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.
Guys please don’t hesitate writing to me if you’ve got any requests for future oneshots or ideas or something you’d like to see in the stories 🤞😉
I will trying to update as many stories and write as much as possible these next couple of days! At least 1 new series part should be out today as well 💗
❤︎ |9,6k| Summary: Lando begins finding it more and more difficult to control his alpha instincts and desire. His wolf takes over a lot, and the race weekend isn’t as peaceful as y/n had imagined.
The phone had stopped ringing, but the silence that followed was somehow worse—thick and vibrating with everything that had just been stolen from you. Lando stood there, his back heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. You could see the war raging inside him, the way his muscles twitched beneath his skin like he was fighting against an invisible force trying to tear its way out.
You were still trembling. Your body was confused, caught between the intense arousal that had been building and the sudden, jarring interruption that had left you hanging on a precipice. The lace of your bra felt too tight against your sensitive skin, and the dampness between your thighs was a constant, aching reminder of what you'd almost had.
Lando turned around slowly. His eyes found yours, and the look in them made your breath hitch. He didn't look like the boy who made jokes in interviews anymore. He looked feral. The green of his eyes had gone almost black, swallowed by dilated pupils, and his chest was rising and falling in sharp, erratic bursts.
"Come here," he said. It wasn't a request. It was a command, low and guttural, vibrating with a need that seemed to shake the room.
You didn't move. You couldn't. Your feet felt rooted to the floor, paralyzed by the intensity radiating off him in waves.
He didn't wait for you to comply. He crossed the distance between you in two long strides, and before you could process what was happening, his hands were on your waist and he was backing you up until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You tumbled backward, the soft mattress catching you, and then he was on top of you.
His weight settled over you, heavy and solid and perfect. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, his grip firm but not painful, and then his mouth was on yours.
It wasn't like the kisses from before. This was desperate, feverish, almost violent in its intensity. His tongue pushed past your lips, claiming your mouth with a hunger that felt like he was trying to consume you whole. You could taste the mint from earlier, the salt of his skin, and something darker, more primal that made your head spin.
His free hand roamed down your body, rough and possessive, dragging over the curve of your breast, down your ribs, until it found the waistband of your panties. He didn't pause. He pushed his hips forward, grinding the hard, insistent length of his erection against you through the thin layers of fabric separating you.
The friction was electric. You gasped into his mouth, your back arching off the bed as pleasure shot through you like lightning. He was so hard, so hot, and the pressure against your sensitive core was exactly what you needed, exactly what you'd been craving for hours, for days.
"Fuck," he growled against your lips, his voice barely human. "You feel so good. So wet for me, aren't you?"
He ground against you again, harder this time, setting a rhythm that had you seeing stars. Your legs fell open automatically, wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. You were lost in the sensation, in the heat of him, the weight of him, the sheer overwhelming presence of him surrounding you completely.
Then it happened again.
The phone on the nightstand erupted into that same shrill, piercing ringtone, cutting through the haze of lust like a blade. Lando froze above you, his entire body going rigid. He pulled back from the kiss, his head snapping toward the sound, and what you saw on his face made your blood run cold.
His lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing elongated canines that glinted white and sharp in the lamplight. His eyes, when they met yours, weren't human anymore. They were the eyes of a predator, wild and dangerous and completely unhinged.
He bared his teeth at the phone, a low, terrifying growl rumbling from deep in his chest. It wasn't directed at you—you knew that intellectually—but he was still on top of you, still pinning you down, and the aggression rolling off him in waves was suffocating.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, but not with desire anymore. Fear crept in, cold and insidious, replacing the heat that had been there moments before. You could see his control slipping, see the wolf taking over, and you were trapped beneath him, vulnerable and exposed.
"Lando," you whispered, your voice shaking.
He didn't hear you. He was staring at the phone with murder in his eyes, his breathing harsh and ragged, his grip on your wrists tightening to the point of pain.
"Lando," you said again, louder this time. You pushed against his chest with your free hand, your palm flat against his sternum. "Stop."
He turned his head back to you, and for a second, you didn't recognize him. The face looking down at you was twisted with rage, his features sharp and predatory, his fangs fully extended and glistening.
Panic spiked through you. You pushed harder against him, your hands trembling. "Get off," you said, your voice cracking. "You're scaring me."
The words seemed to penetrate the haze. His eyes widened, the blackness receding slightly as recognition flickered back into them. He looked down at you, really looked at you, and saw the fear written across your face.
"Shit," he breathed. The aggression drained out of him instantly, like someone had pulled a plug. He released your wrists and scrambled off you, backing away until he was standing beside the bed, his hands raised in surrender. "Shit, Y/N, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—I would never—"
He looked horrified, his face pale beneath the flush of arousal, his eyes wide and desperate. He kept apologizing, the words tumbling out of him in a frantic rush, but you couldn't focus on them. You were sitting up now, pulling your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around yourself as your heart slowly stopped trying to escape your ribcage.
"It's okay," you said quietly, though it wasn't, not really. "Just... answer the phone."
The ringing was relentless, drilling into your skull. Lando stared at you for another long moment, his expression tortured, before he turned and snatched the phone from the bed. He put it to his ear, and you could see the moment his anger returned—not at you this time, but at whoever was on the other end.
"Who the fuck is this?" he snarled into the receiver. His voice was low and dangerous, dripping with a threat that made you shiver. "Do you have any idea what fucking time it is?"
He listened for a second, his jaw working, his free hand clenching and unclenching at his side.
"No," he snapped. "No, I don't care. I don't give a shit about the telemetry. I don't give a shit about Zak or the car or any of it."
He started pacing, a caged animal wearing a path into the carpet. His voice rose, gaining volume and intensity with every word.
"Who the fuck dared to call me this late? Huh? Who thought it was a good idea to interrupt me when I'm with my mate? When I'm—"
He cut himself off, but the implication hung in the air, heavy and obvious. He dragged a hand through his hair, pulling at the curls, his chest heaving.
"I can't leave her," he said, and his voice cracked slightly, revealing the desperation beneath the rage. "Don't you understand? I physically cannot leave her right now. My wolf won't let me. I can't—if I walk out that door without her, I don't know what I'll do. I might hurt someone. I might—"
He stopped pacing and stood still, his head bowed, his shoulders tense. He listened to whatever the person on the other end was saying, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping in his cheek.
"Fine," he finally spat. "Fine. But she's coming with me. No, non-negotiable. Either she comes, or I don't come at all, and you can explain to Zak why his driver isn't at the garage."
He ended the call and stood there for a long moment, his back to you, his breathing slowly evening out. When he turned around, his eyes were still wild, still tinged with that feral edge, but he was trying to control it. You could see the effort it was taking, the way his hands shook as he set the phone down.
"We have to go," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, love. But they need me at the garage. There's something wrong with the car, and they can't figure it out without me there to explain what I felt during testing."
You stared at him. "Lando, it's eight o'clock at night. And I'm not wearing any clothes."
"I know," he said, and there was real pain in his voice. "I know, and I hate this, and I hate them, but I have to go. And I can't..." He stopped, closing his eyes. "I can't leave you here. Not when I'm like this. Not when we're both..." He gestured vaguely between you, at the heavy, charged atmosphere that still clung to the room. "My wolf won't allow it. It would tear me apart to walk away from you right now. Please. Please come with me."
You looked at him—the genuine desperation in his eyes, the way he was holding himself so rigidly, as if one wrong move would shatter his control. You thought about saying no, about insisting he go alone and cool off, but you could see the struggle he was fighting. This wasn't just possessiveness. This was something deeper, something biological that he couldn't simply turn off.
"Okay," you said softly.
Relief flooded his face. "Thank you. Thank you, love."
You slid off the bed and moved to your suitcase, pulling out a pair of soft joggers and a hoodie. You dressed quickly, not looking at him, still processing the fear from earlier, the interrupted arousal, the confusion of emotions that were swirling inside you.
When you turned around, he was standing by the dresser, his back to you, and your breath caught in your throat. He had his pants in his hands, but he wasn't putting them on yet. He was looking down at himself, at the obvious, straining erection tenting his boxers.
You should have looked away. You tried to look away. But you were frozen, watching as he reached into his underwear and adjusted himself, his hand wrapping around his length and repositioning it so it lay flat against his stomach, held down by the tight fabric of his briefs. The movement was intimate, vulnerable, and undeniably erotic.
He looked up then, catching your eyes in the mirror. Your face erupted in flames, and you quickly looked down at your feet, mortified at being caught staring.
He laughed softly, a low, warm sound that eased some of the tension in the room. "It's okay," he said. "You can look."
"Shut up," you mumbled, still not meeting his eyes.
You heard him pull on his pants, the zipper closing with a harsh rasp. When you finally looked up, he was fully dressed, but his eyes were still dark, still hungry.
"Ready?" he asked.
You nodded. He walked toward you, reaching for your hand, but you stopped him, holding up your palm.
"Stay over there," you said. "Please. I need... space. Just for a minute."
He stopped, his expression falling slightly, but he nodded. "Okay. Whatever you need."
He stayed on his side of the room while you pulled on your shoes, keeping a respectful distance, though you could feel his gaze on you like a physical touch.
When you were both ready, he led you out to the car. The driver was waiting, the partition already up, giving you privacy. As soon as the doors closed and they pulled away from the curb, Lando turned to you, his expression soft.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "For earlier. For all of it. I know I keep saying that, but I mean it. I hate that we keep getting interrupted. I hate that I scared you. I was about to..." He stopped, his eyes dropping to your lips, then lower, to your neck, your chest. "I was about to make you feel so good, love. I was going to taste you. I was going to slide my tongue—"
"Lando," you interrupted, your face burning. You reached over and pressed your hand over his mouth, stopping the words. "Don't. Please. I'm already... I'm already too turned on as it is. I can't hear you say things like that right now."
His eyes widened slightly, his pupils expanding as he looked at you. He reached up and gently pulled your hand away from his mouth, but he didn't let go. He held your fingers in his, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.
"Oh," he said, his voice dropping lower. "I thought the mood was ruined. After... after I scared you. I thought you were done with me for the night."
You shook your head, looking out the window. "No. I'm frustrated, Lando. I'm really, really frustrated. But I'm not... I'm not done."
He was quiet for a moment, processing that. Then his hand moved from yours to your thigh, his palm warm and heavy through the fabric of your joggers. He squeezed gently, his fingers digging in just enough to make you aware of every inch of his touch.
"As soon as we get home," he said, his voice a low promise that vibrated through your chest. "As soon as we walk through that door, I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to make you forget about every interruption, every phone call, every minute of frustration. I'm going to make you cum so hard you see stars, and then I'm going to do it again. And again. Until you're begging me to stop. Until you can't remember your own name."
You squeezed your eyes shut, a shiver running through you at his words. You believed him. You wanted it so badly it hurt.
