bad bunny; ln4
summary: Lando is very happy to see you're wearing his Calvin Klein's boxer briefs so he ruins your plan of preparing pancakes for breakfast.
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pairing: lando norris and she/her reader (F/M)
word count: around 4.5K
tw: +18 / smut / mention of lando norris pre-made and probably expired meals
inspired by the thought of Lando Norris having a CK campaign
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The morning sun spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, golden and soft, draping over your skin like a warm embrace. It’s early, way too early, and it coaxes you awake against your will.
But it’s not just the sunlight that has your body stirring—it’s the delicious ache settling deep in your muscles, a languid and familiar soreness stretching from your thighs to your core.
A not so gentle yet quite sweet reminder of last night. Of him. Of the way Lando had touched you, taken you apart, put you back together again with nothing but his hands, his mouth and the deep thrusts of his cock. Three weeks apart had been too long, and he’d made sure you felt just how much he’d missed you, how much he had craved you.
Oh, and fuck, he did.
Over and over, in many ways and many positions, until you couldn’t do anything but moan his name into the sweat-slick sheets, trembling and spent beneath him.
You shift, stretching your limbs, feeling the dull ache between your legs, and bite back a satisfied smile. Beside you, Lando is still dead to the world, his face buried in the pillow, one arm sprawled lazily over where your body had been. His bare back is exposed, golden-brown skin illuminated in the morning light, the lean muscles flexing slightly as he breathes in deep, slow, steady. Peaceful.
He’s beautiful and it’s so rare to see him like this, this unguarded and calm. Even in sleep, a faint furrow rests between his brows, his curls messy and tousled, falling over his forehead. You have the absurd urge to brush them away. And maybe give him a kiss on the forehead.
But Instead, you decide not to disturb him and carefully slip out of bed, moving quietly, your bare feet cool against the wooden floor.
You glance around the room, searching for something to slip into, and your eyes land on the crumpled pile of clothes from last night—Lando’s jeans, your dress, his white Calvin Klein boxers tangled in the sheets. Smirking to yourself, you grab his briefs, stepping into them, the waistband sitting low on your hips, and pull on one of his oversized t-shirts. It drowns you, the fabric soft and worn, smelling exactly like him— the cologne he’s been wearing since you gifted it to him many years ago and that faint musk of his favorite 4 in 1 shampoo.
The apartment is quiet, wrapped in that stillness of the early morning. The only sounds are the soft hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath your steps, and the distant murmur of traffic outside. You don’t bother checking the time. There’s no rush. You just pull out the pancake mix, reaching for the measuring cups and a bowl, letting your fingers move on autopilot as you hum softly to yourself.
You glance over your shoulder toward the bedroom, half-expecting to hear the telltale rustle of sheets or a sleepy groan. But nothing, the apartment remains silent, save for the quiet hum of the fridge and the soft scrape of your whisk against the bowl. Lando is still out cold, and really, you can’t blame him.
You smirk, biting your lip, the ghost of last night’s memories flashing hot behind your eyes. Again. Yeah. You definitely made sure he had a proper welcome home. Thorough. Exhausting. Devastatingly good.
With a shake of your head, you refocus on the task at hand, reaching for the eggs. You crack them into the bowl, one-handed, because you’re just that good, then the flour comes next with that protein powder. You wrinkle your nose at the offending container, rolling your eyes as you scoop a generous spoonful into the mix. Because, of course, Lando’s trainer has him on some "optimized nutrition plan," which apparently means sneaking protein into everything, even pancakes.
But you’re not completely heartless. You both want a nice breakfast after all, right? So, with a glance over your shoulder—just in case the sleeping menace decides to make an unexpected entrance—you reach for the real good stuff.
Chocolate chips.
You sneak a generous handful into the batter, watching as they disappear beneath the creamy mixture. Lando will complain, of course—something about "unnecessary sugars" —but you know damn well he’ll devour them anyway. Because, despite all his nutrition lectures and protein-obsessed nonsense, the man has the self-control of a toddler when it comes to sweets. And when he inevitably tries to argue, you’ll just remind him that if he didn’t want them, he shouldn’t have left you alone in the kitchen.
As simple as that.
You’re pouring the first pancake onto the griddle when you hear a low, raspy voice behind you.
"Stealing my clothes again, are we?"
