Sorry to bother you! But if you're okay with answering, would you ever make a second part/parts to this story? I agree kissing is underrated. And there's something about how vivid the foreplay is written that makes it hot/sexy and simultaneously romantic lol. Since the "reader" was already beginning to explore more with him, I was wondering if any other parts could "push" further as the reader continues to become more comfortable and unable to hold back anymore. Thank you for reading!
hey babe! i’m “officially” not writing anymore but sometimes i do come back when i’m feeling extra creative. this is something i will come back to if i need an idea of what to write. thanks so much for the suggestion🤍!!
warning: smut (hand stuff) and more descriptions of sexual activities. fluff at the end.
pairing: Tyriq Withers x Black female reader
summary: The conversation continues and escalates quickly
note: y’all begged me in the comments so here’s part two. sorry for teasing but i have to make y’all wait for the good stuff until part three. gotta build the tension😛 but anyway, as always enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!!
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“I think I could stack like”—you hold your hand up a few inches, palm flat, eyes squinting in mock calculation—“four and a half Krispy Kreme donuts on it.”
“Damn not even a round up? Crazy work,” he laughs, throwing his head back as the sound fills the room, warm and unfiltered. His hand squeezes your thigh, fingers pressing into soft flesh through the blanket, grounding you right back into him.
The conversation continues, slower now, thicker.
You’re on his living room sofa, the energy shifted but not settled. The sun has fully disappeared, leaving the city outside as a soft glow through the windows. Night has taken over—quiet, intimate, wrapping around the apartment like a secret. The low hum of distant traffic blends with the familiar rhythm of Living Single playing in the background, its laugh track occasionally cutting through your own softer laughter.
He’s sat manspread beside you, relaxed but present, while your legs drape across his lap, tangled with his under the shared blanket. The fabric is warm, trapping your body heat together, your skin occasionally brushing his through thin layers of clothing. Lamps cast a golden glow across the room, candles flickering gently—vanilla and something faintly woody—mixing with the lingering scent of food and his cologne.
He’s learned a lot about you.
More than most people ever get to.
You had gotten into all the taboos and mystical fantasies you’d always wanted to try, letting them spill from your lips with a mix of humor and honesty. Your favorite positions. How you have to have your back slightly propped up to finish while he’s eating you. Your preference of choking pressure. Even how to switch things up for anniversaries and special dates—details he listened to like they mattered, like you mattered.
And even though you’ve learned a few things about him, you still don’t feel prepared enough.
Preparation. Patience. Pleasure.
That’s what it was about for you.
The three P’s that made you the best lover.
If the tension became too much in this very moment, you didn’t feel confident enough that you would fuck him good enough. Of course, you loved receiving—but that was only half of the fun. Pleasing your partner, watching them react, feeling them lose control because of you—that intensified your experience even more.
And in turn, that made everything better.
For both of you.
“You never answered my question from earlier, sir,” you say, raising your eyebrow, your tone light but pointed.
“What was it?” he asks back, scrunching his eyebrows as he turns his head toward you, his hand still absentmindedly resting on your leg.
“Would you let me give you head while you’re driving?” you ask, keeping an innocent look in your eyes to tease.
The contrast between your expression and your words makes his lips part slightly.
He licks them slowly, sighing under his breath as he shifts his hips, adjusting himself like the thought alone made him uncomfortable in the best way. His fingers tighten briefly on your thigh before relaxing again.
He looks to the left, catching your eyes.
“I might in a tinted car, but the windows gotta be Michigan tint. Like straight up 0%, blacked out”
“They are not about to have me on TMZ getting my dick sucked on I-405,” he says, making you let out a loud laugh.
The image alone is ridiculous enough to send you over, your head tipping back as your laughter fills the room, louder than before.
“Boy shut up! You play too damn much, oh my god,” you continue to laugh, your hand coming up to cover your mouth as you lean slightly into him.
“Okay so that’s a yes? If I were to randomly give you head while you’re driving you wouldn’t stop me?” you ask, excitement slipping into your voice as you look at him for clarification.
There’s something lighter in your chest when you ask. Hopeful.
The other men you’d been with before never let you be as adventurous as Tyriq is letting you be. They’d always make you feel crazy or weird for expressing your true desires, like your curiosity was something to be toned down instead of explored.
The closest you’d gotten to feeling truly accepted was your roommate that you dated in college for five months. She understood what you needed—for the most part—but she liked someone more submissive. And although the sex was good, she ultimately needed more of a pillow princess.
That was not you.
You needed reciprocity. Energy. Hunger.
“I wouldn’t stop you,” he responds, giving you a shy smile.
But his eyes say something else entirely.
They linger on you a second longer than necessary—dark, curious, already imagining it.
Your hand travels to the back of his neck, fingertips sliding beneath the soft curls at his nape, just to feel his skin against yours again. The warmth there is grounding, steady, real. As charged as the conversation has become, it’s these quieter moments you keep coming back to—the soft, stolen touches, the unconscious way your bodies keep reaching for each other like it’s second nature now.
“What about your everyday, casual sex?” you ask, your voice softer this time, curiosity layered with something more thoughtful. You want to understand him, not just excite him.
He gets a bit nervous, and you notice it instantly.
His fingers drift under the blanket, catching the hem of your shirt, fidgeting with the fabric absentmindedly. Still, he answers.
“Morning sex is my favorite. Or anything where we can hold hands,” he admits.
“Everything feels more intimate in the morning.”
“So it’s about intimacy for you?” you ask.
“Most of the time yeah. I mean, there’s times for fucking but nothing is better than making love,” he explains.