"Okay," you whispered.
The rest of the drive was silent, heavy with anticipation and unspoken promises.
When you arrived at the McLaren garage, the paddock was quieter than during the day, but there were still people milling about, mechanics working under bright fluorescent lights, the faint smell of rubber and fuel hanging in the air.
Lando kept your hand firmly in his as you walked inside, his grip tight and possessive. He greeted the few people who approached with clipped, polite responses, but he never let you drift more than a few inches from his side. You could feel the tension in him, the way his wolf was still pacing just beneath the surface, alert and watchful.
They had set up a chair for you by the data computers, near the pit wall, and Lando made sure you were comfortable before he turned to the team. "Stay here," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I'll be as quick as I can."
You watched as he walked over to his car, which was partially disassembled, various components laid out on clean white sheets. He talked with the engineers, his voice low and technical, pointing at different parts, explaining something with animated hand gestures. Even like this, even frustrated and turned on and barely holding it together, he was in his element. He loved this. You could see it in the way he lit up when he talked about the suspension, the way his eyes focused with laser intensity on the problem at hand.
After about twenty minutes, he came back over to where you were sitting. He didn't say anything. He just stood behind your chair and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you back against his chest. You could feel his heart beating steady and strong against your shoulder blade, feel his warmth surrounding you like a blanket.
"How's it going?" you asked softly.
"Complicated," he admitted, his chin resting on top of your head. "They found an anomaly in the data from yesterday's session. Something with the differential. I need to go through the logs with them."
You nodded, trying to ignore the way his presence was making your skin tingle, trying to focus on the fact that you were here to support him, not just to be a distraction.
He stayed there for a few more minutes, his arms tight around you, before he sighed and pulled away. "I'll be back," he promised.
Time passed slowly. You scrolled through your phone, trying to distract yourself, but your mind kept drifting back to the bedroom, to the weight of him on top of you, to the promises he'd made in the car. You checked the time. 8:45. Then 9:15. Then 9:45.
By the time it hit 10:00 PM, you had given up hope. You weren't angry—Lando was working, doing his job, and you understood that. But you were bummed. Deeply, thoroughly bummed. You'd been in a state of heightened arousal for hours now, ever since that morning in the hotel, and your body was tired. Not sleepy, but emotionally exhausted from the rollercoaster of almosts and interruptions.
You watched Lando across the garage, bent over a laptop with two engineers, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked up then, as if he felt your gaze on him, and his expression softened when he saw you. He said something to the engineers, then walked over to you.
"Hey," he said softly, crouching down in front of your chair so he was eye level with you. "I'm sorry this is taking so long."
"It's okay," you said, and you meant it. "Work is important."
He searched your face, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You look tired."
"I am," you admitted. "Just... ready to go home whenever you are."
He stood up and offered you his hand. "Let's go. They can figure out the rest without me."
The car ride back was different from the ride there. Lando was touchy, his hand constantly finding yours, his thigh pressed against yours, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. But you were distant, your head resting against the window, your body feeling heavy and unresponsive.
You wanted him—you still wanted him—but the edge had been dulled by exhaustion and disappointment. You'd been ready for so long, and now you just felt... numb.
When you got home, you both went straight to the bedroom without speaking. You undressed silently, mechanically, until you were standing in just your underwear—a simple black bra and matching panties. Lando stripped down to his boxers, and you couldn't help but notice he was still hard, his arousal obvious and unrelenting.
He came up behind you as you stood by the bed, his hands finding your waist, his lips finding the sensitive spot on your neck. "I've been thinking about this all night," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "About how you taste. About how you'll feel around my fingers. My tongue."
He turned you around gently and kissed you, soft and deep, his hands roaming over your back, your hips. But you weren't there. Your body wasn't responding the way it had earlier. You kissed him back, but it was mechanical, distracted.
He pulled back, his brow furrowing. "What's wrong?" he asked, his thumb brushing over your cheek.
You looked up at him, at the concern in his eyes, and felt a surge of guilt. "I'm tired, Lando," you said quietly. "I'm just... really tired. And frustrated. And I want you, I do, but my body is just... done. For tonight."
He stared at you for a long moment, and you saw the disappointment flash across his face, quick and sharp, before he masked it. But then he nodded, his expression softening into something tender and understanding.
"Okay," he said softly. "Okay, love. That's okay."
He didn't push. He didn't try to convince you or coax you or make you feel guilty. He just pulled back the covers and climbed into bed, holding his arm out in invitation.
You crawled in beside him, and he wrapped himself around you, his chest pressed to your back, his arm heavy and warm around your waist. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply, and you felt him relax against you.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "For tonight. For everything."
"Stop apologizing," you mumbled, your eyes already drifting closed, exhaustion pulling you under.
You fell asleep to the sound of his breathing, steady and calm, his heartbeat a comforting rhythm against your spine.
The next thing you knew, sunlight was streaming through the curtains, bright and insistent. You blinked awake, confused for a moment about where you were, and then panic hit you like a freight train.
You sat up abruptly, looking at the clock on the nightstand. It was past nine in the morning. Practice started at ten. You were supposed to be at the track already.
"Lando!" you gasped, turning to shake him awake. "Lando, wake up! We overslept! We're going to be late!"
He groaned and rolled over, his eyes still closed, a smile playing at his lips. You reached out and gently smacked his shoulder. "Wake up! We have to go! Why didn't your alarm go off?"
He caught your wrist before you could hit him again, his eyes fluttering open. They were soft and sleepy, the green muted and warm. He looked at you with such affection that it stopped your panic for a second.
"Hey," he said, his voice rough with sleep.
"Hey? That's all you have to say? Lando, we have to get up! Practice!"
He tugged on your wrist, pulling you down until you collapsed onto his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight, his face buried in your neck. "No, we don't," he mumbled against your skin.
"What do you mean, we don't?"
"I have a reserve driver taking the first session," he said, his voice muffled. "I asked Zak last night. Told him I needed the morning off. Told him I was dealing with... personal matters."
You pulled back to look at him, your heart hammering. "You did what?"
He opened his eyes, looking up at you with a cocky, sleepy smirk. "I arranged for alone time," he said simply. "With you. No phones. No interruptions. No garage. Just us."
You stared at him, processing his words. "Why?"
He reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, his expression softening. "Because I wanted to make it up to you. Because I wanted to show you that you come first. That we come first."
You felt your face flush, a shy smile tugging at your lips. "Oh."
"Yeah," he said, his thumb tracing your jawline. "Oh."
He leaned up and kissed you, soft and sweet, and you immediately kissed him back. The panic of moments before melted away, replaced by a warm, giddy feeling that spread through your chest.
You shifted, rolling on top of him, straddling his waist. You were still in your underwear from last night, and he was still in his boxers, and as you settled your weight over him, you felt it—the hard, insistent press of his erection against your stomach.
You moaned softly, the sound escaping before you could stop it, and you felt him smile against your lips.
"Good morning," he whispered.
"Good morning," you breathed back.
You started to kiss him again, deeper this time, your hands finding his chest, his shoulders, his hair. He let his hands wander, sliding down your back, over the curve of your ass, pulling you closer against him. You could feel him, hot and hard and ready, and the feeling sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, washing away the last remnants of last night's frustration.
His hands moved up, finding the clasp of your bra. He unhooked it with practiced ease, and you pulled back just enough to let him slide it off your shoulders, tossing it aside. His eyes darkened as he looked at you, his gaze roaming over your bare breasts, his expression reverent and hungry.
"Beautiful," he murmured.
He flipped you then, moving with a speed and strength that took your breath away. Suddenly you were on your back, and he was above you, his mouth finding your breast. He took your nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, and you arched off the bed with a cry.
He was relentless, his mouth hot and wet as he sucked and licked, his hand kneading your other breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple in tight, maddening circles. Then he switched sides, giving the other breast the same attention, and you were moaning loudly, your hands fisting in the sheets.
He bit down gently, just enough to make you gasp, the sensation a sharp spark of pleasure-pain that went straight to your core. He soothed the sting with his tongue, then bit again, playful and teasing, and you were writhing beneath him, out of breath, your face flushed and hot.
He kissed down your stomach, his lips tracing a path of fire over your skin, until he reached the waistband of your panties. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and intense, asking a silent question.
"Please," you whispered, nodding.
He hooked his fingers in the lace and pulled them down, sliding them off your legs and discarding them somewhere on the floor. He settled between your thighs, his shoulders keeping your legs open, and you felt exposed, vulnerable, but so incredibly wanted.
He didn't rush. He kissed the inside of your thigh, his lips soft and warm, moving higher and higher until he was so close you could feel his breath against you. Then, finally, he touched you.
His fingers slid up your folds, gathering the wetness that had been building since yesterday, since the day before, since the moment you'd met him. He spread it around, his touch gentle and teasing, before finding your clit and circling it with his thumb.
You moaned loudly, your head falling back, your eyes squeezing shut. The pleasure was immediate and intense, building quickly after hours of anticipation.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
You forced your eyes open, looking down at him between your legs. He held your gaze as he lowered his mouth, his tongue replacing his thumb, and the sight of him there, his eyes locked on yours, his mouth on you, was almost enough to make you cum right then.
He licked and sucked, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate patterns, his thumb still circling your clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once. You were moaning constantly now, unable to control the sounds coming from your throat, your hips bucking against his mouth.
He slid a finger inside you, curling it against your inner wall, and you gasped, your hands flying to his hair, holding him in place. He added another finger, stretching you gently, moving them in and out in a rhythm that matched the movements of his tongue.
Then he curled his fingers, pressing against that spot inside you that made your vision blur, and you felt it building, the pressure coiling tight and hot in your belly.
Your legs started shaking. Violently. Uncontrollably. The pleasure was too intense, your body overwhelmed by the sensations he'd been denying you for so long.
Lando noticed. He pulled back slightly, his expression flickering with concern. "Hey," he said, his voice gentle. "You okay?"
"Don't stop," you begged, your voice breathless and desperate. "Please, don't stop. It feels good. It feels so good."
He smiled then, a slow, satisfied smile that lit up his face. He gripped each of your thighs in his strong hands, holding them steady, keeping you open for him as he lowered his mouth again.
He kept going, his fingers moving slower now, gentler, his tongue soft and teasing. He built you back up, taking his time, watching your face for every reaction, learning what you liked, what made you moan louder, what made your breath hitch.
When you came, it was like a wave crashing over you. Your back arched off the bed, a cry tearing from your throat, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He kept his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, riding out the waves of your orgasm, drawing it out until you were whimpering, overstimulated, pushing weakly at his head.
He finally pulled away, kissing your inner thigh once, twice, before crawling back up your body. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark and satisfied, looking at you like you'd just hung the stars in the sky just for him.
