voice. He was calm now, the wolf completely subdued, but the sadness in his eyes was still there, a deep, aching sorrow that seemed to permeate his entire being.
The nurse left, and a moment later, a doctor came in. He was a middle-aged man with a kind, gentle face and a calm, reassuring demeanor.
"Mr. Norris," he said, his voice soft as he looked at Lando's chart. "I'm Dr. Evans. We're going to take good care of you."
Lando just nodded, his gaze flicking to you, then back to the doctor.
"We're going to need to keep you for observation for a little while," Dr. Evans continued. "Just to make sure there are no lingering effects from the sedative."
"Okay," Lando said, his voice barely a whisper.
The doctor turned to you. "And you, miss? Are you okay? You've had quite a shock."
"I'm fine," you said, though you weren't sure if it was true.
Dr. Evans gave you a sympathetic smile. "Why don't you two have a minute? I'll be back in a little while to check on you."
He left the room, closing the door behind him, leaving you alone with Lando.
The moment the door was closed, Lando was on his feet, closing the distance between you in two long strides. He didn't touch you, but he stood in front of you, his body trembling, his eyes filled with a pain so deep it took your breath away.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. "I'm so, so sorry, Y/N. I never… I never wanted to hurt you. I tried to fight it. I swear to God, I tried."
Tears streamed down his face, and he made no effort to wipe them away. He just stood there, raw and vulnerable, his heart laid bare for you to see.
"I know," you said softly. "I know you tried, Lando. I saw you."
He shook his head, a fresh wave of grief washing over him. "It wasn't enough," he choked out. "I should have been stronger. I should have protected you. From me."
You couldn't stand it anymore. You closed the remaining distance between you and wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face in his chest. He immediately hugged you back, his arms wrapping around you so tightly it was almost painful, as if he were afraid you might slip away.
"I'm not scared of you," you whispered, your voice muffled against his shirt. "I'm scared for you."
He let out a shuddering breath, his body relaxing slightly in your arms. "I don't know what's wrong with me," he admitted, his voice thick with despair. "I've never lost control like that. Never. The wolf… it's never been that strong."
"We'll figure it out," you said, pulling back to look up at him. "We'll figure it out together."
He just looked at you, his eyes filled with a love so pure and so profound it made your heart ache. He leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours, as if he were afraid to touch you, afraid he might taint you with his darkness.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice a ragged, desperate plea. "I love you so much."
"I know" you replied, and then you closed the distance, pressing your lips to his in a soft, gentle kiss.
It was a kiss of forgiveness and reassurance.
A few minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door, and Dr. Evans entered the room. He looked at the two of you, standing there in a tight embrace, and a small, knowing smile touched his lips.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," he said gently.
Lando pulled away slowly, a smile spreading on his face. "Kinda".
Dr. Evans pulled up a stool and sat down, gesturing for you to do the same. "So," he began, his voice calm and professional. "Lando, I've been reviewing your case, and I have a theory about what might be going on. But before I get into that, I need to ask you a somewhat… unconventional question."
Lando nodded, his expression serious. "Anything."
"We've seen this kind of extreme, almost primal behavior in other Alphas before," Dr. Evans explained, choosing his words carefully. "In some cases, it's a manifestation of the Alpha power, a side effect of being so… potent. But in other cases, it can be a biological response. A sign that the body is… frustrated."
"Frustrated?" Lando repeated, his brow furrowed with confusion.
"Yes," Dr. Evans confirmed. "Specifically, sexually frustrated. In some cases, particularly with newly mated Alphas, the primal drive to procreate can be overwhelming. The wolf instinct recognizes the mate and its sole purpose becomes to ensure the continuation of the bloodline. If this biological imperative is… delayed, for any reason, it can cause a kind of internal conflict. A pressure cooker effect, if you will. The wolf's desire to mate and the human's desire to respect his partner's boundaries are at war, and sometimes, the more primal side can lash out when the pressure becomes too great."
You felt a chill go down your spine, a strange mix of horror and dawning understanding. So his aggression, his terrifying loss of control, wasn't just about lust. It was about something deeper, more instinctual. The need to breed.
Lando was silent, his body rigid beside you. You could feel the wheels turning in his mind, the pieces clicking into place with horrifying clarity. "So... you're saying this is my fault? Because we haven't...?"
"No, not at all," Dr. Evans said quickly, holding up a hand to stop him. "This isn't about blame, Lando. It's about biology. It's a powerful, ancient instinct that you're fighting against. But there is another possibility, one we need to rule out to be safe."