You startle slightly, whipping around to see Lando leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his eyes hooded with sleep, voice thick and gravelly. He’s shirtless, loose sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, his curls still a mess. The sight of him—barefoot, sleepy, thoroughly fucked out—sends a shiver down your spine. Oh, you feel so lucky.
You roll your eyes, flipping the pancake with an exaggerated flick of your wrist. "If you don’t want me stealing them, stop leaving them on the floor."
A slow, lazy grin tugs at Lando’s lips, something teasing and dangerous all at once. He shifts closer, the warmth of his bare skin practically radiating off him as he watches you, blue eyes dark with mischief. "Or," he drawls, his voice thick with sleep, "… you could just wear nothing at all. Saves time."
You scoff, turning your attention back to the stove, pretending the idea doesn’t send a shiver straight through you. "You’re impossible."
"Morning, baby."
Before you can react, his fingers are grabbing your chin, tilting your face up. The movement is smooth, practiced, like he has done it a million times, and then his lips are on yours—warm, slow, deliberate. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like he’s savouring you.
It’s unfair, really.
His other hand slides around your waist, pulling you back into him, fitting against you like he was made to be there. The heat of his bare chest sears through the thin fabric of his shirt that hangs loosely off your frame and his grip on your hip tightens, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Lando chuckles against your lips, that deep, lazy sound that makes your stomach tighten in a way you wish it didn’t. He pulls back just enough to murmur, "Mmm, you smell like me." His nose skims along your jaw, his lips grazing just below your ear, his voice thick with satisfaction, smug and pleased in a way that makes you want to shove him away and pull him closer all at once. "I like it."
You scoff, biting back a smirk as you turn around to pour another pancake onto the griddle, the batter sizzling as it meets the hot pan. "I have good taste for men’s fragrances," you say airily, pretending not to notice the way Lando’s grip tightens slightly on your waist once again, his body still warm and firm against your back.
"And for men in general," he adds smoothly, voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "Because, let’s be honest, me? Spectacular choice."
You snort, shaking your head. "Yeah, and yet, you still can’t cook a decent meal to save your life."
His hands squeeze your hips in mock offence, his chest pressing a little firmer against you. "Oi, that’s slander," he protests, his voice a perfect mixture of indignation and amusement. "I’ll have you know, I made toasts the other day. Perfectly golden. Michel-fucking-star level."
You grin, flipping a pancake with a satisfied little flick of your wrist. "Babe, you literally pay a guy to cook all your meals and put them in order in the fridge."
"That’s different!" He pulls back slightly, crossing his arms in that classic defensive stance, and you can already see the argument forming in his head.
You turn slightly, giving him a pointed look. "Oh yeah? "
“Yeah, I pay a dietitian " he argues, like that makes all the difference in the world. "It’s about, y’know, nutrition. Performance. Optimization. Science, baby." He gestures vaguely, as if that somehow strengthens his point.
You stare at him for a beat before deadpanning, "Right. Because heating up a pre-packed meal and eating it straight out of the container is peak science."
Lando gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve just personally attacked his entire existence. "I will not stand for this slander in my own home."
"You mean the home where the microwave does all the heavy lifting?"
"Oi!" Lando lunges forward, hands outstretched, but you’re faster, sidestepping his attack with a triumphant laugh. His fingers graze your waist, but you twist just out of reach, reveling in the playful frustration etched on his face.
"You’re being mean to me," he whines dramatically, but the smirk tugging at his lips and the mischievous glint in his blue eyes tell a different story. He’s enjoying this—every second of your teasing, every playful jab, every time you challenge him like you were made to keep him on his toes. “I thought I treated you good enough last night!”
Lando exhales through his nose like a man defeated, but then his grin turns lazy, calculated. He steps closer behind you, hands bracketing either side of you as he leans in again.
You can’t help it—you snort at his theatrics, full-on laugh bubbling out of you as he stands there like a man betrayed, hands on his hips, chest puffed up in mock indignation. The pout is Oscar-worthy. But the way his eyes are dancing? That mischievous sparkle says it all. He’s playing this role far too well.
"Let’s start again, shall we?" he murmurs, voice lower now, thick with a teasing sweetness that makes your breath hitch. "Morning, my love." His lips brush the shell of your ear, just the faintest ghost of a touch, enough to make you shiver. "I missed you." His hands skim down, fingertips grazing the hem of his t-shirt that you’re wearing, playing with the fabric like he’s resisting the urge to just tug it up and off you.