His eyes don’t stay still as he says it—they wander, slowly tracing along your exposed collarbones, then higher… your neck… your ear. You feel it. The weight of it. Like he’s memorizing those spots.
Both places he’s already imagined kissing—slow, intentional, while he grinds in and out of you.
“You look like you moan loud,” you state.
“Yeah I am kinda loud,” he says chuckling. “But I ain’t shy about that. I’m too grown to be quiet. Unless we have to be quiet.”
You smile, biting your lip, watching the way his mind starts to drift.
“Mhmm. And in what situation would we have to be quiet?” you ask, riling him up even more. You get a kick out of seeing him fantasize in real time.
And he had no issue answering that.
“The cliché childhood bedroom at your parents’ house thing,” he says, looking away slightly, trying not to seem too eager.
“You wanna fuck me in my childhood bedroom?” you ask with a smug smile.
“I mean, yeah?” he says back in a coy tone.
But there’s more behind that answer.
If only you knew the things he thought about doing to you while trying not to get caught.
Oh, he definitely wanted to. The thought alone flashes across his mind—having you pressed up against a wall, close, breath mixing, one hand covering your mouth just enough to keep things quiet while everything else between you stays anything but. The tension of it. The closeness. The way he’d have to lean in, voice low in your ear, steadying you, grounding you, keeping you right there with him. His teeth and lips nibbling and kissing at your earlobe while he whispers “Shhh, shhh you gotta be quiet for me baby. We can’t let your parents hear how good I’m fucking you in here, okay? Just breathe baby”.
The idea lingers in his expression longer than he realizes.
“Tell me what else you want to do with me,” you say, your voice dipping lower, more intentional now.
Your fingers slide from his neck to his collar, tracing slowly, feeling the warmth beneath his shirt. Your body leans just a little closer without thinking.
“Masterbate in bed together. You tell me how to touch myself and I tell you how to touch yourself. And then we — we clean each other afterwards.”
His voice is quieter now, but steady.
You know exactly what he means without him needing to say more.
He wanted the two of you to lick the mess off of the other and taste yourselves on each other tongues. It’s the intimacy of it. The trust. The lack of hesitation.
You’re living for this.
You love how open he is. How willing he is to explore without shrinking himself. How he doesn’t treat desire like something that makes him less of a man—but something he can stand in fully.
“Is that for special occasions?” you ask, glancing at him through your lashes, referring back to the conversation you had three hours ago.
“That’s if we need to switch things up a lil bit,” he says. “I don’t have specific positions for special occasions cause I’m not a freak like you,” he adds jokingly.
That makes you laugh, shaking your head.
And honestly—that tracks. There was no specific special change for special days. He was on what you were on. If you wanted lick strawberry syrup off of his tip just because it was Valentine’s Day, he was down. He never got adventurous to his fullest potential in his previous relationships, so he hasn’t gotten to the point where he reserved special things for holidays or baecations. He wasn’t opposed to it, just never got around to it. Just waiting for the right person to bring it out.
You playfully slap his arm.
“You bout to be a freak like me. Give it a month or two. You’ll never be the same after big Pearline gets ahold of you. And good luck when I’m ovulating,” you joke back.
“I feel like I’m ovulating,” he exclaims, lifting his hips again dramatically.
“Boy what?” you shoot back, laughing, your body naturally folding closer into his again.
And even as the laughter settles, the energy doesn’t.
It lingers—warm, electric, waiting.
“I been hard for three hours,” he says, smirking. “But it’s okay. You gon fix it for me in a minute.”
His voice is low, edged with something heavier now—less teasing, more intent. He leans in, hand coming up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your bottom lip like he’s already thinking about kissing you before he actually does.
“Mm,” you release, kissing him back softly.
The kiss starts slow, almost deceptive in its gentleness. His lips press into yours with a quiet hunger, testing, tasting. His other hand travels to your neck, resting there—not squeezing yet, just holding, grounding you, reminding you of everything you’d just taught him.
“I’ll fix that,” you kiss again, softer this time.
“The minute after—” another kiss, lingering longer, your breath mixing with his.
“You put these fingers inside me,” you say, placing your hand over his, guiding it, your voice barely above a whisper now, “and make me cum.”
Your eyes lock with his, and something in his expression shifts completely.
This isn’t new territory for you two—but it feels new every time.
This is not the first time he’s fingered you. In fact, that was most of what the row of you have done. You have both given each other head once but you’d decided to put that on hold until things were official. Hands had become your language. Your preview. The way you both learned each other without rushing into anything else. You loved the way he let you guide him, the way your fingers would wrap around his wrist just to feel exactly how he moved inside of you, how he listened. And he—he was obsessed with your hands. The tension in them. The veins that pop out every time you squeeze him. The control. The way you knew what you were doing.
He doesn’t hesitate.
One hand stays at your neck, thumb resting just under your jaw, while the other slides down slowly, deliberately. His fingers trace the curve of your waist beneath the blanket, slipping lower, teasing at the waistband of your lounge pants like he’s savoring the moment.
His lips leave yours only to find your neck.
Slow kisses. Open-mouthed. Warm.
He drags them upward, taking his time, letting his breath linger against your skin before his lips follow. When he reaches your ear, he pauses just long enough for you to feel it—the heat, the anticipation.
“I can’t wait to taste you again,” he admits quietly. “Been too long.”
His voice alone is enough to make your stomach tighten.
His hand finally slips beneath the fabric.
You inhale sharply as his fingers meet heat, softness—proof of exactly how much you want him. He exhales low, almost like he felt it himself.
