The girl with the curly hair that sings. @notbillieholiday - Tumblr Blog

Sep 20, 2025

✷ and i promise, i'll be yours ft. lewis hamilton !

👑 જ⁀➴ you weren’t meant to matter this much to lewis. but somehow, between long calls, quiet coffees, and the way you never flinch under his gaze, something unspoken takes shape. he tells himself it’s harmless. that the line between you isn’t blurred, it’s just not there anymore. and maybe, that’s the problem. ( 6k / proofread and edited )

pairings ✷ lewis hamilton x fem!photographer!reader

contents ✷ age gap (40 and 24) / 18+ mdni / porn with plot / indirect workplace-adjacent power dynamics (freelancer x public figure) / oral (f receiving) / very lowkey praise kink / softdom!lewis / internal moral conflict is mentioned a few times (lewis) / couch sex / p in v / unprotected sex (wrap it up everybody)

authors note ✷ unfort this was completely self indulgent and was made solely because i was horny the other night and there is a lack of sir lewis hamilton smut, so i have taken matters into my own hands. enjoy and please thank casey for indirectly convincing me to write this

i recommend listening to. . . stay down by brent faiyaz . . .whilst reading for the best experience

masterlist / navigation

LEWIS ISN'T sure when the line, the one that separated you and him into two different worlds and deliberately warned him to keep away from you with an obvious ‘do not cross’ illuminated in bright red, became completely invisible.

At some point, he had to have stopped caring.

It could've been a long time ago, before he had the courage to just do something about it. Or maybe it was only recently, when fleeting touches that he's sure you never meant to let linger, started becoming the highlight of his days.

You make him feel like a teenager, and there's a sort of embarrassment that surrounds him in that sense. Because Lewis is a little more than fifteen years your senior, head full to the brim with knowledge about the world you've only barely gotten to experience yet, and he's stuck thinking about how you'd feel warming his bed at night like a boy.

Lewis has never been a particularly nervous man. He's well known for being calm and collected and sure, rarely letting the frustration show. And you? You are a mess in motion.

He knew it from the first time he saw you that you were a walking hurricane, too many months ago to count when you first stomped into that Mercedes hospitality room with twitching fingers that itch to be of use and scuffed sneakers you probably don't care to replace, demanding answers from a PR intern who clearly didn’t know how to handle you in the heat of the moment.

A photographer. Freelancing your way through his world with a confident mouth and a camera he's can tell you saved for years to afford, and too many opinions that he agrees with in the silence of his head because, unlike you, he has an image to uphold. Lewis has never known anyone who says no as often as you do, and it's not even out of rebellion. It's out of principle.

You mean every word, and you never think twice before speaking your mind. You wear what you want, out-dressing half the grid and nearly stealing the show without realizing it. You laugh too loudly, and Lewis sometimes hates that he lets it simmer. You make friendly jabs and poke at his defenses, crawling under his skin without trying too hard.

And Lord help him, he loves it.

There’s an edge to you that’s magnetic, and he's begun to let himself be alright with being the opposite pole that you tug in. You don’t defer to him like most people do; you treat him like he's achingly normal.

You tease him for little things like meditating and correcting people gently, but that doesn't stop you from listening. From watching him like you're memorizing him, noticing the things others don't, and painstakingly reassuring him when it becomes a little too much.

And it takes a while, but you let him in. You tell him you do other things, like paint and write and all the different creative stuff he imagines you're amazing at. You let him learn about you, and in turn, he tells you about the him he tries to keep far from racing.

You become something unspoken over decaf between busy meetings and tired conversations on the phone when you're both tucked into your beds and fighting sleep. The bond between you and him isn't exactly romantic, much to his dismay, but it's a little more intimate than simply friends.

Sometimes, when he's a little more aware and a lot less desperate, he finds himself deeming that as enough.

And Lewis really tries to stay respectful, he does.

He tells himself that you’re younger. That you’re still in college and figuring it all out. That you're at the age where everything burns fast and bright before it fizzles out, and while he's not particularly old, he’s lived long enough to know that chasing fire like that always ends in smoke.

But you're you.