“You look so fucking good in my clothes," Lando murmurs, his voice low and rough against the shell of your ear. His lips ghost along your neck, a slow, deliberate tease that sends a shiver cascading down your spine.
The spoon slips from your fingers, clattering into the bowl, and you barely register the sound over the pounding of your heartbeat. "Flatterer," you manage, but your voice comes out breathy, betraying you completely.
"Not flattery," he corrects smoothly, his hands already sliding lower, fingertips tracing lazy circles down the curve of your waist before settling over your ass. He palms you through the soft fabric of his briefs, fingers pressing in just enough to make your stomach tighten. "Just facts."
You try not to react, but it’s impossible when he’s so close, when his voice drips with that slow, teasing confidence, when his touch makes it impossible to focus on anything else.
"You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen," he continues, mouth brushing against your skin between words, lips grazing the spot just beneath your ear. "A vision. An angel."
You snort, shoving at his chest, though the heat simmering beneath your skin betrays you. "Oh, please."
Lando grins, catching your hand before you can fully push him away, bringing it up to his lips. He kisses your knuckles, slow and deliberate, then smirks as he presses another to the inside of your wrist, letting his teeth scrape just lightly over your skin. Your breath catches.
And then—
"… Can I have a pancake now?"
You blink. "You’re unbelievable"
He grins wider, all dimples and mischief. "What?"
You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “That was the worst attempt at manipulation I’ve ever seen.”
“Was it though?” Lando’s voice drops, teasing and smug, as his fingers trail along the waistband of his boxers on your body. His touch is featherlight, deliberate, before dipping lower, gripping your hips, and pulling you flush against him. Heat blooms in your chest, spreading like wildfire, your breath catching in your throat as he leans in.
His lips brush the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into something slow and syrupy. “Because I’m pretty sure…” His fingers skate along your bare thigh, trailing up, grazing the fabric that separates you. “That if I dip my fingers in my underwear right now—” He pauses, his breath warm against your skin. “I’ll find you soaked, won’t I, baby?”
Your stomach clenches, anticipation coiling low as his words settle between you. His confidence is maddening, infuriating, and yet your body betrays you, reacting to him in ways you wish it wouldn’t. You inhale sharply, your fingers tightening around the edge of the counter as you try—try—to maintain some semblance of control.
“You’re such a menace,” you mutter, but your hands are in his hair now, threading through those curls you pretend not to be obsessed with. “Just admit you have no self-control and wanted an excuse to get handsy before breakfast.”
“Oh, I definitely have self-control,” he says, his voice low and smooth and entirely too pleased with himself. “I’m just choosing not to use it. Very different situation.”
“So, should I check?” he murmurs again, lips grazing the sensitive spot beneath your jaw, fingers flexing against your hips.
It's so easy to make him win that you can't help but biting down on your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a verbal answer, but your body speaks for you—hips tilting ever so slightly toward him, the barest of movements, but enough for his smirk to widen.
Because he knows he's damn right.
And just like that, you’re both gone—lost in laughter and heat and that deliciously familiar tension that says: round two isn’t just a maybe—it’s already in motion.
Before you can respond—before you can do anything, really—Lando’s hands are on your thighs, gripping, lifting. With effortless ease, he hoists you up onto the counter, sliding between your legs, pressing into you fully now. Your breath stutters at the hard, insistent pressure of him against you, his body slotting between yours like it belongs there—because, really, it does. It always has. His hands slide up your thighs, warm and confident, fingertips just brushing close to where you need him most, but never quite touching.
And then his lips are on you again—no hesitation this time, no teasing delay.
It’s consuming.
A kiss that silences everything else—thoughts, warnings, even the faint sizzle from the stove behind you. You melt into him instantly, a soft, involuntary sound slipping from your lips. It's not quite a moan, not quite a sigh—but something in between.
He deepens the kiss with slow, aching precision. Lando kisses like he’s starving but determined to savor every bite. His mouth moves over yours with a bruising tenderness, full of intention, full of promise, like he’s not just kissing you—he’s memorizing you. Each sweep of his tongue, each nibble at your lower lip, sends waves of warmth spiraling low in your stomach.
And then his hands move. Oh, those hands.