“See how wet I get for you?” you murmur, your hips pressing not so subtly into his hand.
He lets out a quiet, breathy sound in response, like he was the one being touched.
His lips find yours again, deeper this time and more urgent as he pulls off your pants and panties.
The flicker of candles, the sound of the TV, the city outside—it all fades into background noise as everything centers on touch. On breath. On the way his hand moves with more confidence now, more intention.
You lift your leg to spread yourself as much as you can for him. You needed him to have as much access as possible. To make sure every part of your core was touched and caressed.
His lips left yours for a second as he dragged his middle and ring fingers up and down your core to cover himself in your slick. He backs up just enough to look you in the eyes as he pushes his toe fingers inside of you. Easily. No resistance.
“Huhhh” you both moan in unison
“Mmmm fuck” he whisper a curse at the end. The feeling of you around his fingers somehow feels even better after you telling him all of your desires.
He begins straight away. No need for more build up. The creamy sounds of him in and out of you like a cello solo in a velvet room.
Your hands find him again—his arm, his wrist—holding, grounding, needing to feel every movement.
Your head tilts back slightly, your grip tightening around his wrist as your breathing changes.
“Mmm—” the sound slips out before he can stop it.
He watches you.
Really watches you.
You look down to see his fingers thrusting inside of you. The pearl colored cream shining his fingers. He softly squeezes at your neck just how you like all while very gentle swiping at your clit.
“I love playing with this pussy baby,” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent. “You like it when I play with you pretty?—hm?”
“I love— how deep you are uughh” your words break slightly as you exhale, your body reacting faster than you can keep up with. “Yes… just like that.”
He doesn’t rush. He continues to pump inside of you tenderly
Every movement feels intentional, like he’s listening more than he’s acting. Adjusting. Learning. Paying attention to every small reaction, every shift in your breathing, every tightening of your grip.
And the way his hand stays at your neck—steady, gentle, exactly how you showed him—only makes it worse in the best way.
Everything builds.
Slow. Heavy. Unavoidable.
And neither of you even thinks about stopping.
Your inner muscles tighten around him as he continues, steady and intentional, bringing you closer and closer to the edge.
“Keep going after I cum,” you say, grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him forward until your foreheads press together, breath mingling, shared and uneven.
“Whatever you want, baby. I got you,” he responds immediately.
There’s no hesitation in him. None.
Your grip tightens on the back of his neck as his hand tightens at the front of yours, just like you showed him—firm enough to ground you, gentle enough to keep you safe. The rhythm between you deepens, your body responding in waves you can’t hold back anymore. Your hips move instinctively. The feeling of your pulse racing into his hand made him light headed. He wanted nothing more but to feel you cum around his dick instead but this was more than enough for now.
“Oh yeah… I can feel you,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost breathless now. “Give it to me… let me feel you.”
Something in the way he says it pushes you right there. He added firm pressure to your clit to finally bring you over the edge.
“Uuh—my god—” your voice breaks, your body tightening as the feeling crests, spilling over in a rush that makes your back arch into him.
“Please keep going, Tyriq… please—”
You don’t even need to ask.
He follows you through it, just like he said he would—steady, attentive, not rushing you out of it. Your body trembles against him, your hand clamping around his neck as you bring his face into your neck . Your breathing uneven, your body slowly coming back down.
He let you catch your breath before kissing up your neck, the side of your face, to your forehead before sitting up slowly. He gently removed his fingers from you with a soft squelch and a soft whimper from himself. He did not hesitate to lick the rest of you off of his fingers viciously.
You take a second to catch your breath.
Then you lean in, pressing a slow kiss to his lips, then another to his cheek, his jaw, up to his forehead—soft, grounding touches that contrast everything that just passed between you.
When he finally leans back, there’s a look in his eyes you haven’t seen before.
Something dazed. Aroused.
“Gimme some baby,” you murmur, your voice low, eyes clouded with arousal
He leaned back in, tongue out for an open mouth kiss and you followed suit, reaching your tongue out too. This kiss was searing. Hungry and ready for more. And as much as you wanted to continue to taste yourself on him, you had work to do.
You shift, pushing him back just enough to straddle his thigh, your body settling against him with intention. His hands involuntarily came to your bare ass, caressing and massaging. Fingers spreading, gripping just slightly as he adjusts to you.
Your one hand rested on collarbones, fingers holding his chin steady so that he had no chance to look away. Your other hand wasted no time in gathering slick from yourself, releasing his rock hard dick out of his clothes and stroking slowly. The tip, already leaking and full.
“Look at me, Tyriq,” you say, your tone firm but soft around the edges.
He does.
Immediately.
Locked in.
There’s something about the way you’re looking at him now—focused, controlled—that makes his chest rise a little faster.
“Keep your hands on my hips and make me grind on your thigh until cum again,” you say. “If you stop, I stop.”
“You wanna cum baby?” you ask.
“Yes,” he exhales. “Please.”
You nod once. “Be good for me.”
And he listens.
Of course he does.
His hands guide your hips slowly at first, tentative—then more sure as he finds the rhythm, the motion pulling a soft sound from your throat. You meet him halfway, moving with him, but not giving everything. Making him work for it.
Making him stay present.
His grip tightens slightly, breath catching as he watches you—really watches you—like he’s trying to memorize every movement, every shift in your expression.
Your hand wrapped firmly around his shaft as you stroke his whole length up and down a few times, using his pre cum and your slick to slide up and down him. He bites his bottom lip letting out a loud groan.
“Oouh” he releases keeping eye contact with you.