Dropping voice notes at two in the morning when inspiration hits and you're on the way over. Showing up in his life in scattered, brilliant bursts that remind him of the fireworks that crackle when he wins. Talking about fucking light and contrast like it’s the most interesting thing in the universe, then telling him that the lens feels different depending on what you’re shooting that day.

There’s a kind of certainty in you that makes him ache because he's deemed you as something he can't have. You don't have everything figured out, and you don’t pretend to like most people your age. You move through the world unpolished and unfiltered because being raw means surviving, and something about how real you are makes him want you more.

And somewhere along the line, Lewis starts craving you like he craves wins in Silverstone. Letting the thought of you eat at him like every loss or mistake he nearly brushed over.

He tells himself you don’t see him like that. That you never really will. But it comes to a point where he can't ignore it anymore, and the deference he's so carefully tried to maintain starts unpeeling at the seams.

It’s not nothing. He thinks maybe it should be.

A fleeting moment in a quiet room. He’s at your flat for the millionth time this week, courtesy of the winter off-season. He likes your place more, a little less performative and much cozier than his. Lewis is somewhere across from you pretending to read, but instead of basking in the pages of his book he secretly basks in you through the curtain his curls cast over his eyes.

You're in the middle of editing a shoot that's likely due tomorrow, bare legs folded on the couch he's slept on too many times to count with your laptop propped against your knees and Roscoe, who you insisted he bring along every time he comes over, snoring at your side. You’re wearing one of his old sweatshirts, a throwaway one that's too faded for him to miss very much, and you’ve got your hair pulled out of your face to show off that focused look you get when you're in your element. It's maddening.

Everything about him being here, so comfortably in your presence, feels right. And that thought, quiet, natural, and a little dangerous, is what undoes him more than anything else.

You glance up briefly, brows drawn in concentration, then look back down at your screen. “Does this color grade look off to you?”

The question beckons him over, and he crosses the room slowly. His socked feet pad against the carpet softly, uncuffed sweats sweeping the floor as he treks over.

Lewis leans into the arm of the couch to get a good look at your screen, absentmindedly reaching past you to scratch Roscoe's head before drawing his inked hand back and clasping both of his hands together, like he's afraid of what might happen if they're free.

You're close enough to feel the heat radiating off of each other, but not quite touching. He pretends not to notice the proximity.

The image on your screen is sharp. Golden hues with shadows pulled in tight, your subject mid-laugh. He gives you a low hum of approval.

You nod once, distracted eyes flicking between layers.

He should get up. Give you space and find his spot across the room again. But he lingers, his own gaze flicking between your bare thighs and his sweatshirt pooling around your torso and the way the winter sun peeks through your broken blinds and catches the curve of your nose perfectly. You're tearing him apart, and you don't even know it.

Or maybe you do.

Because you glance over at him again, a little slower this time. Your head tilts like you're seeing something new, or maybe you’ve finally decided to acknowledge what’s been there the whole time.

“You alright?” you ask, lips twitching into a half-smile.

He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, his own little grin threatening the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, jus’ tired. Hit arms this morning before my run.”

You hum, like maybe you accept that answer, and let your gaze sit on him for a few more moments.

Then, softly, without taking your eyes off him, you ask, “When are you gonna stop looking at me like that?” It’s not accusatory. It’s not teasing, either. Just knowing.

Lewis blinks because there's no denying he's been caught. But he can play. “Like what?”

Jesus, he really is turning into a teenager again.

You, on the other hand, are not playing. Your brows cinch together softly, “You know what.” You reply, tone all too serious.

Silence pulls at the edges of your small living room, like it's listening in.

Lewis doesn't say anything, at least not right away. He studies you for a few moments too long, eyes scanning your face and memorizing it because, for some reason, he feels like if this conversation goes wrong, that maybe he won't see this side of you again. The domestic side that doesn't deflect or tease through a lens and instead watches him with the kind of steadiness he's alright with letting disarm him. The side that makes him breakfast and absentmindedly rubs out the tension in his shoulder blades after back day hits a little too hard.

Then, suddenly, his voice still soft regardless of how thick the knot in his throat has become, he mutters a low, “It's hard not to.”