He paused, choosing his next words with extreme care. "In very rare cases, this kind of extreme reaction can be linked to a subconscious awareness of a biological issue. Specifically, male infertility. Sometimes, the wolf senses a problem with fertility on a primal level, even if the human consciousness is unaware of it. This perceived 'failure' to perform the most basic biological function can trigger a crisis, a desperate, panicked response. It's like the wolf is screaming, 'Why can't I do what I'm supposed to do?' and the resulting confusion and rage can manifest exactly as we saw tonight."
The air in the room grew thick and heavy. Infertility. The word hung between you, a specter of a future you hadn't even dared to think about yet. You looked at Lando, and the color had drained from his face. His eyes were wide with a dawning horror that mirrored your own.
"We need to be clear," Dr. Evans added, his voice gentle but firm. "The possibility of this is extremely small. It's just one variable among many. The most likely cause is simply the intensity of the new mate bond combined with your Alpha status. But given the severity of the episode, it's something we should test. For your peace of mind, if nothing else. To rule it out so we can focus on managing the other aspects."
Lando swallowed hard, his throat working. He looked down at you, his eyes filled with a raw, desperate question. He looked so vulnerable, so unlike the confident, powerful Alpha you knew. He was scared.
You reached up and cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking his skin gently. "It's okay," you whispered. "We should do it. We should know."
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch as if drawing strength from it. When he opened them again, the fear was still there, but it was tempered with resolve. "Okay," he said, his voice hoarse as he turned back to the doctor. "Let's do it. Let's test it."
Dr. Evans nodded, a look of relief on his face. "Good. That's the right decision." He opened a drawer in the cabinet beside him and pulled out a small, sterile plastic cup with a screw-on lid, along with a small biohazard bag. He handed them to Lando.
"I'll need a semen sample," he explained, his tone all business. "There's a private bathroom just through that door. When you're finished, just place the cup in the bag and leave it on the little counter inside. We'll send it to the lab right away. The results should be ready in a couple of hours. Take your time."
With a final, encouraging nod, Dr. Evans stood and left the room, closing the door softly behind him, leaving you alone in the sterile, white room with the sterile, white cup and the weight of a thousand unspoken fears.
Lando stared down at the cup in his hand as if it were a venomous snake. He was silent for a long moment, his shoulders slumped, the usual vibrant energy that radiated from him completely extinguished. He looked broken.
Then, he turned to you, and a slow, deliberate change came over his face. The fear and shame receded, replaced by something else. Something dark, and hungry, and utterly confident. A slow, predatory smirk spread across his lips, and his eyes, which had been dull with despair, began to swirl with that familiar, dangerous golden light.
"You know," he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated straight through you, "the last time you watched me... it was the hottest thing I've ever experienced in my life. I came so hard I saw stars."
Your breath hitched in your throat. Your cheeks flushed, a wave of heat washing over you as the memory flooded your senses—the sight of him in the shower, his hand moving on his cock, the sound of his desperate groans, the powerful, explosive release.
"I... Lando," you stammered, your heart starting to pound against your ribs.
He stepped closer, invading your personal space, his body radiating a heat that had nothing to do with fever and everything to do with pure, unadulterated desire. He lifted a hand, his fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, his touch sending shivers of electricity across your skin.
"I was so turned on, knowing you were watching me," he continued, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper. "Knowing your eyes were on me, seeing me like that. It made me so fucking hard, baby. I'm already getting hard just thinking about it now."
He wasn't lying. You could see the proof of it, the thick, rigid ridge straining against the fabric of his hospital pants. The sight sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust straight to your core, your body responding to his with an instinctual, undeniable force.
"Watch me again," he breathed, his lips hovering just above yours, his gaze locked on yours, intense and unwavering. "Please, Y/N. Watch me. I want you to see me. I want to come for you."
It was a command disguised as a plea, and you were powerless to resist. The fear from earlier was still there, a faint echo in the back of your mind, but it was completely overshadowed by the wave of arousal that was crashing over you. You wanted to see him. You wanted to watch him lose control for you, in a way that was safe, and intimate, and incredibly, undeniably erotic.
You nodded, a silent, breathless consent.
A triumphant, feral grin spread across his face. He took your hand, his grip firm and possessive, and led you toward the private bathroom. It was small and sterile, just a toilet, a sink, and a small counter. He closed the door behind you, the soft click echoing in the tense silence.