His fingers push into you harder adding more pressure to your clit. You let out a sharp moan from the sensitivity.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, your voice softer now but no less commanding.
He doesn’t.
He can’t.
He wouldn’t dare to ruin this beautiful moment. Your bare, beautiful body, using him to get off. The way you’re holding his face towards you to make sure he catches every grind, twist and stroke. He could die just from the sight of this.
The tension builds again—different this time, deeper, more shared. Your breathing syncs, your movements finding each other in a way that feels almost instinctual now.
You begin to stroke harder as you imagine the next time you taste him.
“I wanna suck it so bad baby. I can’t wait to have you in my mouth again” you say practically drooling onto yourself.
The sound of your aching voice yearning for him makes his neck give out. He tries to throw his head back but you catch it and hold his head up to look at you.
“Uh uh. Look at me " you moan “You feel how we’re pulsing baby? We’re almost there. Just keep going and so will I” you say, eye brows scrunched and eyelids heavy.
You were almost giving up yourself but you knew how heavenly this climax would be. You couldn’t succumb to exhaustion.
“Oh my god…” his voice breaks slightly, low in his chest. “I’m— Ouh— gonna cum” he groans out
“Ahh me too baby fuck” you breathe out, your head tilting forward, eyes fluttering but still trying to stay locked on his.
“Stay with me,” you whisper.
And he does.
Right there with you.
Your sounds of pleasure begin to harmonize and blend together as you both reach your climax together.
“Mmm yeess” your voice vibrates as your hips shake on top of him.
Him fingers grip your right as his arousal releases into your hand and onto his abdomen
The moment crests again—not rushed, not chaotic—but full. Intentional. Shared.
You both still for a second after, breathing heavy, the air between you warm and thick with everything that just passed.
“Fuck…” he exhales, leaning back, his head tipping toward the ceiling before he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Something is wrong with you, girl.”
You let out a breathy laugh in return, your body still draped over his, your hand resting lazily against his chest now, feeling it rise and fall.
He had never let himself be submissive like that before, never given someone that kind of control—and as unfamiliar as it was, he couldn’t deny how right it felt. He had never cum so much in his life.
~~~
It had been about nine days since the two of you had that night—not sex officially, but the closest you’d gotten to it with each other. Close enough to shift something. Close enough to linger.
And it lingered.
Not just in your body, but in the way you thought about him at random times of the day. The way your mind would drift back to his hands, his voice, the way he looked at you like he was learning you in real time.
Life, however, didn’t pause for tension like that.
The two of you had work obligations that pulled you in opposite directions, making it impossible to carve out time for another proper date. Still, neither of you let the connection fade.
If anything, it stretched.
You FaceTimed late into the night, both of you half-laying in bed, voices softer, conversations looser. Sometimes you’d just sit there, looking at each other, smiling at nothing in particular. Other times, you’d talk about everything—travel, food, childhood stories—sending TikToks back and forth about places you had to visit together. You went to lunch a couple times just to keep the connection fresh until he was officially back.
It started to feel… natural.
Easy.
Like something that had already settled into your routine without asking permission.
And then there were the texts.
Chaotic. Unfiltered. Very you.
After the whole situation with wack ass Klay Thompson and angel queen Megan Thee Stallion blew up, you didn’t hesitate to give him a good talking to:
You - Light bright, lanky ass, biracial hoe. Lay low for a while. Your bum ass white skinned associate betrayed my queen. Gonna have to fuck every man I see for the next week💋.
Him - The fuck does that have to do with me?
You - Guilty by category. The only difference is that you’re not a washed athlete who doesn't know that Aquarius isn’t a water sign.
Him - Good thing I don’t come back for two more weeks
There was a pause after that.
Then—
Him - Date at Carbone that Thursday. Dress casual. And I mean real casual. Not your casual
You could practically hear his tone through the screen—firm, but amused.
You - Don’t act like you don’t like the running errands heel🙄
Him - I do but that’s not the vibe. Be casual.
Another pause.
Shorter this time.
Him - Call you tomorrow sexy❤️
And just like that, the distance between you didn’t feel so far anymore.
~~~
You arrived at Carbone hand in hand, your fingers naturally laced together like they’d done this a hundred times before. This time, you actually listened—you dressed casual. Actually casual. No heels that clicked with attitude, no outfit that demanded attention the second you walked in. Just soft, effortless, still you… but toned down.
And he noticed immediately.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles as you walked in, a quiet approval, a subtle thank you.
The restaurant was dim, glowing in that signature low amber light that made everything feel a little more intimate, a little more expensive, a little more important. The scent of garlic, butter, and red sauce lingered in the air, blending with faint cologne and polished wood. Silverware clinked softly, conversations hummed around you—but your table felt like its own world.
By the time your appetizer was long gone, you were leaned into the table, completely lost in him.
Tonight felt… different.
Still warm. Still easy. But deeper.
More intentional.
Your hand rested in his across the table, his thumb absentmindedly stroking the back of it as he looked at you—not just atyou, but through you, like he was trying to settle something within himself.
“Is that something that would eventually make you not like me after a while?” he asks.
There’s a softness to his voice, but also something careful. Measured.
“Tyriq, listen,” you say gently, squeezing his hand just a little. “I’m sure it will be hard navigating all the eyes on us in the beginning, but I’m sure it’ll die down after a while. I don’t know exactly how things will affect me, but I’ve never been one to crumble under pressure.”
Your tone is calm, grounded—confident in a way that steadies him.
Because that’s what this is really about.
Him.
Making sure you won’t get hurt because of him.