He kissed you then, slow and deep, a languid exploration that felt like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. When he pulled back, his eyes were hazy, unfocused, his pupils blown wide with satisfaction and something softer, something almost reverent. He didn't say anything. He just leaned forward and buried his face between your breasts, nuzzling against your sternum with a contented sigh that vibrated through your chest.
You laughed. It bubbled up from somewhere deep and unexpected, a bright, genuine sound that filled the room. The vibration of your laughter made him hum against your skin, his arms wrapping tighter around your waist, holding you like you were the only solid thing in a world that had gone liquid around him.
"Lando," you said, still chuckling as you carded your fingers through his curls, "you're ridiculous."
He mumbled something unintelligible against your breastbone, the warmth of his breath making your skin prickle. He wasn't being sexual anymore—this was something else entirely. This was your wolf boy, your mate, seeking comfort and closeness in the most innocent way he knew how. He pressed his cheek against your left breast, his stubble scratching gently, and you felt him smile.
"I should get dressed," you said softly, your fingers continuing to play with his hair. "Before we cuddle properly. I'm still naked."
He shook his head immediately, his face still buried against you. His arms became iron bands around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until you were practically fused together. You could feel his heart beating against your ribs, steady and strong.
"Lando—"
"No," he mumbled, the word muffled but firm. He finally lifted his head, his green eyes meeting yours with a stubborn glint that you were learning meant he wasn't budging. "Stay. Just like this. Please."
He moved then, shifting his weight so he could lay fully on top of you, his body a warm, heavy blanket that pinned you to the mattress. He was clinging to you with an intensity that should have felt suffocating but instead felt like safety. His legs tangled with yours, his arms wrapped around your shoulders, his face tucked into the crook of your neck. He was everywhere, surrounding you completely, and he let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-whimper as he settled against you.
You let him. You let him have this moment, this closeness, your hands finding their way back to his hair. You scratched gently at his scalp, your nails dragging in slow, soothing patterns, and you felt the moment it happened—a deep, rumbling purr that started in his chest and vibrated through your entire body.
Your eyes widened, a smile tugging at your lips. "Did you just purr?"
He didn't answer. He just burrowed deeper against you, his purr growing louder, more pronounced. It was the most contented sound you'd ever heard from him—a cat-like rumble that seemed completely at odds with the ferocious wolf you'd seen last night, but somehow perfectly Lando. You kept playing with his hair, twirling the curls around your fingers, scratching behind his ears, and the purr never stopped. It was hypnotic, soothing, and you felt your own eyes growing heavy.
"We have to get up," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. "We have to get ready."
No response. His breathing had evened out, his body gone completely lax against yours. The purring had stopped, replaced by the soft, rhythmic sound of sleep. You craned your neck to look down at him, at his face pressed against your shoulder, his lips slightly parted, his expression utterly peaceful.
He was asleep. Actually asleep, drooling slightly on your collarbone.
You sighed, a fond exasperation warming your chest. You reached up and gently cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking over his cheekbone. Then you leaned in and pressed soft kisses to his face—one on his forehead, one on the bridge of his nose, one on each cheek. His skin was warm beneath your lips, soft with sleep.
He stirred on the third kiss, his nose wrinkling, his eyes fluttering open. For a moment, he looked confused, disoriented, his gaze unfocused. Then his eyes found yours, and recognition dawned—along with something else, something warm and intimate that made your stomach flip.
He didn't say good morning. He didn't ask what time it was or comment on falling asleep. He just surged forward, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, and kissed you.
It was long and sweet and unhurried. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your toes curl, his tongue sliding against yours in lazy, languid strokes. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like the track didn't exist, like practice wasn't looming. He kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered, and by the time he pulled back, you were breathless, your lips swollen, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"Hi," he whispered, his thumb tracing your jaw.
"Hi," you breathed back, smiling despite yourself.
You finally managed to extricate yourself from beneath him, sitting up and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. You needed to find your clothes—your underwear was scattered somewhere on the floor, your bra God-knows-where. You spotted your panties near the dresser and moved to retrieve them, but Lando was immediately behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, his chest pressed to your back.
He didn't say anything. He just held on, his chin resting on your shoulder, moving with you as you shuffled across the room like some kind of bizarre conjoined creature. Every time you bent to pick something up, he bent with you. When you reached for your panties on the floor, he was still attached to your back, his arms locked around your middle.
"Lando, I can't—" You tried to bend, wobbling with his weight. "You're like a koala."
"Koalas are cute," he mumbled against your neck, not loosening his grip.
You managed to snag your panties, stepping into them while he clung to you, his hands sliding down to your hips to "help"—which really just meant copping a feel. You swatted at him half-heartedly, but you were smiling, your exasperation melting under the warmth of his affection.
Then you spotted your bra. It was tangled in the bedsheets, the black lace catching the morning light. You reached for it, your fingers closing around the strap, but before you could pull it toward you, a hand shot past your face and smacked it out of your grasp.
You blinked, confused, watching as the bra went flying across the room. You turned your head to look at Lando, who was still pressed against your back, his expression suddenly serious.
"No," he said, his voice low and stern.
"What?"
"No," he repeated, and there was a growl beneath the word, a rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. He spun you around, his hands gripping your waist, and then his mouth was on your neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin just below your ear.
You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, but then you caught sight of his eyes in the mirror across the room and froze. They weren't green anymore. They were dark—almost black—swallowed by dilated pupils that made him look feral, predatory.
"Lando?" Your voice trembled slightly.
He didn't answer. He just kept kissing your neck, his hands roaming up your sides, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to your breasts. You tried to pull back, to create space, but he followed you, his grip tightening.
"I need to get dressed," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "We have to go."
You stepped away from him, moving toward where your bra had landed near the window. You bent to pick it up, but before your fingers could close around it, he was there—moving with that supernatural speed that still startled you. He snatched the bra from the floor, his lip curling back to reveal elongated canines that gleamed white and sharp.
"No," he growled, the word vibrating with authority. He held the bra behind his back, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.
"Lando, give it back." You reached for it, but he pulled away, his head shaking slowly, his expression hardening.
"I said no." His voice was deeper now, rougher, the wolf clearly surfacing. He bared his teeth at you—not a snarl exactly, but a warning, a display of dominance that made your instincts scream at you to submit.
You felt a flare of annoyance cut through your arousal. "Lando, I can't go to the track naked. Give me the bra."
He responded with a growl—low, rumbling, possessive. He stepped toward you, and you stepped back, your spine hitting the wall. He kept coming until he was flush against you, his body heat radiating through his thin t-shirt. Then, in a move that took your breath away, he spun you around.
His hands were firm on your shoulders, turning you so your back was to him. He walked you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he was sitting, pulling you down with him, arranging you so you were sitting on his lap, your back to his chest.
You could feel him then—hard and insistent against your ass, straining through the thin fabric of his boxers. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you in place, and his hands began to wander. They slid down your bare hips, his fingers digging into the flesh there, kneading possessively. Then they moved upward, tracing the outside of your thighs, sliding higher, higher, until they were brushing the hem of your panties.
"Lando—" You grabbed his wrists, stopping him. "We can't. We don't have time."
He whimpered. It was a pathetic, broken sound that was so at odds with the dominant creature he'd been seconds before. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath hot against your neck. "Please," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I need you. I need to touch you. Please, love."
You sighed, your annoyance melting into something softer, more complicated. You twisted in his lap to look at him, to really look at him, and that's when you felt it—the rigid length of him pressing against your hip, throbbing with need. You glanced down and felt your mouth go dry. He was impossibly hard, his arousal obvious and unrelenting, tenting his boxers and leaving a wet spot on the fabric.
Understanding dawned. This wasn't just desire. This was the wolf, the mating instinct, the biological imperative that had been building since yesterday, since the interrupted moments in the hotel, since the phone calls that had stolen your time together. He was in pain—actual physical discomfort from the need to claim you, to mate, to complete the bond that his wolf was screaming for.
"Okay," you said softly, reaching down to touch him through his boxers. "Okay, let's take care of this. If you get rid of it, maybe you'll be able to—"
He stopped you. His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, preventing you from making contact. "No," he said, his voice strained, his eyes squeezed shut. "We don't have time. Practice. I have to—I can't—"
He broke off, his head falling back, a groan tearing from his throat. "Fuck," he breathed. "We're fucked. I'm going to be a mess. I can't go like this. I can't think like this."
You looked at him—the desperation in his eyes, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his body was trembling with restraint. An idea occurred to you. "Ice cold shower," you said firmly. "You take a freezing shower, calm everything down, and I'll get dressed. By the time you're out, you'll be... manageable."
He shook his head violently, his curls flying. "No. No, that won't help. It won't—I'll still want you. I'll still need you. Cold water doesn't fix this, love. This isn't just... it's not just physical. It's the bond. The wolf. We're running out of time."
But you were already moving, already sliding off his lap and grabbing his hands, pulling him to his feet. "It'll help," you insisted, pushing him toward the bathroom. "Go. Now."
He resisted, his feet planting, his body going rigid. You pushed harder, your hands flat against his chest, groaning with the effort of moving someone who was clearly stronger than you. He let you push him, but he made you work for every inch, his eyes dark and fixed on you, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
When you finally got him to the bathroom door, you gave him one final shove. He stumbled backward, catching himself on the sink, and looked up at you with those wild, black eyes.
"Don't come out until you've calmed down," you said firmly, reaching for the door.
"Love—" His voice was a whine, a plea.
You closed the door. You heard him whimper on the other side—a soft, pathetic sound that made your chest ache—but you forced yourself to turn away. You rolled your eyes, knowing he couldn't see, and moved quickly to your suitcase.
You dressed in record time—fresh underwear, a pair of high-waisted jeans that hugged your curves, a soft cashmere sweater in a deep burgundy that you knew he loved. You were just pulling your hair into a messy bun when you heard the shower start—then a sharp intake of breath, followed by a string of muttered curses.
You smiled despite yourself, imagining him under the freezing spray, trying to will away an erection that was clearly being stubborn.
Ten minutes later, the bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out—not the steam of a hot shower, but the ambient humidity of the room. Lando emerged, and your breath caught.
He was wearing only his boxers, the black fabric clinging to his damp hips. Water droplets still clung to his skin, tracing paths down his chest, his abs, the sharp V of his hips. His hair was darker when wet, the curls plastered to his forehead in a way that made him look younger, more vulnerable. But his eyes—that was what made you pause.
They were still dark. Still wild. The shower hadn't helped at all.
He walked toward you with a predatory grace, his movements slow and deliberate. When he reached you, he didn't touch you. He just stood there, close enough that you could feel the chill radiating off his skin, close enough to see the way his chest was rising and falling too quickly.
He bared his fangs at you. A slow, deliberate flash of white canines that made your heart skip. Then he growled—a low, continuous rumble that seemed to come from deep in his chest.