He placed the sterile cup on the counter, then turned to face you. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his hospital pants. He pushed them down, along with his boxers, in one slow, deliberate motion.
His cock sprang free, and your breath caught in your throat. He was already magnificent, long and thick and proudly erect, the flushed head glistening with a bead of pre-cum. He was beautiful, a perfect, masculine specimen, and the sight of him, so hard and ready for you, made your mouth water and your thighs clench.
He stepped out of his pants, kicking them aside, and stood before you, completely naked. His eyes never left yours, a silent, powerful connection that hummed in the air between you. He was putting on a show for you, and you were his only audience.
He wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, his long fingers encircling the thick shaft. He gave it a slow, deliberate squeeze, a soft hiss escaping his lips as his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. When he opened them again, they were burning with a fierce, possessive fire.
"Keep your eyes on me," he commanded, his voice a low, rough growl. "Watch me, baby."
You obeyed, your gaze locked on his hand as it began to move. He started slowly, his strokes long and leisurely, his fist sliding up the thick length of his shaft, his thumb swiping over the sensitive head on the upstroke, spreading the glistening pre-cum. A low, guttural groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
You watched, utterly mesmerized, as his hand began to move a little faster. His strokes became more firm, more purposeful. His hips started to rock in time with the motion of his hand, a slow, sensual rhythm that was hypnotizing. The muscles in his chest and abdomen flexed and contracted with each movement, his body a study in masculine perfection, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.
"Fuck," he breathed, his head falling back, exposing the strong, vulnerable line of his neck. He then sped up his strokes, his hand becoming a blur of motion as he worked his thick, rigid length with desperate urgency. The sound of skin on skin filled the small bathroom, a wet, rhythmic slap that echoed off the sterile tiles. His head fell back against the wall, his eyes squeezing shut as his mouth fell open in a silent gasp before releasing a long, guttural moan that seemed to vibrate from deep within his chest.
"Oh, fuck," he groaned, his voice breaking with the intensity of his pleasure. "Y/N... baby..."
His hips bucked forward, thrusting into his own fist with abandon. The muscles in his abdomen rippled and contracted, his entire body taut with tension as he chased his release. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temples, his chest heaving with labored breaths. He was lost in the sensation, completely consumed by the pleasure building at the base of his spine, his face a mask of ecstasy as he stroked himself harder, faster, his grip tightening around his girth.
You watched, transfixed, your own breath coming in shallow pants as you witnessed this display of raw, masculine need. The sight of him like this—so vulnerable yet so powerful, so completely undone by his own hand while thinking of you—sent waves of heat coursing through your body. You could see the veins standing out along his shaft, the flushed head darkening with arousal, the steady leak of pre-cum that lubricated his furious strokes.
His moans grew louder, less controlled, filling the small space with the sounds of his approaching climax. "So close," he panted, his teeth gritting as his hand pistoned faster. "Fuck, I'm so close..."
Then, just as he teetered on the edge, his eyes fluttered open. They found yours immediately, locking onto your gaze with an intensity that took your breath away. The golden light had returned, swirling in the depths of his green eyes, but this time it was tempered with something else—love, desperation, a silent plea for you to witness this moment of complete surrender.
He held your gaze for a heartbeat, two, his hand slowing just slightly as he drank in the sight of you watching him, and then his expression shifted to one of pure, unadulterated rapture. His hips jerked forward violently, his hand gripping the base of his cock as he aimed the swollen head toward the waiting cup.
"Ah—fuck!" he cried out, his voice cracking as the first spurt erupted from him.
It was powerful, forceful, hitting the bottom of the plastic cup with an audible sound. His body convulsed, his muscles locking up as wave after wave of release tore through him. His eyes rolled back, his mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure as he emptied himself into the container, his hand milking his shaft with slow, deliberate strokes to ensure every drop was captured. The sheer volume of it was staggering, evidence of his virility and the intensity of his arousal.
When he finally finished, his body went slack, his shoulders slumping against the wall as he struggled to catch his breath. His chest heaved, his heart hammering so violently you could see it pulsing beneath his skin. He stood there for a moment, dazed, his cock still twitching in his spent hand, the aftershocks of his powerful orgasm making his thighs tremble.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, looking down at the cup with a dazed expression before his gaze drifted back to you. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his lips, lazy and content, though his eyes still burned with residual heat.
"Just like last time," he murmured, his voice rough and gravelly. "Came so fucking hard I saw stars."
He screwed the lid onto the cup with shaking hands, his movements clumsy in the aftermath of his release, and set it carefully on the counter. Then he turned to you, completely unashamed of his nudity, his spent cock still half-hard and glistening against his thigh.