He knows how heavy that kind of attention can be. How invasive. And the last thing he wants is to bring that into your life and watch it weigh you down.
“Imma take your word for it,” he says, nodding slightly. “But you can’t get mad at me later if we wake up to a blog saying I’m secretly married to Megan.”
You squint your eyes at him instantly.
“Keep my queen’s name out of that rice-skinned mouth, boy,” you shoot back, and he breaks into laughter, head dropping for a second as his shoulders shake.
The tension eases—but not completely.
Because he keeps asking questions.
Small ones. Big ones. Subtle ones disguised as jokes.
And you answer them all without hesitation.
To you, it feels natural. Necessary, even. Of course he’d want to be sure—he’s lived a life where people approach him with intentions, not feelings. You don’t take it personally.
But to him?
These are his final checkpoints.
His last attempts to find a reason to hold back.
And he can’t find one.
Not in you.
Not in the way you speak, or think, or carry yourself.
For the first time in a long time, the idea of something real doesn’t feel distant. It feels… possible.
Because of you.
~~~
When you finally step outside, the night air hits your skin—dry, cool, carrying the faint scent of the city settling down for the evening. The street glows in soft orange from the lamps above, shadows stretching long across the pavement.
You start walking toward the car, still close, still connected—
—but he gently pulls you in another direction.
“Babe, the car is that wa—”
“We’re going somewhere else right now. Just come with me.”
There’s something in his tone that makes you pause.
Not urgent.
But intentional.
So you follow.
He leads you toward a nearby park, quieter than the street you left behind. The sounds of the city dull into a distant hush, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the faint creak of branches swaying overhead.
The trees are blooming. Deep red petals catching under the orange streetlights, glowing against the dark blue sky like something out of a painting.
It’s beautiful.
Unexpected.
“You wanna play on the swings or something? ’Cause I’m down,” you smile, squeezing his hand.
“I am not trynna play on the swing right now,” he chuckles.
He stops walking.
Right in front of a large tree, its branches heavy with red petals.
He turns to you, gently holding your arms at your sides, grounding you in place as he looks down at you.
Really looks at you.
He exhales.
“I had a great night tonight,” he says. “I’ve had a great time with you for the past two and a half months.”
Your eyebrows scrunch immediately.
Oh I know he’s not breaking up with me right now…
Your hand instinctively comes up to his chest, pressing lightly, feeling his heartbeat.
Fast.
Too fast.
Okay… he’s either terrified or really excited…
“I appreciate how much you balance me out,” he continues, voice a little tighter now. “And how you encourage me to express my deeper emotions freely. I think you’re perfect for me and—”
He exhales again, cutting himself off.
Then gently turns you around.
Your eyes follow the motion, scanning the ground—
And then you finally see it.
Red petals, scattered carefully across the pavement.
Spelling out:
May I be your boyfriend? ❤️
Your breath catches instantly.
“May I be your boyfriend, baby?” he asks, voice shaking just enough to give him away. That nervous smile spreading across his face, dimples deep, eyes searching yours for an answer.
You inhale sharply, your hand flying to your chest.
“Oh my God… oh my God… oh my goodness—”
Your vision blurs as tears well up, spilling over before you can stop them.
You turn and bury your face into his chest, clutching onto him like you might float away otherwise.
“Yes. Yes, you can, Tyriq,” you say, your voice breaking as you cry into him.
His arms wrap around you instantly.
Secure. Firm. Protective.
One hand cradles the back of your head, fingers brushing gently over your cornrows.
“Why are you crying? What’s wrong baby?” he asks, concern slipping into his voice.
You pull back just enough to look up at him, your eyes glassy, lashes wet.
“I thought you were breaking up with me,” you admit.
He blinks.
“What? No—no,” he says quickly, almost laughing in disbelief. “I want you to be mine. You’re mine now.”
He presses a soft kiss to your hair.
“And I’m yours.”
He pulls you back into him, rocking you gently side to side.
And in that moment—
wrapped up in his arms, under dim streetlights, surrounded by red petals and quiet night air—
warnings: no actual smut but descriptions of sexual activity
pairing: Tyriq Withers x Black female reader
summary: when it’s time to have the long awaited sex talk, neither of you are too shy to share.
note: hiii babies!! it’s been a long while and im kinda rusty but here’s the tyriq fic i promised:) i had a dream about this so in true notdeonn fashion, i had a write something about it. y’all i used my school knowledge and i had to do RESEARCH for this😭 so please enjoy and as always tell me what you think🤍!
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“So you’re telling me, you’re not good at roleplay?” you ask with a surprised laugh, the sound warm and bright as it slips into the evening air.
“It’s hard to get into character when it’s not for a professional reason,” he laughs back.
The two of you sit side by side on the balcony of his Los Angeles apartment, shoulders nearly touching, close enough that every subtle movement is noticed. This is your fifth date, though it feels like something deeper than numbers now—something settled and growing roots.
The city stretches out beneath you in ribbons of amber light, traffic humming far below like a distant tide. A soft breeze rolls through, carrying the scent of weed from somewhere unseen, mixing with melted mozzarella, basil, and the earthy richness of truffle oil rising from the table between you. Overhead, the sky is painted in bruised purples and fading gold, the last of the sun melting behind glass towers.
Things had gone better than you ever expected.
You had a history of being deceived by evil, tall biracials, to say the least, and because of that, your caution had become second nature. You wore it like armor. Sharp edges, narrowed eyes, measured words. But he had never tried to bulldoze through your walls. He had simply stood there, patient and steady, until you chose to crack the door open yourself.