His eyes don't leave yours, big and brown and bright enough that they remind you a bit of a doe.

That draws something nearly unnoticeable across your face. It's not quite a smile, not surprise, either. Just a quiet acknowledgment of what you already knew. You shift in your spot, and Roscoe stirs in his sleep with a sigh before hopping off the couch, scurrying to find somewhere a little quieter to continue his nap.

“It's not just you,” You admit, almost apologetically, “If that helps.” You add with a shrug. You avert your gaze when his becomes too much, eyes finding your computer screen again.

It helps for a split second, and then it doesn't. Because now, the thread of morality he's been white-knuckling for months tugs even harder.

Lewis doesn’t shift. He stays perched over the armrest, still leaning in close, still pretending like this proximity hasn’t rewired his nervous system. His fingers are locked tightly together, elbows pressed into the cushion where you sit a little too close. His knees are threatening to buckle under him for no reason at all, maybe just because you smell of cashmere and pine like the rest of your apartment.

You’re just beneath him, sunk into the couch with your legs curled under you and the stretched neckline of his sweatshirt slipping down your collarbone, entirely unbothered while he feels like he’s clinging to the edge of a cliff with his fucking pinky finger.

And now you’ve said it, that it’s not just him feeling this way, the admission already having settled somewhere deep in his bones. And you already seem ready to move on from the words you just uttered so simply to him.

He doesn’t respond right away. Lets the quiet ring around you both long enough for you to start getting comfortable in it again.

His voice, when it finally cuts through the silence, is rough around the edges. “I’ve been trying to keep it clean.”

You look up at him, watching as he rises from where he once leaned into your dainty couch. “You think this is messy?” You ask gently.

“No,” he says immediately, but then breathes out a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “Maybe. Not in a bad way.”

Lewis makes his way into the spot next to you, slow and calculated like he's afraid to move too fast, and you absentmindedly lean into him the moment he sits. He leans into his knees, hands still linked and elbows on his legs. The distance narrows on its own. Your knee presses into his strong thigh, shoulders touching like they always do when you sit closer than you should.

“I didn’t want to make you think I only come around for one thing,” he says as you finally discard your computer. His eyes flicker over to the laptop as you let it clatter softly onto the glass coffee table, then back to you. “Didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You haven’t,” you say, surely. “You won’t.”

You’re not fidgeting, not trying to make the moment easier. You’re just letting it be.

“I don’t want to cross a line,” Lewis adds, still hovering over the precipice.

You scoff out a laugh, “We are well past that.”

You say it so casually, with that unmistakable hint of dry humor you wear like second skin, but Lewis hears the truth in it. You’re right. You are well past that. You were probably past it the first time he woke up on this very couch, Roscoe curled up next to him, and your half-empty cups from the night before still on the coffee table.

His lips twitch upward, like he’s weighing the consequences of grinning. “Suppose we are.”

You don’t say anything to that. You just tilt your head, eyes on him again. Really on him. You’re sitting so close he can feel the breath you pull in, and maybe you’re the one who’s suddenly nervous now, but you don’t move away. Not an inch.

And Lewis, finally, lets go of the pretense.

He unlaces his fingers slowly, shifts his weight just enough to face you without fully turning, testing the waters between you both. His eyes drop once, to your lips, then flick back up, then back down a few times.

You watch all of it happen in real time. And then, with a slight pull at the corner of your mouth, you amusedly say just above a whisper, “You can kiss me, you know.”

He lets out a breath, short and sharp, that sounds like relief and disbelief tangled together. “Yeah?” Lewis asks.

You nod, already leaning in like you don’t want to give him the chance to overthink it like he does with everything else. “Yeah.”

So he does.

Your lips meet halfway tentatively. Soft and careful like he's afraid you might run away if he's too eager. Your hands bury themselves in his T-shirt, but Lewis doesn't let his hands wander, not yet. Just lets a big hand hover over your bare thigh, enough to feel the heat radiating off your body, but not ready to let it land.

Where Lewis is hesitant, you're confident, and suddenly you're climbing into his lap and straddling his thighs like you belong on top of him. You lean in a little further, lips parting with a small, eager noise that barely leaves the back of your throat before he swallows it.