They slide from your waist to your hips, fingers flexing against the thin cotton of his t-shirt—your t-shirt now, apparently. There’s nothing hurried, nothing rushed, just this slow, delicious gravity pulling you into him until there’s not a breath of space between you. You feel him, solid and wanting, the kind of pressure that makes you forget how to stand upright, much less speak.
"Turn off the stove, Lan..." you whisper against his mouth, though it sounds more like a plea than a warning.
He doesn’t even blink.
With one last kiss that steals the breath from your lungs, Lando pulls back just enough to reach behind you. You hear the familiar click of the knobs and the low hiss of the flame dying out, and then the clink of the pan being moved. He does it so effortlessly—one-handed, focused, practiced—as if he’s done this a dozen times before, choosing you over breakfast every single time.
But he’s not gone for long.
In a heartbeat, he’s back, eyes locked onto yours, dark with mischief and something far deeper. “Better?” he murmurs, but the way his gaze drops to your lips—and then lower—makes it clear the question is rhetorical.
Your response never makes it past your lips.
Because in one fluid motion, his hands are under the hem of the shirt. There's a pause, a heartbeat of tension, where he just looks at you—silent permission, a breathless dare—and when you don’t stop him, he pulls the shirt up, slow enough to feel every inch of the fabric dragging over your skin.
The way his eyes darken as more of you is revealed? That look could burn hotter than the stove ever could.
The moment the shirt hits the floor, his mouth is on you again—but lower this time. Kisses scatter down your throat, across your collarbone, and then lower still. His hands are on your waist again, guiding, grounding, claiming. And when he finally mouths at the swell of your breast, reverent and unhurried, you swear you forget your own name for a moment.
He doesn’t rush. Oh no—Lando takes his time.
Every press of lips, every graze of teeth, every deliberate swirl of his tongue is a love letter written straight to your nerves. One hand cups you gently, the other strokes soothing circles on your hip like he’s keeping you calm while slowly unraveling you.
It’s a lost cause, though, when his hands are still on you, roaming with slow, deliberate intent, the heat between you both intensifying with every touch.
He hums against your skin like he’s tasting something decadent—like he can’t believe he gets to have you first thing in the morning, still warm from sleep and wrapped in his clothes, all soft cotton and softer skin underneath.
The kind of view that makes a man forget pancakes ever existed.
His lips trail slowly across your chest, hands guiding you to lean back just slightly against the counter. The cold marble meets the small of your back, but you barely feel it—not when Lando’s mouth is working lower, kissing, sucking, lavishing attention like your body is the only thing worth worshipping.
He doesn’t just touch—he adores.
Each breast gets the full treatment, his tongue teasing lazy circles around your nipple before finally taking it into the warm heat of his mouth. And the way he does it? Like he knows exactly what it does to you. Like he’s been waiting all night just to wake up and do this again. Suckling slow, drawing out those needy little gasps from your lips as his fingers gently knead, thumb brushing against the other peak with just enough pressure to make your thighs instinctively press together.
But Lando notices. Oh, he feels it.
"Still with me?" he murmurs around your skin, voice hoarse, lips glistening, eyes flicking up to meet yours with a mischievous gleam.
Your breath catches when one of his hands slips lower, tracing the path of your body like a man rediscovering a map he’s already memorized. His palm drags over your stomach, dipping lower until it finds the waistband of his boxers—your boxers now. The elastic gives just slightly under his touch, and he grins when he feels what’s underneath.
His fingers flex there, over the heat radiating through the thin fabric. Not inside. Not yet.
Just enough to make you twitch. Just enough to make you want.
Your head falls back against the cabinet with a soft thud, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers move in deliberate, maddeningly slow circles. The fabric adds a friction that’s almost too much, not nearly enough — rubbing perfectly against your clit with each calculated stroke.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows how to play your body like it was made for his hands — and god, maybe it was.
“Oh, I knew it…” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth, a grin audible in every syllable. “You’re already drenched, baby”
He chuckles softly, that deep, smug sound rumbling right against your skin — and then his mouth is on your neck, lips trailing heat down your throat, tongue teasing the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw. He knows exactly where to go, where to bite, where to let his breath linger so it sends a shiver racing down your spine.
Your body arches toward him instinctively, the pressure of his hand against you through the thin cotton already driving you toward the edge of reason. Your fingers find his hair, threading through and pulling — not hard, but enough to say don’t stop. Not ever.