And once you did, he proved to be genuine. Sincere. Sensitive in the most endearing way. The kind of sensitive that noticed when your smile was forced, when your voice dropped half an octave because something was wrong, when you pretended to be fine but twisted your rings with restless fingers. He was relatable too—easy in the way your dearest friend would be, someone who made silence feel comfortable instead of heavy.
He hadn’t been completely sure about you at first, either.
He liked friendly women, women who smiled easily and welcomed warmth without suspicion. You, on the other hand, had met him with a cool stare and answers clipped short enough to end conversations before they began. Rightfully so. But he had seen behind your crumbly exterior. Bit away at it day by day with patience, humor, and those earnest eyes that always seemed to look a little deeper than most people bothered to.
And eventually, he found the soft center that was truly you.
Now he glances over at you, smiling to himself as if he knows exactly how far you’ve both come. His knee brushes yours for a fleeting second, then stays there. Casual enough to deny on paper, international enough to make your pulse skip.
Although the two of you haven’t hit all the milestones he wants to before officially popping the big boyfriend question, he knows his heart is leading him to the right place. There’s a certainty in the way he looks at you now, a quiet confidence that doesn’t need to announce itself.
There is only one thing you haven’t done together.
During the past two months of getting to know each other, intimacy has not been at the forefront. There have been kisses that lingered long after goodbye. Make outs that left lipstick smudged and breathing uneven. Touches that started innocent and turned charged. Caresses slow enough to memorize skin. Grips and grabs that said what mouths politely withheld.
But nothing full out.
He preferred to take things slow, and truthfully, that patience had only made everything between you burn hotter. Every delayed moment became its own kind of foreplay.
And you’d told him that you always liked to have a conversation beforehand. Just to know what he likes and what you like. Like an introductory thesis, but for sex.
You’d had one very brief conversation where you found out he has a soft foot fetish.
“I don’t wanna see not one of my toes in that mouth boy. I’m serious,” you say as he laughed over FaceTime.
The memory makes you smirk now, and he catches it instantly.
He didn’t want that to be the only conversation had, so he planned a date. A sex talk date.
He called it “Intro to WGFT (we getting fucked tonight) 101” in the text he sent five days ago.
Just you and him on the balcony of his LA apartment. Mocktails sweating beads of condensation onto the table. Margherita pizzas with cheese still stretching in delicate strings. Truffle fries dusted in parmesan and rosemary. The clink of ice in glasses. The low music spilling from inside the apartment. His cologne warm and woodsy every time the breeze shifts your way.
And beneath all of it, humming quietly between each shared glance and teasing smile. Anticipation.
“Aight but you haven’t told me anything about you,” he says, shifting his body slightly to the right so he can look at you fully.
The movement is small, but it changes everything. His knee presses firmer against yours, his shoulder angled toward you now, attention sharpened like a blade. The city noise below fades into a distant murmur.
You try to hide your smile by biting your lip, but it only makes him pay more attention.
His eyes drop to your mouth instantly, lingering there for a beat too long. You can practically feel the warmth of his gaze tracing the curve of your lip, the faint indent your teeth leave behind. It sends a pulse low through your stomach.
“Nah nah, don’t get shy on me now.” he says, gently grabbing your chin to face him again.
His fingers are warm, calloused just enough to feel masculine against your skin. He turns your face back toward him with surprising tenderness, thumb brushing once along your jaw. The touch is light, but possessive enough to make your breath catch.
“Okay well I don’t know where to start.”
Your pupils enlarge immediately. A nervous giggle slips out of you, airy and bright. You’re suddenly too excited to tell him about any of your fantasies from memory, thoughts crowding over each other so fast they tangle together.
“Mmm, what’s your favorite three positions?” he asks, genuinely curious but still trying to tease you.
The corner of his mouth lifts. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Uuum…” You look up for a second to think. “Depends what on what kind of sex I’m having.”
He doesn’t say anything back, just raises his eyebrows, wanting you to elaborate, while resting his hand on your upper thigh.
The weight of it nearly steals your train of thought.
His palm is broad and heavy through the fabric, thumb idly stroking once near the seam. Heat blooms beneath his touch, spreading inward. You glance down at his hand, then back up at him.
You look him in the eyes and exhale with a flirty grin.
“Regular ‘routine’ sex? Speedbump, missionary and spooning,” you say, trying your hardest not to release the tension building between your legs.
His expression darkens with interest, lips parting slightly as if he’s filing each word away.
“But for special occasions—”
“What’s considered a special occasion?” he interrupts.
“Date night, after a formal event, anniversary, holidays……” you look him in the eye as he nods in understanding.
“Bear hug, slope, kneeling saint,” you almost whisper, getting lost in the thoughts of him doing exactly that to you.
The names alone feel decadent leaving your mouth. His hand stills on your thigh.
“I’m gonna be so honest—don’t know none of them except bear hug baby,” he chuckles slightly.
You suck your teeth shortly. “Tyriq.”
You look at him with a straight face to try and get a real laugh out of him, but he was dead serious.
His face remains calm, brows lifted like he’s waiting for a lecture.
“Oh you’re for real?” you ask.
“Deadass,” he responds back.
You lift your legs to rest atop his thicker, longer ones and move his hand up on your hip. You want to get closer while you explain. Try and make him sweat a little bit.
The new position brings you flush against him. His body heat surrounds you immediately. Your calf brushes his shin; the muscles in his thigh tense beneath your legs. His hand spreads wider over your hip like it belongs there.