It's then that the thread he was trying so hard to protect snaps completely, and suddenly where his touch was once afraid to land, it now wanders.

A hand trails up to cup your face, and he lets his thumb stroke your cheek softly, like he's trying to sculpt you. His thumb brushes your jaw, tracing where it meets your neck, and that alone earns him the quietest gasp against his mouth. His other, the one that hovered just over your thigh, smooths over you slowly before finally bracing against your skin, like maybe he needs the grounding it gives. His fingers dig in just slightly, the way they might wrap around the wheel before a hard turn, firm and steady.

Lewis kisses you like he's been dying to, no more hesitation or lingering fear of rules and the heavy weight of expectations. You kiss him back like it's second nature, like maybe this was building in you for a while, too.

Your work is long forgotten, the laptop shut on the table behind you. The room hums with undeniable urgency, but neither of you is willing to go too fast. You pull away just barely, trying to find your breath. His mouth chases yours for a split second, and he breathes only because he has to.

Lewis murmurs your name, just under his breath as his eyes search yours. It's both a question and a warning. And you, still a little breathless and barely thinking about how this is a walking HR violation, nod like the answer has always been yes.

You pull him even closer by his shirt, not clumsy or rushed, just sure. Always sure. You tug him until his fingers are sliding up the hem of the sweatshirt you stole from him, fingertips grazing the soft skin of your waist.

He tries not to seem pathetic, but a little grunt leaves his plump lips when he feels just how warm you are underneath the fabric. The realness of the moment finally hits him as he lets his hands glide across your ribs.

And when you say his name, this time lower, a little shakier, it’s the last permission Lewis needs.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for centuries.

The way you whisper his name, it’s not demanding. It’s not even really asking. It’s soft. It’s real. It’s you, right here, on top of him, letting him have what he’s spent too long aching for.

Lewis tilts his head, kissing you again with more weight now, but with purpose in his movements. You’ve officially given him the green light, and he regrets waiting this long for you. Your fingers curl at the nape of his neck, and when your fingers pull softly at his coils of hair, he groans low in his throat, the sound pulled from somewhere deep and starved.

You shift in his lap, and his hands fly to your hips to still you, shaky and firm. He’s holding you there, grounding himself with the weight of your body under his palms.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice dipped in warning and all the things he’s been dreaming of doing to you for months now, “You’re not making this easy.”

You smile against his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip enough to make his pretty fingers flex. “Wasn’t trying to.”

Lewis lets out a soft curse, the kind he only mutters when patience finally wears thin. He moves his hands, lets them roam a little more freely now. Up the curve of your thighs, under the oversized sweatshirt adorning your torso, across the bare stretch of your back. You lean into his touch because it’s something you’ve been craving just as long as he has.

Your legs tighten around his hips. His lips move to your jaw, then just under your ear, then to the edge of your neck, where he lets his mouth linger. You shiver, pressing closer. His stubble scrapes soft against your skin, and you feel him smile, wicked and pleased.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” he asks against your throat.

You laugh under your breath. Not mockingly or amusedly, “Not really,” you murmur honestly, your voice threading soft against his skin as your fingers brush along the nape of his neck, “but I know I want it anyway.”

Lewis pulls back enough to get a good look at you. Not far enough to create any distance, especially not when he is this close to something that he thinks is dangerous enough to be his undoing but addicting enough to bring him some relief after the time he’s spent imagining this situation. His eyes search yours, and as much as he wants to ask again, to make sure that you’re in this, the words can’t seem to leave his mouth.

Your hands cup his jaw, fingers cradling him full of certainty, like you’ve already made your mind up and he’s the one with catching up to do. Your thumbs sweep softly along the edge of his stubble, and Lewis swears you could kill him and he would say thank you.

“Unless you don’t-”

“I do,” he cuts in quickly, quiet and firm. “God, I do.”

You smile, soft and bright and wholeheartedly pleased. You look like the one thing in this world he wants to be his.