"Take them off," he said, his voice guttural, barely human. "The clothes. Take them off. Now."
"Lando—"
"Now." He reached for you, his hands finding the hem of your sweater, and you pushed him away, your palms flat against his sternum.
"Snap out of it," you said firmly, meeting his eyes. "Lando, look at me. Look at my face."
He blinked. Once. Twice. The blackness receded slightly, recognition flickering in the green. "Love," he breathed, his voice cracking. "I'm sorry. I'm trying. I'm trying so hard."
"I know," you said softly, keeping your hands on his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palms. "But you have to behave in the paddock. You can't be like this around the team. Around Zak. You have to hold it together, okay? Can you do that?"
He closed his eyes, his jaw clenching, his hands fisting at his sides. When he opened his eyes again, they were glowing.
Not black anymore. Not green. But glowing—a luminous, ethereal gold that seemed to emit its own light. You gasped, taking a step back, but he caught your wrist, his grip gentle but unyielding.
"Can't," he said, his voice strained, layered with something ancient and wild. "Can't behave. Not yet. We haven't... we haven't mated. Haven't claimed. The wolf... it's restless. It's in rut, love. In heat. It needs you. I need you."
He bit his lower lip, his fangs digging into the flesh hard enough to draw blood. His eyes—those glowing, golden eyes—fixed on you with an intensity that made your knees weak.
"Are you ready?" you asked, your voice trembling. "For the paddock? Can you... can you control it?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at you, his chest heaving, his body trembling with the effort of restraint. The glow in his eyes pulsed, brightening and dimming with his breath.
"You just took a cold shower," you said, a hint of desperation creeping into your voice. "Lando, you just—"
"I know," he interrupted, his voice rough. He stepped closer, his hands coming up to cup your face. "I know. But it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except you. Except this. Except us."
He leaned in to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours, and you stopped him. Your hand came up, pressing against his chest, holding him at bay.
"Snap out of it," you said, firmer this time. "Lando, practice is soon. You have to drive. You have to focus. If you can't control this, you can't get in the car. Do you understand?"
He stared at you, his glowing eyes searching your face. You could see the war inside him—the man versus the wolf, the professional racer versus the mate who was desperate to claim his partner. Slowly, so slowly, the glow began to fade. The green returned, though it was still tinged with gold, still wild around the edges.
"Okay," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Okay. I'll try. For you. I'll try."
He took a shaky breath, then another. He closed his eyes, his hands falling to his sides, and when he opened them again, they were almost normal. Still dark, still hungry, but controlled. Barely.
"Let's go," he said quietly.
The drive to the track was tense. Lando sat beside you, his hand gripping yours so tightly you could feel your bones grinding together. He stared out the window, his jaw clenched, his free hand tapping a restless rhythm against his thigh. Every few minutes, he would turn to look at you, his eyes flashing gold in the morning light, and you would squeeze his hand, trying to anchor him.
When you arrived at the McLaren motorhome, he was out of the car before it had fully stopped, moving around to your side to pull you out. He kept you pressed against his side as you walked, his arm a steel band around your waist, his hand possessive on your hip. He greeted no one. He spoke to no one. His entire focus was on you, on keeping you close, on maintaining the physical contact that seemed to be the only thing keeping him sane.
Inside the motorhome, Zak was waiting with John and a few of the senior mechanics. They turned as you entered, smiles breaking out across their faces—greetings, welcomes, the usual morning banter.
Lando growled.
It was loud—feral—echoing through the confined space of the motorhome. He pulled you tighter against him, his arm crossing your chest, his hand gripping your shoulder, positioning himself between you and the approaching group. His lips pulled back in a snarl, his canines fully extended, his eyes flashing that dangerous gold.
Zak stopped in his tracks, his hands raising in a gesture of surrender. John took a step back, his eyes widening. The mechanics froze, exchanging glances.
"Uh... morning, Lando," Zak said carefully, his voice neutral. "Morning, Y/N."
Lando growled again, lower this time, a warning. You felt the vibration of it against your back, felt the tension coiling in his muscles. He was barely holding on, his wolf raging at the intrusion, at the threat—real or imagined—that these men posed to his unclaimed mate.
"Hi," you said quickly, your voice slightly too high. "Sorry. He's... not feeling well. Touch of something. Very contagious. Better not hug."
Zak nodded, his eyes understanding. They raised their hands in unison, waving from a distance, keeping the recommended ten feet of separation. "Right. Of course. Lando, telemetry looks good from yesterday. We'll talk later."
They retreated, giving you a wide berth, and Lando's growl finally subsided into a low rumble. He didn't relax his grip on you, though. If anything, he held you tighter.
The next hour was a blur of preparations. Lando went through the motions—suiting up, talking to his engineers, reviewing data—but he never let you out of arm's reach. If you moved, he moved. If you stepped away, his hand shot out to pull you back. He was a shadow, a presence, constantly touching you—your hand, your waist, your neck.
With fifteen minutes to go before he had to get in the car, the restlessness started. You could feel it in him—the way his leg bounced, the way his fingers drummed against any surface they touched, the way his eyes kept darting to the door, to the track, to you. He was vibrating with energy, with need, with the wolf that was pacing just beneath his skin.
You were standing near the garage entrance, reviewing something on your phone, when you felt it—his breath on your neck. Then his lips, hot and demanding, pressing kisses against your pulse point. Then his teeth, grazing, nibbling, sending sparks shooting down your spine.
"Lando—" You turned your head, and your breath caught.
His eyes were pitch black. Completely, utterly black—no white, no color, just endless darkness that seemed to swallow the light. He was gone. The wolf was in control.
"Lando!" You said it louder this time, panic creeping in. You were in the middle of the garage. People were everywhere. Engineers, mechanics, camera crews. And he was kissing your neck, his hands roaming over your ass, grinding against you with unmistakable intent.
You grabbed his hand, your fingers wrapping around his wrist, and pulled. He resisted for a second, his growl rumbling against your skin, but then he let you lead him, let you drag him away from the prying eyes, down the corridor to his private driver room.
The door had barely closed behind you before he was on you. His mouth crashed against yours, desperate and hungry, his hands everywhere—your hair, your breasts, your ass. He grabbed you roughly, pulling you against him, and you felt it—the hard, insistent press of his erection against your stomach, grinding against you with a frantic, mad rhythm.
"Lando, wait—" You pushed against his chest, creating space. He snarled, his lips pulling back, but you held your ground. "You have to fix this. You have to get rid of it, or you won't be able to get in the car. You'll be a danger to yourself. To others."
He stared at you, his black eyes slowly clearing, recognition returning in painful increments. He blinked. Once. Twice. The blackness receded, leaving his eyes green and gold and wild, but aware.
"Fuck," he breathed, his hands coming up to grip his hair, pulling at the curls. "Fuck, love. I can't... I can't go out there like this. I can't drive like this. I'm going to kill someone. Or myself."
He looked at you, desperate, pleading. "Help me? Please? I need... I need your help."
You nodded, your heart aching for him, for the struggle he was fighting. "Okay. Okay, I'll help. Sit down."
You guided him to the couch, your hands gentle on his shoulders, pushing him down until he was sitting. He looked up at you, his eyes wide, his chest heaving. You knelt in front of him, your hands going to the zipper of his race suit.
He got excited the moment you touched him. You could see it—the way his pupils blew wide, the way his breath hitched, the way he surged forward, his hands reaching for you. He licked your face—a long, wet swipe of his tongue from your jaw to your temple—and then he was grinding against you again, his hips bucking upward, seeking friction, seeking relief.
"Sit still," you commanded, your voice firmer than you felt.
He whimpered but obeyed, his hands gripping the cushions of the couch, his knuckles white. You unzipped his suit slowly, revealing the tight compression layer beneath, then the waistband of his boxers. You hooked your fingers in the elastic and pulled down, and he lifted his hips to help, his entire body trembling with anticipation.
When he sprang free, you almost gasped.
You had seen him aroused before—last night, this morning—but this was different. This was something else entirely. He was standing straight up, impossibly hard, the shaft flushed dark, the head a deep, angry purple that looked almost painful. His balls were drawn up tight against his body, and everywhere—everywhere—there was wetness.
Not just a bead of precum at the tip, though that was there too, thick and glistening. But all the way down his shaft, coating him, dripping onto his stomach, making his skin shine. He was leaking constantly, a steady stream of arousal that spoke to how long he'd been like this, how desperate he was, how close to the edge.
"Jesus," you whispered, your eyes wide.
"Please," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please, love. Please touch me. Please. I need you. I need your hand. Your mouth. Anything. Please."
You leaned forward, your hand wrapping around his base, and he let out a sound that was almost a scream—high and broken and desperate. His hips bucked violently upward, his head falling back against the couch, his eyes squeezing shut.
You kissed him then, your lips soft against his, even as your hand began to move. You stroked him slowly at first, your grip firm, your thumb swiping over the sensitive head, gathering the wetness there and using it as lubrication. He moaned into your mouth, loud and unrestrained, the sound echoing off the walls of the small room.
You increased your pace, your hand moving faster, pumping him in tight, sure strokes. He was so wet that your hand slid easily, the sound obscene in the quiet room. He was babbling now—"Yes, yes, yes, love, please, don't stop, I'm so close, I've been so close for hours, please"—his hips jerking upward to meet your hand, his entire body tense and trembling.
Thirty seconds. That was all it took.
After that, he came. Violently. Uncontrollably. His back arched off the couch, a guttural cry tearing from his throat, his hands flying to your shoulders and gripping hard enough to bruise. He spilled into your hand, hot and thick and endless, pulse after pulse, his body convulsing with the force of his release.
You kept stroking him through it, gentling your touch, helping him ride out the waves of pleasure that were making him shake and moan and whimper. You kissed his jaw, his neck, his fluttering eyelids, murmuring soft words of praise against his skin.
"I've got you."
He kept coming, longer than you thought possible, his body emptying itself of the tension that had been building for days. When he finally finished, he collapsed back against the couch, his chest heaving, his skin flushed and damp with sweat.
But his eyes stayed closed. Long after his breathing had evened out, long after his grip on your shoulders had loosened, his eyes remained shut. You stroked his hair, your fingers gentle against his scalp, and leaned in to kiss his cheek.
"Lando?" you whispered. "You okay?"
No response. He was still, his face peaceful, his lips slightly parted.
You kissed him again—his other cheek, the tip of his nose, his forehead. "Lando."
His eyelids fluttered. Slowly, so slowly, they lifted.
And you froze.
His eyes were glowing. Not the wild, desperate gold from before, but something softer, more settled. A warm, amber light that seemed to emanate from within, bathing his face in an ethereal glow. He looked at you—really looked at you—and the corner of his mouth lifted in a small, satisfied smile.
"Mhmm," he rumbled, his voice deep and contented.