You expected him to reach for his clothes, to clean himself up immediately, but instead he reached for you. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones as he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was sweet but undeniably passionate. His mouth moved over yours with a tenderness that belied the raw sexuality of what you'd just witnessed, his tongue sliding past your lips to taste you, to claim you, to thank you for giving him that moment.
You melted into him, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the frantic hammering of his heart beneath your palms. Despite the fact that he was completely naked, that the evidence of his pleasure sat in a cup mere feet away, that you were in a hospital bathroom of all places, you returned his kisses with equal enthusiasm, your fingers curling into the hard muscle of his pecs as you poured your own affection into the embrace.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, down to your throat, pressing soft, reverent kisses against your pulse point. "Thank you," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Thank you for watching me. For wanting me. For being here."
You held him tighter, your fingers threading through his hair as you cradled his head against your shoulder. "Mmmh," you shyly answered, your voice soft.
He held you for a long moment, just breathing you in, his naked body warm and solid against yours. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he pulled back, reaching for the tissues on the counter. He cleaned himself with slow, methodical movements, his eyes never leaving yours, a small, contented smile playing on his lips as he wiped away the remnants of his release.
Once he was clean, he reached for his hospital pants and boxers, stepping into them with fluid grace. He pulled his shirt back on—when had he removed it? You couldn't remember, lost in the haze of watching him—and adjusted his clothes until he looked presentable, though his hair was still mussed and his eyes held a post-orgasmic softness that made him look younger, more vulnerable.
He picked up the sealed cup, holding it almost reverently, and placed it on the small counter outside the bathroom door where the nurse would collect it. Then he turned back to you, opening his arms wide, and you walked into his embrace without hesitation.
He clung to you then, really clung to you, his arms wrapping around your waist with a desperation that surprised you. He buried his face in your hair, his body pressed flush against yours, and you could feel him trembling slightly—not with desire this time, but with something else, something deeper and more frightening.
You held him, stroking his back in slow, soothing circles, feeling the tension coiling in his muscles despite the release he'd just found. The minutes ticked by in silence, the two of you standing there in the sterile room, holding each other as you waited for the results that would determine so much about your future together.
But as the time passed, you felt his anxiety mounting. His grip tightened, his breathing became shallower, and he started to fidget, his fingers drumming restlessly against your lower back. You pulled back slightly, cupping his face in your hands and forcing him to meet your gaze.
"Lando," you said gently, searching his eyes. "What's wrong?."
He looked at you, and the fear you saw there made your heart clench. His eyes were wide, his lower lip trembling slightly, all traces of the confident, predatory Alpha gone, replaced by a man facing his worst nightmare.
"I want them," Lando whispered against your hair, his voice cracking with a vulnerability that made your chest ache. He tightened his arms around you, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt as if he were afraid you might vanish. "I know it's stupid—we just met, we haven't even... God, I know it's too soon to think about it. But I do. I want kids with you. Little pups running around. A family." He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. "And if I can't... if I'm broken somehow... I don't think I could handle it, Y/N. I really don't."
You didn't know what to say. The words stuck in your throat, thick and heavy with your own shyness, with the overwhelming intimacy of the moment. So you didn't speak. Instead, you reached up, your hands finding his hair, your fingers threading through the dark, messy strands. You stroked gently, your nails scratching lightly against his scalp, then moved your hands down to cup the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
He went willingly, his body folding into yours as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. You felt his hot breath against your skin, the dampness of tears you knew he was trying to hide. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him tight, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles between his shoulder blades while the other cradled the back of his head. You pressed your cheek against his hair, inhaling the familiar scent of him—pine and something wild—and just held on.
Time seemed to stretch, measured only by the steady rhythm of your heartbeat and the gradual slowing of his breathing. You didn't let go. You kept touching him, kept holding him, kept proving with your body that you were there, that you weren't leaving, that whatever came next, you would face it together.
A soft knock at the door made you both stiffen. Lando didn't pull away immediately; he kept his face buried in your neck for one more second, his arms squeezing you almost painfully tight, before he slowly lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes wet, but he squared his shoulders and turned toward the door.
"Come in," he said, his voice rough but steady.
Dr. Evans entered, holding a tablet, his expression neutral but his eyes kind. He looked between the two of you—Lando's hand still gripping yours like a lifeline, your other hand resting on his forearm—and offered a small, reassuring smile.