You kiss again, like maybe your lips still haven’t gotten used to it, and Lewis sinks into you. Your hands slip under his shirt now, fingers skating across warm skin and toned muscle, and Lewis swears under his breath again. His hips roll without meaning to, pulling you closer into the cradle of his lap, like gravity is conspiring on his behalf.

He kisses down your jaw, across the hollow of your throat, leaving heat and promise in his wake.

Your breath stutters again, throat vibrating with a satisfied hum before you quickly stammer, “If we do this...” You trail off when Lewis looks up at you.

His thumbs brush against the waistband of your shorts. “It won’t be just once.”

You blink at him. “I’m not gonna be able to let this go after,” he clarifies. “Not interested in pretending it didn’t happen.”

Something about the way he says it, so completely confident, makes your heart do a dangerous stutter in your chest. You nod. “Good,” you say quietly. “Because I don’t want to pretend, either.”

Lewis lets his forehead rest against yours for a solid second, centering himself before crossing the threshold. Then he shifts, and suddenly you're beneath him with your head tilted back into the couch cushions and his strong arms braced on either side of your body, like he’s shielding you from the entire world and cocooning you into this moment.

The couch creaks under both of you, definitely not built for this, but neither of you can find it in you to care. You’re still in his hoodie and nothing underneath except a pair of dangerously cut shorts that he’s been thinking about ripping off you for the past hour.

Your fingers, once carefully wrapped around his nap, trail over his broad shoulders and curl into the back of his shirt. Your thighs bracket his hips, and whatever part of him was still holding out gives in completely.

Lewis finally lowers himself properly onto the couch, knees digging into the cushion that dips under the added weight of both of you and hips rolling into yours absentmindedly as his lips trail down your neck. Your body moves under him like you’ve both done this a thousand times already, like this is where it was always supposed to be.

He eyes you from where his lips are on your collarbone, chestnut gaze dragging over your flushed face and your kiss-bitten mouth, the sweatshirt that’s slipped enough off one shoulder to reveal the slope of your collarbone and nothing beneath, and Lewis feels his stomach tighten.

“You look…” He trails off, shaking his head, like even now, after feeling your skin and tasting you on his lips, he still can’t believe this is real. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, “Bit dramatic, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious,” he murmurs, leaning in again, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then another to your neck. “You don’t even know.”

You tilt your head a little further back into the armrest and stare down your nose at Lewis, fingers tangling themselves in his hair again before pulling him back into you with a gentle tug. His lips are warm and wet on your throat, nipping softly and leaving marks you won’t have the decency to cover up tomorrow.

You arch into his touch, his hoodie riding up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of bare skin above your low-rise shorts. His breath catches, and as if to anchor himself, his fingers dig into your waist where the skin is exposed.

“Lewis,” you moan, barely above a whisper, but it's enough. The sound of his name from your lips, ready and wanting, nearly undoes him on the spot.

He slides one hand along your side, under the fabric this time, slow and reverent. His fingers map the curve of your waist and the pattern of your ribcage, and for a moment, he’s learning you by feel alone. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says into your skin, voice hoarse.

You shake your head, “Don’t,” You reply quickly, “Please, don’t.”

He hums, deep and satisfied, and shifts to sit back just enough to pull the sweatshirt over your head. His eyes drag over you like he’s seeing you for the first time, every inch of newly exposed skin greeted with awe. Your chest rising and falling, goosebumps breaking out under the coldness of the room and the steely weight of his gaze. Before he can lean back down, you tug his shirt over his head, evening the field with a little grin.

His palms slide up your thighs, parting them gently as he settles back between them. His mouth finds your sternum, then lower, kissing a line down the center of you deliberately. It’s not hurried. None of this is. There’s a patience in him you wouldn’t expect, but maybe you should have. Lewis has never been the type to rush anything he cares about, regardless of the fast life he lives.

And right now, in this moment, he’s never been more patient.

“You’re driving me mad,” he mutters into your sternum, thumbs brushing over the hard perk of your nipples, “lounging around for weeks in my clothes, looking at me like I’m the goddamn problem.”

You gasp when his teeth graze just below your breast. “I noticed,” Lewis groans. “Every fucking time.”