His palm stays pressed against your center, the fabric damp and clinging, the friction deliciously cruel. He keeps his movements slow, drawing lazy, purposeful circles that make your legs tremble. And then, without warning, his other hand slips behind your thigh, gripping firmly before he lifts it— strong and smooth — guiding your leg up and onto the edge of the counter.
Now you’re wide open for him, and he leans back just enough to look at you — really look — as if the sight of you, flushed and breathless, is something holy.
And you almost give up, right there.
His hand is still between your legs, his fingers now having more room to tease, to press. He lets them slide just slightly lower — still over the boxers — applying a touch that makes you gasp, your hips rolling into his palm on instinct.
He smirks, eyes flicking down, and then back up to meet yours — hot and teasing, voice thick with hunger.
“Fuck…” he breathes, almost to himself. “You look so goddamn good like this.”
His thumb presses down, slow and perfect, and your breath catches again.
“Wet in my Calvin’s” he whispers, dragging the words out like honey over skin. "Wide open for me"
“Fuck…” you groan, voice already fraying at the edges. Your hands reach blindly behind you, gripping the edge of the counter for balance — or maybe just to look for something to hold to keep you grounded.
His mouth curves into a smirk, and you can feel it, even without looking. “Still sore from last night?” he murmurs, breath hot against your jaw.
You nod, barely, swallowing a moan.
“Good,” he growls, the sound rough and thick, like it’s coming from somewhere deep in his chest. “Means we did a good job, right?”
You nod again.
His fingers press even harder through the soaked cotton now. Pads circling, teasing, tormenting.
“Now…” he whispers, lips brushing your ear, voice soaked in sin, “Do you think i can make you come in my underwear?”
He's a menace. A walking natural hazard, a threat to your self-control.
The words land low in your belly, heat blooming and spreading, curling like smoke through your veins. You let out a breathless laugh — shaky, already undone — but it’s cut short by a moan as he doubles down, fingers moving faster, firmer, his thumb now working cruel circles against your clit.
The kitchen feels like it’s burning — golden light spilling through the windows, catching on the sheen of sweat at your collarbone, painting everything in warmth and want. But you only feel him — his fingers, his breath, his body pressed between your thighs, commanding every inch of your attention.
You turn your face toward him, eyes fluttering open, meeting his gaze — and it’s so much. Not just lust. Not just hunger. But that quiet intensity that says I see you. That says I love you, even when the words aren't spoken.
“Lando…” You writhe under his touch, thighs trembling, the soaked cotton now barely a barrier at all — more like a wet invitation. He watches you fall apart, eyes dark and hungry, and when he speaks again, it’s low and dangerous.
“Yeah, baby?” he murmurs, voice like smoke. His thumb presses down just a little harder, making your body jolt.
“Feels… so good…” you pant, head falling back.
He grins, slow and dangerous.
“Yeah?” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Want more?”
You nod. Frantic. Needy. Lost.
That’s all he needs.
His fingers slip past the waistband — finally, finally — into the soaked heat beneath. The contrast of skin-on-skin after all that teasing makes you cry out, head tipping forward as your body arches into him like it’s the only thing it knows how to do.
The second his fingers slide inside you — bare, deep, warm — something in you shatters. Your body arches off the counter, hips rolling into his hand as your breath stutters in your throat. He groans low, drawn out and dark, like the feel of you clenching around him is his own personal high.
“Fuck, baby…” he breathes, watching your face twist with pleasure. “So tight… and still so fucking sensitive, I can feel it”
That word — sensitive— lands somewhere deep, sparking a memory of the night before. The way he stretched you, filled you, took you until you couldn’t stop shaking. And now, he’s back at it — and your body can’t decide whether to cry or beg for more.
His fingers start to move — not gentle, not tentative. Intentional. Purposeful. He’s not here to tease anymore. He’s here to ruin.
He thrusts them deep, curling just right with every motion, dragging across that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll and your thighs clench. His thumb doesn’t leave your clit, circling in sync with the rhythm of his fingers — pressure steady, cruelly perfect.
The soreness flares with every thrust — a tiny spike of pain that sharpens everything else. It’s not enough to stop you. It’s enough to drive you mad.
“Lando—fuck, baby—” you gasp, voice caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. “—oh god—it’s so good.”
He growls, low and pleased, leaning in until his lips brush your ear.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, fingers fucking into you harder now, relentless. “You like that sore? That little ache, don’t you? Knowing I wrecked you last night and you’re still dripping for more.”