"I have the results," the doctor said, getting straight to the point. He tapped his screen a few times, then looked up at Lando. "Your sample showed excellent viability. Motility is well above average—ninety-eighth percentile, actually. Sperm count is extremely high, and morphology is perfect. Frankly, Mr. Norris, I've rarely seen numbers this strong in a healthy male, let alone an Alpha."
Lando's grip on your hand tightened. "What does that mean?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Exactly?"
"It means," Dr. Evans said, his smile widening slightly, "that you are more than capable of reproducing. In fact, the chances of conception on the first attempt are very high given these parameters. When you and your mate decide you're ready, physiologically speaking, there should be no difficulty whatsoever."
The silence that followed was deafening. You felt the tension drain from Lando's body all at once, his shoulders dropping, his hand going slack in yours before he gripped it again, this time with a desperate relief.
"You're sure?" Lando asked.
"Completely," Dr. Evans confirmed. "You're in perfect health, Mr. Norris. The episode earlier was likely just the intensity of the bond, as we discussed. Nothing more."
"Thank you," Lando breathed, the words sounding like a prayer.
The doctor nodded, made a few notes on his tablet, and left you alone again with instructions to get some rest and follow up with the pack doctor in a few days.
The moment the door clicked shut, Lando turned to you. The fear was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fierce and triumphant. A slow, predatory smirk spread across his lips, the kind that usually made your stomach flip.
"Did you hear that?" he asked, his voice dropping to that low, intimate rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "First try, baby. I'm more than capable."
Your cheeks burned hot, flushing a deep red that you knew was visible even in the harsh hospital lighting. You looked down at your lap, embarrassed by the directness of his gaze, by the images his words conjured, but you couldn't stop the small, genuine smile that tugged at your lips. You were glad—so glad—to see that smirk back on his face, to see the confidence return, to know that whatever darkness had been haunting him was gone.
"Stop looking at me like that," you mumbled, still not meeting his eyes.
"Can't help it," he said, reaching out to tilt your chin up with his finger. "I'm happy. You're here. And I'm... I'm okay. We're okay."
The drive home was different from the tense, silent trip to the hospital. Lando was practically vibrating with energy, but it wasn't the frantic, dangerous energy of before. It was lighter, buoyant. He kept his hand on your thigh the entire way, his thumb stroking back and forth in a constant, possessive rhythm. At every red light, he leaned over to kiss you—your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—little pecks that were sweet but carried an undercurrent of lingering desire.
When you pulled into the driveway, he didn't wait for you to open your own door. He was out of the car in seconds, rounding the hood, and scooping you up into his arms before you could even unbuckle your seatbelt.
"Lando!" you yelped, your arms automatically wrapping around his neck. "I can walk!"
"Don't care," he said, his voice muffled against your hair as he carried you up the steps. "Want to hold you."
Inside, he didn't put you down until you reached the bedroom, and even then, he only lowered you onto the bed so he could crawl in beside you. He pulled you into his arms immediately, spooning you from behind, his face buried in your hair, his legs tangling with yours.
"You're being ridiculous," you said, but there was no bite to it. You were smiling, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over the arm he had wrapped around your waist.
"Let me be ridiculous," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. "Let me be clingy. I almost lost my mind today. I need to feel you."
He stayed true to his word. For the rest of the evening, he was a constant, warm presence at your side. When you went to the kitchen to get water, he followed, wrapping his arms around you from behind while you stood at the sink. When you sat on the couch to check your phone, he pulled you into his lap, his chin resting on your shoulder, his hands resting possessively on your hips. He kissed your temple, your shoulder, the back of your hand—constant, reverent touches that spoke of his relief and his affection.
"Come to bed," he said eventually, his voice soft against your ear. "Please."
You nodded, letting him lead you back to the bedroom. He stripped down to his boxers and pulled you in close, arranging you both under the covers until you were pressed flush against him, your head on his chest, his arms caging you in a secure embrace.
"Thank you," he whispered into the darkness, his lips brushing your forehead. "For staying. For touching me. For everything."
You didn't answer with words. You just snuggled closer, your arm wrapping around his waist, your leg hooking over his, holding him as tightly as he was holding you. You felt the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear, the warmth of his skin against yours, and the gentle, rhythmic stroking of his fingers up and down your spine.
Within minutes, his breathing evened out, his body relaxing completely into the mattress, his hold on you never loosening. You closed your eyes, letting the safety of his arms lull you into sleep, the lingering scent of pine and home wrapping around you like a blanket.