Your fingers card through his hair again, and he leans into the touch because it’s something he’s been craving longer than he’ll admit, and you’re finally in reach. Then his hands are at your waistband, and he pauses, lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes.

A part of him thinks that this is a really bad idea. There is a slightly twisted part of him that feels a little bit like he’s taking advantage of you, that he’s absentmindedly pressuring you into this. The sane part of him knows he’s not, and by the way you just muttered, “Please,” you want this just as much as he does.

But the thought lingers, so he asks anyway, “Are you-”

You cut him off, “Lewis, if you don’t do something, I’m going to fucking blue-ball you.” You blurt sternly, your grip tightening in his hair like a promise. His lips upturn into a spit-slick grin, and he gets right to work.

“As you wish, my love.” The words leave his mouth so naturally that you nearly come undone then and there at just how easy they slip out.

His fingers loop softly over your shorts, then dig into your hip at the seam of your underwear. Lewis looks up at you briefly, catches a glint of frustration in your eyes, and he smiles as he hooks his finger over the band and slowly begins to tug both your undergarments and your shorts down your legs. He treats it like opening a present, similar to unwrapping something precious.

When they hit the floor, he takes a second. Just one, but it feels like everything. Lewis breathes out hard, like the sight of you like this may have knocked something loose in his chest.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, not even meaning to say it out loud but not caring that he does.

Then his hands, the tatted ones you’ve dreamt of too many times to count, are padding against your inner thigh. They leave a trail of heat and long-forgotten reverence in their wake, the light touch of his fingertips keeping you steady even as you tremble almost unnoticeably under him. Your hips lift involuntarily when they ghost over the one place you want him, and Lewis chuckles softly, deep in his throat.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, voice low. “I’ve got you.”

The words fumble out the second he lets his thumb rub softly on your clit, eliciting the sweetest moan from you. He lowers himself slowly, like he’s savoring the moment, like if he moves too fast he might miss something important. His mouth replaces his fingers, kissing the inside of your thigh, bordering on devotion, teeth grazing lightly just to feel you jolt beneath him.

And then, finally, his tongue flicks over you. It’s gentle at first, testing. Teasing, maybe. A low, broken sound escapes your throat, legs tightening instinctively around his upper body. Lewis hums like that’s exactly the reaction he wanted from you.

His tongue moves with practiced control, slow strokes that build and build until you’re arching off the couch cushions and panting his name through clenched teeth. Your hands find his curls again, anchoring yourself, tugging him closer as if there’s any part of him that would ever consider pulling away.

“Lewis, fuck- don’t stop,” you gasp, voice unraveling thread by thread.

He groans against you, deep and satisfied. The vibration punches straight through you.

“Not goin’ anywhere,” he murmurs, mouth still working you open. “Told you, didn’t I? I’ve got you.”

Your eyes flutter shut at the words, your head tipping back and your chest rising and falling unevenly. You’ve been with people before, but nothing has ever made you feel so completely bare. Lewis knows exactly what to give and where to hold back, and your pleasure is the one thing driving him right now.

When his fingers join his mouth, thick and gentle, scissoring into you and curling just right, you know it’s game over. You fall apart around him with a loud, stuttering cry, your thighs tightening and hips lifting and your body begging him right there. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, sensitive, and breathless, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you can seem to remember.

He finally pulls back, lips wet and swollen, beard a little damp against his chin. You blink down at him, dazed and flushed and utterly ruined. Lewis stares at you like he’s just witnessed a miracle.

Then, in practiced motion, he shifts back up to kiss you, deep and achingly slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue like a selfish claim. You wrap your arms around his neck and instinctively pull him closer, like you’re afraid the moment might end if he drifts too far.

“I told you,” he whispers between kisses. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

And the way you’re looking at him now, soft and certain and so completely his, he thinks already halfway there.

You’re still trembling when he moves back down your body, kissing along your collarbone and pausing between your breasts, just to plant a chaste kiss on your sternum. He nips and bites and teases, the heat of his mouth warming you in the winter cold.

Your breath catches when he pauses just below your chest, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“Can I?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, but there’s something weighted in it. He wants all of you, but only if you’ll let him.