Your head lolls back, mouth open, a desperate sound escaping you as your thighs start to tremble.
You’re squirming now, hips lifting off the counter with every thrust, chasing the edge you can feel mounting like a storm behind your ribs.
“Lan…” you whimper, voice trembling like the rest of you as you tilt your chin up.
That small invitation to kiss you that he knows so damn well.
And oh, accepts it. And it’s not just a kiss, no. It’s a kiss that presses you open and holds you there, like he’s pouring heat through your mouth and straight into your bloodstream. And all the while, his fingers don’t stop. No mercy. Just the right kind of torture.
The tempo shifts—subtle, but devastating. He finds that exact rhythm, the one that has your toes curling and your thighs trembling like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff and the wind’s about to push you off. He drives you, steady and sure, until your moans melt into each other like honey over heat.
“I can feel you’re close,” he pants on your lips, staring down at the way your body clings to him. “… You gonna make a mess for me, mh?”
And you want to answer — you do — but your body is already deciding for you.
It’s not a fall, not even a crash—it’s a detonation. It hits like a tsunami. Sudden. Violent. Beautiful. A full-body, breath-snatching, soul-lifting kind of high. It doesn’t even feel real, except it so is. A wave so strong, your body just… surrenders.
Your orgasm crashes through you, tearing a scream from your throat as your body spasms, clenching around his fingers so hard it nearly knocks the air out of you.
“Oh fuck…” You cry out against his mouth, a sound that’s pure electricity, your body jerking with the force of it—legs shaking, hands gripping the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing tethering you to Earth.
But then it doesn’t stop. Oh. No it doesn’t. Suddenly it’s all warm. And wet. And everywhere.
A second wave hits, and your whole body jolts — thighs shaking, toes curling, back arching as the pressure inside you explodes outward.
“Oh—shit—” Lando gasps, eyes going wide as you squirt unexpectedly, the release soaking his fingers, his hand, and absolutely drenching his white boxers.
You collapse against him, trembling, moaning through it, half-laughing through the haze of pleasure and disbelief.
“Holy fuck,” he says, voice low and completely wrecked. “Look what you just did baby…”
And he doesn’t stop. His fingers slow, gentle now, coaxing rather than pushing—like he’s drawing every last ripple from the pond, refusing to let you fall back to Earth without floating you down himself. You tremble against him, boneless and buzzing, while he holds you through the aftershock like you’re something precious.
The two of you just stand there for a moment, breath mingling, hearts still racing in tandem.
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look down—and yeah, he’s obsessed. His boxers are a masterpiece of chaos now, dark and dripping, so completely see-through and soaked with proof of just how thoroughly he undid you. He gets lost in the sight of your cunt that shines under the drenched cotton and he runs a hand over the fabric, the wet sound making you shiver all over again.
You’re sprawled across the countertop, utterly undone, wearing his Calvins clinging to your hips like they’ve just survived a thunderstorm. Which, in a way… they have.
“I mean,” he says, voice rough but playful, “I was already a fan of these Calvins, but now? I think they deserve their own shrine.”
You chuckle and finally lift your head, blinking slowly like you’re waking up from a really, really good dream. A smile curls at the edges of your mouth—lazy, wicked, drunk on pleasure—and you kiss him again, slow and deep, lips brushing
He kisses you back with the same energy, one hand settling over your ribs like he’s memorizing the rhythm of your breathing. Then, pulling away just an inch, he rests his forehead against yours. Eyes searching. Voice softer now.
“You okay?” he murmurs. There’s a flicker of something real in his tone—tenderness hidden beneath the cheekiness, concern behind the cocky grin.
You nod immediately, smiling wider. “Perfect.”
And you are. You’re melted chocolate and warm honey. You’re a puddle. You’re ruined in the best possible way.
When you finally pull back, you smirk, eyes gleaming.
“You know,” you murmur, “Bad Bunny looks amazing in Calvin Kleins too.”
Lando snorts—like, full-body snort-laughs against your neck, burying his face there for a second as his shoulders shake with it. He chokes on a laugh, pulling back slightly to look at you, one eyebrow shooting up in faux betrayal. “Wow. So I give you the best orgasm of your life and you’re already thinking about other men in underwear?”
“Yeah, well,” you say, laughing with him "he probably doesn’t have pre-made meals labeled by day in his fridge...”
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