He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking over your bottom lip. The glow in his eyes pulsed, brightening as he touched you, and you felt something shift in the air between you—something heavy and significant and inevitable.
❤︎ |9,9k| Summary: Lando looks into Y/n’s personal file and what he finds just might be what he’s been wondering about. He’s rushing to her house, when a car crash occurs.
Y/N was floating in a warm, hazy post-coital bliss, her body heavy and sated, her mind a blissful blank. Lando was a dead weight on top of her, his breathing a steady, rhythmic puff against her neck, his heart a slow, steady beat against her ribs. She could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin seeping into hers, the comforting weight of his arm thrown possessively over her waist. It was… nice. Too nice. A dangerous, insidious kind of nice.
Her stomach churned, a sudden, sickening lurch that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the terrifying realization dawning on her. She liked this. She liked the feeling of his arms around her, the solid presence of him beside her, the intimate scent of his skin mixed with hers. She liked cuddling. She liked the gentle, possessive way he held her, as if she were something precious, something to be cherished. This wasn't just sex. This was something else, something softer, something more dangerous, and it was chipping away at the very foundation of who she was supposed to be.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of her contentment. She couldn't stay. She couldn't let herself get used to this, couldn't allow herself to sink into this dangerous comfort. It was a trap, a beautifully constructed, inescapable trap of her own making. She had to get out. Now.
She began to shift, a slow, deliberate wriggle designed to extricate herself from his embrace without waking him. But Lando was a light sleeper, especially when it came to her. His arm tightened around her waist, a low, sleepy murmur rumbling in his chest. "Don't go," he whispered, his voice thick with sleep.
"I have to," she insisted, her voice tight, trying to pull away again. "Lando, let go."
"No," he said, his eyes still closed, his voice firm but gentle. "Stay. Just… stay with me tonight."
Y/N froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Why?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "I don't… I don't have feelings for you, Lando. This is just sex. You know that."
A slow, sleepy smile spread across his lips. He finally opened his eyes, his gaze dark and intense in the moonlight. "I know," he said, his voice a low, seductive murmur. "But if you stay, we can have sex in the morning again. And I'll make it so good for you, baby. I promise."
His words were a challenge, a dare, and they hit their mark. The thought of another morning with him, of his hands on her, his mouth on her, was enough to make her body respond, a traitorous warmth pooling in her belly. She hated him for it, hated the power he had over her, but she also wanted it, wanted him, with a desperation that scared her.
She didn't answer, just lay back down, her body stiff and unyielding. Lando didn't seem to mind. He just cuddled closer, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. He buried his face in her hair, and she felt him sigh, a soft, contented sound that was almost her undoing. It was a happy sigh, a sigh of a man who had everything he wanted, and it made something inside her ache.
She lay there, stiff and silent, for a long time, listening to the sound of his breathing, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her back. She tried to fight it, tried to cling to her anger, her fear, but it was a losing battle. The warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the comforting weight of his arm around her, it was all too much. Slowly, inexorably, she felt herself begin to relax, her muscles softening, her body melting into his. And then, without even realizing it, a small, genuine smile spread across her lips. She was so, so screwed.
The first rays of sunlight were filtering through the heavy curtains when Y/N began to stir. She wasn't sure what had woken her, but she quickly became aware of a strange, pleasant sensation between her thighs. It was wet, and warm, and… rhythmic. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy and confused, and she looked down.
The duvet was a tent over her lower body, and she could see a dark shape moving beneath it. She felt a flicker of panic, her assassin instincts kicking in, but then she saw his face. Lando's face, looking up at her from under the covers, his eyes dark and smoldering, his lips curved into a slow, predatory smile.
"Morning, beautiful," he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated through her entire body.
Y/N bit her lip, a soft gasp escaping her as he gently nipped at her inner thigh. She was still half-asleep, her mind foggy with sleep and the lingering warmth from his embrace, and she couldn't stop the soft, sweet moan that escaped her lips. "Lan," she breathed, the nickname a soft, intimate sound that was completely involuntary.
Lando froze, his eyes widening in shock. He had never heard her call him that before. It was always "Lando," always formal, always a little distant. "Lan" was something else, something softer, something more intimate. The sound of it, so sweet and so genuine, went straight to his head, a dizzying rush of possessiveness and love that made him feel like he was going to explode.
He didn't say anything, just stared at her for a moment, his expression a mixture of awe and raw, unadulterated desire. Then, with a low growl, he hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties and pulled them down, tossing them aside. He lowered his head, his tongue darting out to taste her, a slow, deliberate lick that made her entire body tremble.
Y/N moaned, a loud, uninhibited sound that was half pleasure and half surprise. She tried to look away, to break the intense eye contact he was trying to hold, but it was useless. His gaze was magnetic, pulling her in, holding her captive as he explored her with his tongue.
He started with kitten licks, soft, teasing flicks of his tongue against her clit. It was torture, a delicious, agonizing torture that had her writhing on the bed, her hands fisting in the sheets. Her legs were already trembling, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and he had barely even started.
"Please, Lando," she begged, her voice a breathy whisper. "Please..."
He smirked, a slow, triumphant smirk that made her heart skip a beat. He loved seeing her like this, so desperate, so undone for him. He slid two fingers inside her, his tongue still working its magic on her clit, and Y/N's vision blurred. The dual sensations were too much, a overwhelming wave of pleasure that washed over her, pulling her under.
With a cry that was half his name and half a sob, she came. 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.
Lando didn't stop. He kept licking, his tongue relentless, his fingers still pumping inside her, drawing out her orgasm, milking every last drop of pleasure from her until she was completely spent, a limp, trembling mess beneath him. He only stopped when she was dry, when her body stopped twitching and her breathing evened out.
He crawled up her body, his lips capturing hers in a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of her and of him, of the passion that still burned between them. Y/N moaned into his mouth, her hands coming up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel him, to taste him, to lose herself in him.
She reached for him, her hand sliding down his chest, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his stomach, heading for the hard, thick length of his erection. But he stopped her, his hand covering hers, stilling her movements.
"I'm hungry," he said, his voice husky, his forehead resting against hers.
Y/N blinked, her mind still foggy with pleasure. "What?" she asked, confused.
"I'm hungry," he repeated, a slow, teasing smile spreading across his lips. "Let's go get some breakfast."
Y/N stared at him, her mind reeling. He had just brought her to one of the most intense orgasms of her life, and now he wanted breakfast? It didn't make sense. It was an excuse, a flimsy, transparent excuse, and she knew it. But she also knew that if she pushed it, if she demanded an explanation, she would be admitting that it mattered to her, that she cared. And that was a concession she refused to make.
"Okay," she said, her voice a little too bright. "Breakfast sounds good."
They went downstairs, the silence between them thick and charged with unspoken words. Max was already in the dining room, a cup of coffee in his hand, 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. "Look who decided to join the land of the living."
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, a knowing smirk still playing on his lips.
The atmosphere at the table was tense, a stark contrast to the easy camaraderie they usually shared. The staff placed plates of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of them, the delicious smells doing little to soothe the churning in Y/N's stomach. She picked at her food, her appetite gone, her mind racing.
Why had he said no? It was a blatant rejection, no matter how he tried to dress it up as hunger. They had an agreement. No strings attached, mind-blowing sex whenever they wanted it. And she had wanted it. She had been ready, willing, and more than able. But he had pushed her away. The power dynamic had shifted, and she didn't like it. Not one bit. She was used to being the one in control, the one who could walk away, the one who could leave him wanting more. But this morning, he had been the one to walk away, and it left her feeling moody, off-kilter, and dangerously close to a feeling she refused to name: hurt.
Lando could feel the shift in her. He wasn't an idiot; he could read the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way she avoided his gaze, the sharp, angry way she stabbed at her eggs. He knew she was pissed off, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. He had done what he thought was right. He had tried to protect himself, to protect his heart, by not engaging in the full, penetrative sex that always left him feeling so emotionally raw, so hopelessly in love with her. He had thought that by just focusing on her pleasure, something that didn't require his own immediate physical release, he could keep his emotions in check. He had been so wrong. Seeing her fall apart in his arms, hearing her cry out his name, had been just as intimate, just as powerful. It had chipped away at his resolve even further. His heart ached with a dull, persistent throb, a constant reminder of the unrequited love that was eating him alive. He just assumed she was mad about something trivial, that she was just being difficult.
"Everything okay?" he asked, trying to break the thick silence.
"Fine," she clipped, not looking up from her plate.
"Right," he said, his own mood souring. He hated this. He hated the awkwardness, the feeling that he was walking on eggshells around her.
As soon as she finished the last bite of toast, she pushed her chair back, the scraping sound loud and jarring in the quiet room. "I have to go," she announced, her voice tight and devoid of emotion. "I have… things to do."
"Right," Lando said, his smile faltering. He stood up, a feeling of dread washing over him. He didn't want her to leave like this, angry and distant. "I'll walk you out."
She didn't protest, just turned and walked towards the door, her posture rigid. He followed her, his hands shoved in his pockets, his mind racing for something to say, something to fix this. Y/N stood at the door, her hand already on the handle, her escape planned. The cool metal was a welcome sensation against her heated skin, a small anchor in the sea of confusion he had thrown her into. Every muscle in her body was coiled tight, a spring ready to snap. She was angry, a low, simmering fury that was directed entirely at herself for letting him get under her skin, and at him for being so damn… confusing.
"Wait," Lando's voice was soft, a stark contrast to the rigid set of her shoulders.
She didn't turn around. "What, Lando? I have to go." Her voice was clipped, cold. It was her armor, the one she had spent years perfecting.
He was behind her then, his presence a warm, solid wall at her back. She could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne mixed with the unique musk that was just him. It made her stomach clench. "Don't leave like this," he murmured, his voice close to her ear.
"Like what?" she shot back, still facing the door.
"Angry. I don't know what I did, but… don't go."
She finally turned, her expression a mask of indifference. "I'm not angry. I'm busy. There's a difference."
He didn't look convinced. His eyes, those damn piercing eyes that seemed to see right through her defenses, were searching her face. They were filled with a genuine confusion that almost made her feel guilty. Almost. Then he leaned in, his movements slow, deliberate, giving her every chance to pull away. He was going to kiss her goodbye. A simple, chaste, see-you-later kiss.
She should have pushed him away. She should have turned back to the door and left without another word. But she didn't. She let him close the distance. His lips brushed against hers, soft and hesitant at first. It was meant to be a simple peck, a placating gesture. But something inside her, that rebellious, traitorous part that craved his touch, snapped.
Y/N didn't just return the kiss; she devoured it. She surged against him, her hands coming up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. She poured all her frustration, her anger, and her desperate, unwanted desire into that kiss. It wasn't sweet; it was hungry, punishing. Her tongue swept into his mouth, claiming him, and he responded instantly, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against his body.