You tilt your head a little, a lazy smile playing at your lips, “Lewis, you just ate me out, and you’re asking if you can suck my tits?”

He shakes his head, smiling to himself before leaning back. He stares at you like you’re art, taking you in like he didn’t do a good enough job the first time. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re unreal.” He mutters, running his thumb just beneath the swell of your breast.

Then he bends down and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling warm and slow, and your body jerks in response. You gasp sharply, fingers digging into his shoulders, steadying yourself as he litters your breasts with attention. His other hand kneads your opposite breast, rough palm dragging over soft skin, and the contrast has your thighs squeezing tight around his hips.

“Fuck, Lewis,” you breathe, the heat returning full-force, need curling low in your stomach once again.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just let me take care of you.”

And he does. He kisses his way down your torso again, pausing at your hipbone and kissing the sensitive spot there before slowly, fucking finally, sliding his sweats down low enough to free himself. You suck in a breath at the sight of him. Thick and heavy, a little flushed at the tip where pre-cum leaks.

“Still good?” he checks in, voice strained and held together by sheer will.

You reach up and cup his jaw again, dragging him into a kiss that’s sloppy and deep and full of promise. “Better than good,” you whisper against his lips, his forehead against yours, eyes closed in ecstasy. That’s all it takes.

He lines up with your entrance, gaze flicking between your impatient face and where you’re sopping wet and ready under him, and he pushes in slowly. Inch by inch, he watches you like a man obsessed. Like he's afraid to miss even a second of how you fall apart beneath him.

You gasp, legs wrapping around him tighter because even though you’ve made it this far, there's no saying he won’t run away. Lewis just swears filthily against your mouth.

He curses as he slides his cock into you, “You feel so good, baby.” Lewis grits.

He stills when he’s fully inside of you, and you stay like that for a beat. Hearts pounding in synchrony as your chests rise and fall in tandem. “Better than I ever imagined,” Lewis shudders, kissing your jaw. His first movement catches you by surprise, him sitting back into the couch and pulling you atop of him, taking a moment to get comfortable in what was your original position. Your legs straddle his hips tightly, and his head drops into the crook of your neck where he leaves soft kisses and lets ragged breaths warm your skin.

You move first, thighs burning as you lift yourself up and then sink back down onto him with the softest noise leaving your throat. Lewis’s hands fly to your hips, eyes searching yours as he asks, “What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you do all the work?”

Your lips upturn into a lazy smile, “How courteous.” You joke in response.

Lewis rolls his hips, lifting you in the process before thrusting back into you softly. It catches you off-guard enough that you wrap your arms around his strong body, using his shoulders as leverage. His arms find their way around you, too. One hand sits firm on your hip, and the other pushes you closer to him from where it sits on your back.

The rhythm of his thrusts is slow and calculated, but they hit deep enough to bruise. Lewis presses the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth, breathing in the moans leaving your lips when he pounds into you in the right place. Then another to your jaw, right on the corner where it's curved and slack in bliss. And another just beneath your ear, letting his lips linger there as he whispers sweet nothings while his skin hits yours.

“You’re doing so well, my love, such a good girl for me,” He groans once. Or maybe twice, he’s too lost in you to be sure.

You tell him, “Right there, Lewis,” in between cries, and then see stars as one just moments later.

His advances slow into occasional drives as you come undone for a second time, whimpers sliding off your tongue like chirps from a songbird. Music to his ears.

Somewhere in the moment when you’re too lost in coming down from the pleasure to notice, Roscoe pads back into the room with a low huff, circling once before collapsing into his usual spot by the couch. The dog regards you with a judgmental look, and you and Lewis share a fucked-out laugh.

You glance down at Lewis, taking him in like this could be the last time. He smells like something familiar, arms wrapped around you. You’re in his lap, still stuffed full and dripping a mix of your liquids and his onto his halfway pulled-down sweatpants. Your bodies are bare, but there’s no rush to cover up or pull away. No guilt or lingering doubts.

Just you, just him, and the warmth of your bodies pressed into each other.

“Stay?” you ask, almost hesitantly.

Lewis doesn’t even hesitate before muttering a soft, “Always,” into the supple skin of your neck.