“Slope is…..kinda like missionary but instead of you laying between my legs, you’re kneeling in front of me, I’m laying knees to chest with my feet resting on your abdomen. And your hands on my knees.”
He begins to rub at your hip, staring deeply at you, taking in all that you’re saying.
It turns you on how you can tell he’s taking notes for future reference.
His gaze doesn’t waver once. Focused. Intent. Like every detail matters.
“And where are your hands?” he asks, also imagining himself inside of you like this.
His voice has dropped lower now, roughened at the edges.
“Any part of you I can reach,” you respond, trying to calm your heart to not seem too eager.
Truthfully, you wanted to skip the convo now and show him exactly how you wanted him.
“I like that one more after my second orgasm. Makes me finish fast,” you continue as your core begins to burn with desire.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Kneeling saint?” he asks, wanting to hear your voice say more erotic things to get his mind going again.
Your eyes travel down to his legs.
“You’re um—kneeling, behind me and I’m sitting on top of you. Facing the same way. Maybe a bicep around my neck,” you say as you lick your lips, and your gaze and soft hand finds his swollen arms.
Your fingertips skim over the firmness there, tracing the line of muscle beneath his shirt. He inhales sharply through his nose.
“You like that?” he asks.
“Yeah. I love that,” you say, finding his entranced eyes again.
Something electric passes between you in the silence after.
“And bear hug?” he finally asks.
“You said you know bear hug?” you respond.
“But I don’t know how you like it,” he replied back.
This makes both of your heartbeats flush with arousal.
If you were more into public sex, you’d have him bend you over on this balcony.
“Okay well obviously I’m on top but you gotta have a strong hold on me. Both arms squeezing me close to your chest so I can’t go anywhere. And my ear close to your mouth so I can hear everything—”
“You talk dirty?” he interrupts calmly.
“Filthy,” you say back sharply, not breaking eye contact for a second.
The moment sends shivers down his back.
He’s growing hard underneath your legs, but he’s not ashamed about it. You both knew how much this was turning him on, and he wanted you to know he desired to please you in any way you wanted him to.
His hand tightens once on your hip, almost involuntarily.
“That’s also why I like speedbump so much much. I want you in my ear.”
You pause to let your desires linger in the air.
The breeze moves around you both, carrying the scent of basil, salt, and city heat, but neither of you notices anything except the charged silence now living inches between your mouths.
“You gon wear me out! I can tell already,” he laughs, making you laugh too.
The sound of it is rich and easy, rolling out of him so naturally it pulls the same from you. His shoulders shake, eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks. The city lights behind him blur for a second because all you can focus on is how handsome he looks when he laughs without restraint.
“Why would you say that oh my god,” you laugh back.
“The way your eyes just lit up? I’m gettin scared a little bit,” he laughs into your neck.
He leans forward as he says it, voice muffled against your skin, warm breath fanning over the sensitive spot below your ear. The scrape of his stubble sends a shiver racing down your spine. His nose brushes lightly along your throat as if he’s smelling your perfume, your lotion, you. It’s teasing, but intimate enough to make your thighs press together.
“Don’t be scared of me baby, I just know what makes me feel good,” you say back softly, rubbing the back of his head.
Your fingers slide into the short curls at his nape, nails grazing lightly across his scalp. He hums at the touch—low and pleased—leaning into your hand for a second before sitting back up.
He straightens to ask another question, but his eyes linger on your mouth first.
“No backshots?” he asks, surprised.
“Mm no, not for me. Not unless I’m getting bent over a surface of some kind. Like a counter or table,” you explain, sipping your maracaibo mocktail “But you like em though don’t you?” you ask, smirking.
“For special occasions,” he smirks and winks, showing his dimples.
You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself.
“Would you let me choke you?” he asks, making you giggle with joy.
The question leaves him calmer than expected, almost casual, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in his expression. Like he’s trying to learn every language your body speaks.
“I’m so glad you asked that. I love teaching guys how to choke me correctly.”
“Oh there’s a wrong way?”
“Absolutely. Let me show you first and then you can try it on me,” you say softly, putting your hand around his neck.
He looks surprised that you’re going to show him on his own neck, but he enjoys this more than he wants to admit. Truthfully, he’s fantasized about you riding him while choking him. He had grown very fond of your hands, to say the least. You always wondered why he’d ask for hand jobs a lot.
That’s why.
“Okay, so here’s what you don’t do,” you say as you squeeze all of your fingers around all sides of his neck for two seconds, making him turn red a bit and let out a small cough.
“That is strangulation. That’s brain damage. That’s serious injury. That’s death,” you say seriously, easing your eyebrows to let him know you were serious.
He nods immediately, eyes wide, fully attentive now.
“In the middle here—” you say, tracing a line down the center of his neck.
Your fingertip glides over warm skin, and his throat bobs beneath your touch.
“That’s your trachea. If you squeeze that too hard, I can’t breathe. No oxygen to my brain, I’m dead.”
“And here on the sides,” you touch both sides of his large neck.
“Carotid artery. If you squeeze that too hard, no blood to my brain. I’m dead again,” you say, giggling a bit at your own dry humor.
But he doesn’t laugh.
He is fully paying attention, jaw set, eyes moving between your hand and your face to make sure he knows exactly how to please you when the time comes.
“Here’s what you do—apply very light pressure with your thumb and middle finger. Only enough to where you can feel my pulse. The rest of your fingers are just resting.”
“Okay now try on me,” you say, releasing his neck and grabbing his hand.
His palm is warm and broad inside yours. Bigger than your hand by enough to make your stomach flip.
“It’s okay, don’t be scared,” you say as you see him hesitate a bit before placing his hand around your neck.