A soft, breathy moan escaped her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. It was a mistake. The moment she heard it, she knew. It was too vulnerable, too honest. But it was also a weapon. She felt him shudder against her, a low groan rumbling in his chest as her moan vibrated between them. She had him.
"Lannn," she breathed against his mouth, the nickname slipping out again, this time not in sleepy contentment but in deliberate, seductive provocation.
That was all it took. With a growl that was pure possessive hunger, Lando's hands slid down to her thighs. He hoisted her up effortlessly, her legs automatically wrapping around his waist. Her back hit the door with a soft thud as he pinned her there, his mouth never leaving hers, kissing her with a desperate intensity that stole the air from her lungs. He carried her away from the door, his strides long and sure, not breaking the kiss for a second. He plopped her down on the plush couch in the living room, and she immediately scrambled, settling herself in his lap.
She was straddling him, her dress bunching up around her thighs. The hard ridge of his erection was pressed firmly against her core, and she couldn't stop herself from rocking against him, a slow, deliberate grind that was designed to drive him insane.
"Fuck, Y/N," Lando groaned, his head falling back against the couch cushions, his eyes squeezed shut. His hands flew to her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, not to stop her, but just to hold on.
She smirked, a triumphant, predatory curve of her lips. This was familiar territory. This was power. This was what their agreement was all about. She could feel his control fraying, and it was intoxicating. Her eyes dropped to his pants, hungrily taking in the sight of his straining zipper. With nimble, determined fingers, she made quick work of his belt and button. The zipper rasped down, and she tugged his pants and boxers down in one go.
His cock sprang free, hard and thick and already beading with precum. Her mouth watered. She wanted to taste him, to feel him in her mouth, but that wasn't the plan. The plan was to fuck him, to ride him so hard that he forgot his own name, to remind him—and herself—that this was just physical. Nothing more.
She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against his chest as she reached into the pocket of his discarded trousers. Her fingers brushed against the familiar foil square of a condom. She pulled it out, ripped it open with her teeth, and rolled it onto him with practiced efficiency. Lando watched her, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and wild with lust.
She didn't waste any time. She stood up just long enough to shimmy out of her panties, letting them fall to the floor. Her dress stayed on. There was no time, no need for romance. This was about need, pure and simple. She positioned herself over him, her knees sinking into the couch on either side of his thighs, and then she sank down, taking him all in in one smooth, fluid motion.
"Oh, god," Lando cried out, his hands flying to her hips again, his grip bruising. "Y/N!"
The feeling of him filling her, stretching her so completely, was overwhelming. It stole her breath for a moment. But she recovered quickly, her body taking over. She started to move, rocking her hips back and forth, finding a rhythm that was hard and fast and punishing. She was chasing an orgasm, a release, a way to burn away all the confusing emotions he had stirred up inside her.
But then he stopped her. His hands, which had been gripping her hips, suddenly tightened, holding her still. "Wait," he gasped, his voice strained.
Y/N froze, her body hovering over his. She looked down at him, confused. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice sharp with impatience. Her body was humming with need, screaming for release.
"Nothing, I just… give me a second," he panted, his eyes squeezed shut. "Or I'm going to cum. I won't last."
Y/N stared at him, a flicker of something—triumph, maybe—crossing her features. She had that effect on him. It was a powerful, heady feeling. She bit her lip, a small, satisfied smile playing on her mouth. "Okay," she whispered, leaning down to brush her lips against his. "I'll wait."
But her patience was a fragile thing. She gave him maybe ten seconds before she deliberately, intentionally tightened her inner muscles around him.
"Fuck!" Lando groaned, his hips bucking up involuntarily. His eyes flew open, and they were burning with a desperate, wild need.
That was her sign. She took it and ran with it. All semblance of control was gone. She started to move again, but this time it wasn't a rock. It was a frantic, desperate bounce. She rode him hard, her body moving with a primal rhythm, chasing the pleasure that was just out of reach. Her head fell back, her hair a wild curtain around her shoulders, and she lost herself in the sensation.
Lando met her pace, his hips thrusting up to meet hers, driving into her deeper, harder. The sound of their bodies slapping together, their ragged breaths and desperate moans, filled the room. It was raw, it was primal, it was exactly what she wanted. It was unemotional. It was just sex.
But as he felt her tightening around him, as he heard her breath hitch in that way he knew meant she was close, something shifted inside him. This wasn't right. This was too rough, too impersonal. It felt like they were using each other, and while that was supposed to be their agreement, his heart was screaming in protest. He didn't want this to be just a frantic, emotionless fuck. He wanted more.
With a surge of strength, he grabbed her hips, his hands firm and unyielding, and stopped her frantic movements.
"What are you doing?" Y/N gasped, her eyes flying open, dazed with pleasure. She was so close, right on the edge, and he was stopping her. "Lando, let go!"
"No," he said, his voice low and firm. He ignored her protests, his hands still holding her captive. Instead of letting her continue her frantic pace, he started to control her. He lifted her up slowly, almost all the way off his cock, and then pulled her back down just as slowly. He set a new pace, one that was slow, deep, and impossibly intimate.
It was torture. A slow, deliberate, torturous pleasure that was so much worse than the frantic pace she had set. Because this… this felt like something. He leaned up, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was the complete opposite of their earlier frantic joining. This one was deep, slow, and tender. He kissed her like he had all the time in the world, like he was trying to memorize the taste of her. His lips moved from her mouth to her jaw, then down the sensitive column of her neck, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses against her skin that made her shiver.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to claw at her throat. This was too much. It was too deep, too emotional, too… loving. She could feel the pleasure building again, but it was different this time. It wasn't a sharp, desperate peak she was racing towards; it was a slow, rising tide that threatened to drown her, to pull her under and wash away all her carefully constructed defenses. She tried to fight it, to wrest back control. She tried to bounce on him again, to take back the frantic, unemotional rhythm, but his hands were like steel bands on her hips, holding her in place, forcing her to accept his slow, deliberate pace.
"Lando," she gasped, her voice trembling. "What are you doing? Stop."
"Shhh," he murmured against her neck, his voice a low, soothing rumble that was her undoing. "Just feel it, baby. Let me take care of you."
That was it. That was the phrase that broke her. 'Let me take care of you.' No one had ever said that to her. No one had ever wanted to. It was the one thing she had secretly craved and the one thing she was terrified of. The tide of pleasure crested, and she was powerless to stop it. Her body tensed, a bowstring pulled taut, and then it snapped.
The orgasm that ripped through her was nothing like she had ever experienced before. It wasn't a sharp, intense explosion; it was a deep, all-consuming wave. It started in her toes and rolled through her entire body, a convulsive, shuddering release that stole her breath and her vision. Stars exploded behind her eyelids, brilliant and blinding. She cried out, a broken, desperate sound that was half his name and half a sob. It felt like it lasted forever, her body clenching and pulsing around him, drawing out the pleasure until she was a limp, trembling mess, completely and utterly spent.
Lando followed her right over the edge. Her name was a ragged groan on his lips as he buried his face in her neck, his hips bucking up one last time as he found his own release. He held her tight, his body shuddering against hers as the waves of pleasure washed over him.
For a long time, they just stayed like that, a tangled, sweaty heap on the couch. Y/N was collapsed against his chest, her face buried in the crook of his neck, her body completely limp. She had never cum that hard in her life. It wasn't just physical; it was emotional, and that was the most terrifying part of all. She felt boneless, her muscles like jelly, her mind a blissful, fuzzy blank. He was still inside her, softening but still a comforting, intimate presence.
Lando was hugging her, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, his hand stroking her back in slow, soothing circles. He was breathing heavily, his heart a frantic, steady beat against her ear. He felt a sense of peace settle over him, a feeling of rightness that he had never experienced before. He had never felt closer to her, and for a moment, he allowed himself to hope that maybe she felt it too.
He held her for a few more minutes, just enjoying the feeling of her in his arms. But then he knew he had to move. He gently lifted her, his movements careful and tender, and slid out of her. She made a soft, protesting sound but didn't open her eyes. He quickly dealt with the condom, tossing it in the small wastebasket beside the couch, and then settled back down, pulling her into his arms again.
She was almost asleep, her breathing soft and even, her body completely relaxed against his. He didn't understand. He didn't understand that her exhaustion wasn't just from the mind-blowing orgasm. It was from the emotional whiplash, from the terror of realizing that she was starting to feel something she had sworn she never would. She wasn't supposed to stay over at his house for so long. She wasn't supposed to like soft, intimate sex with him. And she certainly wasn't supposed to have feelings for him, feelings that were growing stronger with every touch, every kiss, every tender word. Her carefully constructed world was crumbling around her, and she had no idea how to stop it.
"Y/N?" he whispered, his voice soft. "Are you okay?"
She stirred, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she looked dazed, her eyes soft and vulnerable. But then, as if a switch had been flipped, the vulnerability was gone, replaced by the cool, detached mask she wore so well. She stiffened in his arms, her body becoming rigid.
"I'm fine," she said, her voice flat, devoid of any emotion. She started to pull away, her movements stiff and awkward.
Lando's heart sank. He had seen it, that flicker of something more, and now it was gone. "What's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with confusion. "Did I… did I hurt you?"
"No," she said, shaking her head as she scrambled off his lap. She stood up, smoothing down her dress, her eyes avoiding his. "I just… I have to go."
"Y/N, wait," he said, standing up and reaching for her.
She flinched away from his touch, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but he saw it. It felt like a punch to the gut. "Don't," she said, her voice sharp. "Just… don't."
She turned and walked away, her back ramrod straight, her steps quick and purposeful. She didn't look back. She just walked out the door, leaving him standing there, half-naked and utterly confused.
He couldn't understand it. One minute, she was in his arms, cumming so hard she saw stars, and the next, she was cold and distant, acting like he was a stranger. He was devastated. He sank back down onto the couch, the spot where she had just been still warm, his head in his hands. What had he done wrong?
He was still sitting there when Max came down a few minutes later. Max took one look at him and sighed.
"Well, you look like shit," Max said, his voice laced with his usual sarcasm. "Rough morning?"
Lando didn't even look up. "Fuck off, Max."
Max's sarcasm faded, replaced by a rare note of concern. He walked over to the couch and sat down beside him. "What happened? Was it her?"
Lando just nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Max sighed again, running a hand through his hair. "Lando, you have to stop this. This thing with her… it's not good for you."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Lando mumbled, his voice muffled by his hands.
"Yes, I do," Max said, his voice firm. "I see the way you look at her. And I see the way she looks at you—or, more accurately, the way she doesn't look at you. She doesn't have feelings for you, man. Not the way you have for her. And you do. You have feelings for her, and it's killing you. The more time you spend with her, the more it's going to hurt. This whole 'no strings attached' thing? It's a lie. At least for you. And it's not going to last forever. It's going to end, and it's going to end badly."
Lando finally looked up, his eyes flashing with anger. "You don't know anything about her. Or about us."
"I know you," Max said, his voice softening. "And I know you're in love with her. And I know she's going to break your heart."
Lando just shook his head, turning away from his friend. "Just drop it, Max. Please."
Max held his hands up in surrender. "Fine. But don't say I didn't warn you." He stood up and left Lando alone with his thoughts, his heart a heavy, aching weight in his chest.
A week passed.
Seven long, agonizing days. Lando hadn't seen Y/N. He hadn't heard from her. He had texted her, a dozen times at least. 'Are you okay?' 'Did I do something wrong?' 'Just talk to me.' But she hadn't answered a single one. The silence was deafening, a constant, gnawing reminder of his failure.
He was a mess. He couldn't focus on work, couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. All he could do was think about her, replaying their last time together over and over in his mind, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. He missed her. He missed her sharp wit, her fiery spirit, her challenging presence. He even missed the way she pushed him away, because at least it was a reaction. This… this silence was worse than anything.
He was in his office, staring blankly at his computer screen, when a thought struck him. He had her file. He had all her information, her work history, her personal details. He had never looked at it, never even considered it. It was a line he had promised himself he wouldn't cross. But now, with her silence stretching on, his desperation won out.
He opened the file, his heart pounding in his chest. He told himself he was just looking for a clue, a reason for her sudden disappearance. He started with the basics: her date of birth, her emergency contact (a name he didn't recognize), her employment history. It was all standard, sterile information. But then he clicked on the tab labeled 'Family.'
What he found made his blood run cold.
It started with her mother. Deceased. Y/N was only twelve years old. He felt a pang of sympathy, a dull ache for the little girl who had lost her mom. But it was the next part that made him feel sick. Her stepmother. Notes in the file detailed a history of verbal abuse, a pattern of cruel, cutting words that had been wielded against a vulnerable child. And then her father. The notes were more guarded, more professional, but the implications were clear. Physical abuse. The words 'corporal punishment' and 'disciplinary action' were used, but Lando could read between the lines. He had seen it before in his world. Men who used their fists to 'discipline' their families. He had been hit, too, as a kid, but not like this. Not by the people who were supposed to protect him.
He kept reading, a horrifying picture of her childhood unfolding before him. A home devoid of love, filled with fear and pain. No affection, no kindness, no warmth. Just a constant barrage of verbal and physical abuse. As soon as she turned eighteen, she had run. She had moved out and never looked back. The file noted that she had immediately enrolled in self-defense classes, then martial arts, then weapons training. She had channeled her fear, her anger, her pain, into becoming what she was today: an assassin. A weapon. It was the only way she knew how to survive.
He scrolled down, his heart aching. He saw pictures of her in designer clothes, driving an Aston Martin, living a life of luxury. But the file told a different story. The clothes, the car, they were all on loan, props for her jobs. Her real life was a stark contrast. Her listed address was in a part of the city he knew only by reputation. It was a poor excuse for an apartment, a place where people went to disappear. She didn't own a car. She didn't make much money, not really. She lived a life that was a complete fabrication, a carefully constructed illusion.
And suddenly, something clicked. It was like a lightbulb flickering on in the darkness of his confusion. Maybe… maybe it wasn't him. Maybe it wasn't that he had done something wrong. Maybe she was just scared.
She had never known love. She had been taught that love was something to be feared, something that came with pain and betrayal. She had built walls around herself, thick, impenetrable walls designed to keep everyone out, to keep herself safe. And he… he had been chipping away at those walls. He had been gentle with her, tender. He had held her after sex, had kissed her softly, had told her he would take care of her. He had shown her a glimpse of something she had never had, something she didn't know how to process.
And she had panicked.
He thought back to their last time together, to the way she had stiffened in his arms, the way she had pulled away. It wasn't anger. It was fear. She was afraid of him. Or, more accurately, she was afraid of what he made her feel.
A wave of hope, so strong and so sudden it almost took his breath away, washed over him. Maybe she did have feelings for him. Maybe she liked him back, but she was too terrified to admit it, even to herself. He had wondered, sometimes, if there was more to her, if the flashes of vulnerability he saw were real. Now he knew. They were real. And she was hiding them, burying them under layers of ice and steel.
He could help her. He could show her what love was supposed to be. He could be patient, he could be gentle. He could treat her right, prove to her that he wasn't like the men in her past, that he wouldn't hurt her. He could make her fall in love with him.
He found her address in the file, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He grabbed his keys, his heart pounding with a renewed sense of purpose. He had to see her. He had to talk to her.
The drive to her neighborhood was a stark contrast to his usual life. The gleaming skyscrapers and manicured streets of Monaco gave way to crumbling facades and graffiti-covered walls. The people on the sidewalks looked tired, beaten down by life. It was a world away from his, a world he had only ever seen from the inside of a bulletproof car.
He was so focused on his destination, on the hope that was driving him forward, that he didn't notice the car at first. It was a nondescript sedan, dark and unremarkable. But it was always there, in his rearview mirror, a few car lengths behind him. When he turned, it turned. When he sped up, it sped up.
A cold knot of dread formed in his stomach. This wasn't a coincidence. He was being followed.
He tried to lose them, taking a series of sharp, unexpected turns, weaving through the narrow, labyrinthine streets. But the sedan was relentless, its engine a low, persistent growl in his rearview mirror. They were good. Professional.
He was just a few blocks from her apartment building when they made their move. The sedan surged forward, ramming into the back of his car with a sickening crunch of metal. The impact sent his car spinning, the world outside his windows a blur of color and motion. He fought for control, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his foot slamming on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, the smell of burning rubber filling the air.
His head was spinning, a sharp pain shooting through his temple where it had hit the window. He could feel a trickle of warm blood running down his cheek. But he didn't have time to be hurt. The sedan was stopped in front of him, its doors opening. Two men got out, their faces hard and cold, their eyes fixed on him. They were armed.
Lando's training, the years of survival in the cutthroat world of the Monaco mafia, kicked in. He reached under his seat, his fingers closing around the cold, familiar grip of his gun. He got out of the car, his movements slow and deliberate, his gun held loosely at his side.
"This is a mistake," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
The men didn't answer. They just started walking towards him.
He didn't hesitate. He raised his gun and fired. The shot went wide, hitting the hood of their car, but it was enough to make them hesitate. He fired again, this time hitting the first man in the shoulder. The man cried out, stumbling back, his gun clattering to the pavement. The second man kept coming, his face a mask of fury. Lando fired a third time, hitting him in the leg. He went down with a grunt, clutching his wounded thigh.
Lando walked over to the first man, who was trying to crawl back to his car. He pressed the barrel of his gun to the man's head.
"Who sent you?" Lando asked, his voice a cold, calm whisper.
The man was pale, his face slick with sweat. "I… I can't."
"Who. Sent. You?" Lando repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerously low level.
"The… the French mafia," the man stammered, his eyes wide with fear. "They want to take you down. They want your territory."
Lando nodded, a cold, hard anger settling in his chest. He should have known. The French syndicates had been sniffing around his borders for months, testing his defenses. This was a message.
He lowered his gun. "Get out of here," he said. "And tell your bosses that Lando Norris doesn't take messages well."
The men didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled back into their car, their movements clumsy and pained, and sped off, leaving Lando alone in the quiet street.
He took a deep breath, the adrenaline starting to fade, replaced by a throbbing pain in his head and a dull ache in his chest. He looked at his car. The back end was crumpled, the windshield shattered. It was undrivable.
He pulled out his phone, his fingers trembling slightly as he dialed a number. "I need a car," he said, his voice rough. "And send someone to clean this up."
He hung up and leaned against the damaged car, his head spinning. He was bruised and bleeding, his shirt torn, his face cut. But all he could think about was her. He had to get to her.
A few minutes later, a black SUV pulled up. The driver got out, his eyes widening at the sight of Lando's battered state.
"Boss, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Lando said, waving away his concern. "Just take me to an address. It's not far."
He got in the car, his mind racing. He was so close. He could feel it.
The SUV pulled up in front of a rundown apartment building, the bricks stained with years of grime, the windows covered in rusty security bars. This was her home. This was where she lived. It was a stark, brutal reality check, a world away from the designer clothes and luxury cars she wore like a costume.
He got out of the car, his body aching, his head throbbing. He took a deep breath and walked up the crumbling concrete steps to the front door. He found her name on a list of buzzers—just a last name, no first initial, another way of keeping the world at a distance. He pressed it, his heart hammering against his ribs.
There was a long pause, a crackle of static, and then her voice, tinny and distant through the intercom. "Who is it?"
"It's me," he said, his voice rough. "Lando."
Another long pause. He could almost hear her thinking, her mind racing, trying to figure out why he was here, at her sanctuary, her fortress. Then the buzzer sounded, the lock on the door clicking open with a loud, metallic clang.
He pushed the door open and stepped into a dim, narrow hallway. The air was thick with the smell of stale cooking and damp. He found her apartment, number 3B, and knocked on the faded wood.
The door swung open, and there she was. She was wearing a short skirt that made Lando’s head spin, and a white top, no bra and her feet bare. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she wasn't wearing any makeup. And she had never looked more beautiful to him.
Her eyes, wide and shocked, took in his appearance. They scanned his face, his torn shirt, the dried blood on his cheek. Her professional mask, her assassin's composure, was nowhere to be seen. All he saw was concern, a raw, unguarded worry that made his heart ache.
"Lando?" she breathed, her voice a soft, shocked whisper. "What happened? What are you doing here?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at her, at the real her, the woman who lived in this tiny, forgotten apartment, and all the pain, all the fear, all the desperate hope he had been feeling for the past week came rushing to the surface. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and leaned in to kiss her.
He needed to feel her, to taste her, to reassure himself that she was real, that this was real.
But Y/N put a hand on his chest, her palm firm and unyielding, stopping him. "Lando, stop," she said, her voice a little stronger now, the assassin slipping back into place.
"Tell me what happened. You're bleeding."
He looked down at her hand on his chest, then back at her face. Her eyes were wide, but they were also determined. She wasn't going to let him distract her. He sighed, a wave of exhaustion washing over him.
"It's nothing," he said, his voice casual, as if he were talking about a fender bender, not a targeted attack. "Just some idiot who didn't know how to drive. Crashed right into me."
He was lying, and she knew it. She could see it in his eyes, in the tense set of his shoulders. But she also knew he wasn't going to tell her the truth, not right now. So she let it go. For now.
She took his hand, her touch gentle, a stark contrast to the firm hand that had stopped him moments before. "Come in," she said, her voice soft. She led him into the small living room, her hand warm and steady in his.
The apartment was small, sparsely furnished, but it was clean. It was tidy. It was hers. There were no personal touches, no photos, no knick-knacks. It was a place to sleep, a place to hide, a place to exist. It wasn't a home.
She gently pushed him down onto the small, worn couch. "Sit," she said, her voice a gentle command. "Don't move."
He watched her as she walked away, his eyes tracing the lines of her body, the way her skirt hung low on her hips, the soft curve of her neck. He felt a surge of affection, a deep, aching tenderness that was so strong it almost hurt.
She came back a moment later with a small first aid kit. She knelt on the floor in front of him, her knees brushing against his. She opened the kit, her movements efficient and practiced. She took out a cotton pad and a bottle of antiseptic.
"This is going to sting," she warned, her voice soft.
She started to dab at the cut on his cheek, her touch gentle, her brow furrowed in concentration. He winced as the antiseptic seeped into the wound, a sharp, burning pain. But he didn't care. All he could focus on was her.
He stared at her, his eyes intense, his gaze unwavering. He watched the way her long lashes swept against her cheeks as she blinked, the way her lower lip was caught between her teeth as she concentrated. He was mesmerized. He couldn't stop looking at her lips. He remembered the way they felt against his, the way they tasted, the way they moaned his name.
He started to lean in, his body moving of its own accord, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He was closer now, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin, could see the tiny flecks of gold in her brown eyes.
"Y/N," he whispered, his voice a low, husky rumble. "Kiss me."
She froze, her hand hovering over his cheek. She could feel his breath on her lips, could see the raw, unadulterated desire in his eyes. She knew she should push him away. She knew this was a bad idea. But she was tired of fighting. Tired of pretending.
So she gave in. Just a little. She leaned in and pressed her lips against his in a soft, chaste peck. A quick, innocent touch.
But Lando didn't want a quick, innocent touch. He deepened the kiss, his hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. He angled his head, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, claiming her, tasting her. It wasn't a frantic, desperate kiss like their last one. It was slow, deep, and intimate.
Y/N melted against him, her body softening, her defenses crumbling. She kissed him back, her hands coming up to rest on his shoulders, her fingers digging into his torn shirt. She could feel the hard, warm muscles of his chest beneath her hands, could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. It was intoxicating. It was terrifying.
She pulled away, breathless, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from his kiss. "Lando," she breathed, her voice a soft, shaky whisper.
He smiled, a slow, triumphant smile that made her heart skip a beat. He knew. He knew he had her. He could see the vulnerability in her eyes, the flicker of something more than just lust.
"I've been thinking about that," he said, his voice a low, seductive murmur, his eyes dark and smoldering. "Ever since you left."
Y/N rolled her eyes, a weak attempt to regain some semblance of control. "You're unbelievable," she said, her voice laced with a fond exasperation she couldn't hide. "I need to see your wounds. You might be hurt worse than you're letting on."
She started to unbutton his dress shirt, her fingers fumbling slightly with the small, torn buttons. The shirt was ruined anyway, but she was trying to be professional, to focus on the task at hand, to ignore the way her body was humming with a renewed awareness of him.
"How did you get my address?" she asked, her voice quiet, her eyes focused on her task.
He didn't answer, not with words. He just looked at her, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "You know who I am," he said, his voice a low, confident rumble. It wasn't a boast; it was a statement of fact. He was Lando Norris, the boss of the Monaco mafia. Finding a simple address was child's play.
Her fingers brushed against his stomach as she unbuttoned the last button, and he shivered, a sharp, involuntary gasp. Her touch, so light, so innocent, had a stronger effect on him than a deliberate caress. She finally pulled the shirt away, her eyes widening slightly as she took in the sight of him.
He was bruised, a ugly, purpling mark already spreading across his ribs. But that wasn't what she was looking at. Her gaze was drawn lower, to the very obvious, very large bulge straining against the fabric of his pants. He was hard. He had gotten hard just from her touch, from the simple, accidental brush of her fingers against his skin.
A deep blush spread across her cheeks, a hot, embarrassed flush. She had been trying to be professional, to take care of him, and he was… he was aroused. It was a stark, primal reminder of the effect she had on him, and it sent a jolt of electricity straight through her.
Lando saw her blush, saw the flicker of something—shock, desire, embarrassment—in her eyes, and he acted. He reached for her, his hands closing around her waist, and pulled her into his lap.
She let out a soft gasp, her hands flying to his chest to steady herself. "Lando!" she protested, her voice a breathy whisper. "What are you doing?"
He didn't answer. He just buried his face in the crook of her neck, his lips brushing
Y/N steadied herself against his chest, her palms pressing against the warm, bare skin of his bruised ribs. She could feel the frantic, steady beat of his heart under her hands, a rhythm that echoed the frantic, steady beat of her own. The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken words and a desire that had been simmering for a week, now threatening to boil over. His shirt was a ruined mess, hanging open, his chest a canvas of angry purple bruises and tanned, smooth skin. It was a stark, violent contrast that made her stomach clench.
"What are you doing?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath of sound. It was a weak protest, and they both knew it. She wasn't trying to push him away; she was just trying to ground herself, to make sense of the dizzying whirlwind he had brought into her small, controlled world.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below her ear. She shivered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with the cool air in her apartment and everything to do with him. Then he bit her. It wasn't hard, not enough to truly hurt, but it was possessive, a sharp, sting of pleasure-pain that sent a jolt straight to her core. His teeth grazed her skin, followed by the soothing sweep of his tongue.
"I've missed you," he murmured, his voice a low, rumbling vibration against her neck. The words were so simple, so honest, so completely at odds with their complicated, physical arrangement. They were a confession, a vulnerability, and they hit her with the force of a physical blow.
Y/N didn't respond. She couldn't. What could she say? 'I've missed you too'? That would be admitting defeat, admitting that this was more than just sex, that he had crawled under her skin and made a home there. So she stayed silent, her body rigid, her hands still pressed against his chest, fighting a battle against herself that she was rapidly losing.
Lando felt her silence, felt the way she tensed in his arms, but he wasn't deterred. He knew her. He knew her walls were high, but he also knew they were crumbling. He lifted his head, his lips moving to her ear, his warm breath sending another wave of shivers down her spine.
"I think you've missed me too," he whispered, the words a soft, confident challenge. It wasn't a question; it was a statement. He saw right through her, through the carefully constructed indifference, and it terrified her.
Y/N shook her head, a small, jerky motion. "You're silly," she breathed, the words a flimsy denial. Her voice lacked conviction, and she knew it.
Lando chuckled, a low, deep sound that she felt more than heard. "Am I?" he murmured, his hand moving from her waist. It was a slow, deliberate journey, his palm tracing the curve of her hip, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of her thigh. Her skirt was short, a flimsy piece of fabric that offered no resistance. He slid his hand up, up, under the hem, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
Y/N should have stopped him. She knew she should have. Every instinct, every lesson she had ever learned about self-preservation, was screaming at her to push him away, to stand up, to put an end to this dangerous intimacy. But she didn't. She let him. Her body betrayed her, leaning into his touch, a silent, traitorous invitation.
His fingers continued their ascent, tracing the lacy edge of her panties. He paused there, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, teasing her, making her wait. She was holding her breath, her entire being focused on the movement of his hand, on the promise of what was to come. Then, his fingers moved, finding the damp fabric over her core. He rubbed her clit through her panties, a slow, deliberate circle that made her gasp, her head falling back against his shoulder.
He could feel how wet she was, the fabric already soaked through with her arousal. A low, guttural moan escaped his lips, a sound of pure, masculine satisfaction. He leaned in again, his lips brushing against her ear.
"Then why are you so wet if you haven't missed me?" he whispered, his voice thick with lust. His words were a weapon, a sharp, pointed question that struck at the heart of her denial.
She was about to answer, to formulate some weak, pathetic excuse, something, anything, to maintain her crumbling facade. "Because..." she started, her voice shaky, but the word was cut off, swallowed by her own sharp, cry of pleasure. He had curled his fingers inside her, pulling the flimsy fabric of her panties to the side and sliding two fingers deep into her heat. The sudden, full sensation was overwhelming, stealing her breath and her thought.
"Fuck," she gasped, her hips bucking involuntarily against his hand.
He started to move, his fingers pumping in and out of her in a slow, deep rhythm. His thumb found her clit, rubbing tight, insistent circles that sent jolts of electricity shooting through her entire body. It was too much. It was perfect.
Y/N's eyes squeezed shut, her world narrowing to the feeling of his hands on her, inside her. All the fear, all the confusion, all the week-long ache of his absence melted away, replaced by a desperate, all-consuming need. She was lost in the sensation, a willing captive to the pleasure he was giving her.
Lando watched her, his gaze intense and unwavering. He loved seeing her like this, so open, so vulnerable, so completely undone for him. Her head was thrown back, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed with a beautiful, rosy blush. She was gorgeous. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"You're so gorgeous," he murmured, his voice a low, reverent whisper. "So fucking beautiful, Y/N." He kept moving his fingers, his pace steady, his thumb relentless on her clit. "I haven't stopped thinking about you. Not for a second. All week, all I could think about was this. About you."
His words washed over her, a sweet, intoxicating poison. She could feel the pressure building inside her, a tight, hot coil of pleasure winding in her stomach, ready to snap. He curled his fingers, stretching her, filling her completely, and she cried out, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.
"Come for me, baby," he urged, his voice a low, seductive command. "I want to feel you. Let go for me."
That was all it took. With a cry that was half his name and half a sob, she shattered. The orgasm ripped through her, a tidal wave of intense, blinding 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. It was a powerful, all-consuming release, a week's worth of pent-up frustration and desire exploding in a single, glorious moment.
Lando didn't stop. He kept his fingers buried deep inside her, his thumb still stroking her clit, drawing out her orgasm, milking every last drop of pleasure from her until she was completely spent, a limp, trembling mess in his arms. He held her through it, his other arm wrapped tightly around her waist, his lips pressing soft, gentle kisses against her neck and shoulder.
When the tremors finally subsided, she collapsed against him, her body boneless, her face buried in the crook of his neck. She was breathing heavily, her heart hammering against her ribs. For a long moment, they just sat there, a tangled, sweaty heap on her worn-out couch, the only sound in the room their ragged breaths.
Slowly, she came back to herself, the fog of pleasure clearing, replaced by a warm, sated contentment. She felt… good. Better than she had felt in a long time. She felt safe, protected, cherished. And that scared her more than anything.
She lifted her head, her cheeks flushed, her eyes soft and dazed. She looked at him, at the man who had just turned her world upside down, and a wave of affection, so strong and so sudden it almost took her breath away, washed over her. She raised a hand and gently smacked his chest, the gesture playful, fond.
"I can't believe you stalked my address," she said, her voice a soft, mock-accusatory whisper.
Lando just shrugged, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his lips. He didn't look sorry. He looked triumphant. He leaned in and pressed a soft, sweet kiss against the sensitive skin of her neck. It wasn't sexual, not this time. It was tender, a gesture of affection, of possession, of something more.
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.