Your chest rises and falls quickly. You try your very best not to let out a soft moan as you feel his fingers cover nearly the entire curve of your neck. His touch is cautious, almost reverent.
“Okay now squeeze,” you direct him, knowing he wouldn’t do it himself.
He stops squeezing abruptly when he feels your pulse, just like you said.
“How does that feel baby?” he asks, never looking away from your eyes.
His voice is quieter now. Rougher.
“Perfect. So good,” you respond, licking your lips.
His gaze follows the movement of your tongue.
He keeps his hand there and slowly pulls you onto his lips.
He couldn’t wait another second.
The kiss lands deep and hungry, mouths meeting with the kind of urgency that had been building all night. His lips are soft but insistent, parting yours immediately as he angles his head to taste you better. The hand at your throat loosens into a cradle, thumb resting under your jaw while he kisses you like he’s been imagining it for weeks.
A raspy groan spills from him into your mouth, vibrating against your lips.
You grip his shirt tight in your fists and kiss him back just as hard.
The fabric bunches beneath your fingers as he deepens the kiss, tongue brushing against yours in slow, intoxicating strokes. He nibbles and massages at your bottom lip the way you like, catching it gently between his teeth before soothing it with another kiss. Every pause lasts only long enough to breathe before he comes back for more.
His other hand slides over your thigh, rubbing slow circles that make your skin spark beneath your clothes. The warmth of his palm contrasts the cool night air. Your body leans into his without thinking, chasing more of him.
The world around you disappears—the traffic below, the breeze, the music inside, the food cooling untouched on the table.
There is only the taste of him, the scent of his cologne and skin, the sound of his breathing mixing with yours, the way he keeps kissing you like he has something to prove.
For you to have almost hated him at first, you sure could not wait to fuck him now.
MAYBE a cameron fic whenever i remember my password of this account again and MAYYBEEEE i’ll do a part two where they actually get into it yuhhhhh😛
note: merry christmas y’all😛 i love hugo’s lips and i wanna kiss him for like 4 hours straight, so here you go. it’s been sitting i my drafts for like 3 weeks lol. oh btw, when i write for anyone who has a foreign accent, i hope you guys are reading it in their accent😭. anyway, as always, enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!!!!!
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His lips moved against yours with a softness that felt almost unreal—plush, warm, patient, as though he were learning the shape of you by heart. Each kiss seemed to bloom slowly, like he wanted to stretch the moment until time itself grew heavy and syrup-slow. His hands found your waist, fingers firm but reverent, guiding you backward step by unhurried step until your spine brushed the edge of his bed.
Your breath tangled with his.
Your heart tangled with his.
Everything felt slow, molten, inevitable.
Your hand slid toward his hip almost on instinct, fingertips grazing the waistband of his sweats. The cotton of his boxers whispered against your knuckles—soft, clean, warm from his skin beneath. You tugged him closer by nothing more than that small touch, and he exhaled a sound that trembled against your mouth.
You caught his bottom lip gently between your teeth, drawing a low, breathy hum from him. He answered you with a kiss that deepened by degrees—press, retreat, return—until your soft moans folded together, matching the slow rhythm you always seemed to fall into without thinking, like a song the two of you had known long before you ever touched.
Nothing about this was new.
Not the pull, not the heat, not the way he melted when you kissed him like this.
But this—this pace—was new for him.
Hugo was used to moments snapping open quickly, like doors thrown wide. He was used to desire that rushed, that yielded, that followed wherever he led. Always his timing, his tempo, his want.
But with you… he had learned to slow his hunger.
With you, he was learning patience he never knew he had.
Of course you wanted him—your body made that clear every time you kissed him like you were trying to drink the air from his lungs—but you wanted something more than urgency. You wanted the terrain between you explored inch by inch. You wanted the anticipation, the near-touches, the breaths shared too closely. You wanted time.
For two weeks now, you’d come over, sink into each other’s mouths, let hands skim and wander and learn—until the moment the heat grew too sharp. Then you’d slip away, breathless and warm, leaving him on the edge of something he never reached.
At first, it frustrated him.
He wasn’t used to stopping.
He wasn’t used to wanting and not taking.
But now… now he savored it.
He liked the slow unraveling.
He liked the way kissing you felt like hours wrapped in silk.
He liked that you made him wait—not out of denial, but out of intention.
Out of depth.
In a world where everything came too easily, where desire was fast and hollow and always within reach, you made him feel something he didn’t expect:
You made him linger.
You made him feel the gravity of wanting you.
You made him need the moments before anything else.
And God, did he love the way that felt.
He guided you down onto the bed with a tenderness that felt almost ceremonial, his body following yours in a slow descent until he hovered over you—arms braced on either side, legs framing you as though he were building a world where only the two of you existed.
“Scoot back, bébé,” he murmured, tapping your thigh with a gentle command.
You kept your fingers curled around the collar of his shirt as you slid upward, never breaking eye contact. The headboard met your back, and before you could settle, his hand slipped behind your neck, easing you into the pillows as you tugged him down again.
“Come here,” you breathed, teeth catching your lower lip, a tiny smirk playing at your mouth.
He obeyed instantly, falling back into your kiss like he’d been waiting for permission to breathe. His hands roamed with controlled urgency—gripping your waist, your hips, the edge of your thigh—as though he couldn’t decide what part of you he needed most.
Your legs wrapped around him, drawing him closer, and he caught them in his palms, holding you with a firm, almost protective gentleness. One of your hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the warm curls there, while the other lingered low on his waist, brushing repeatedly against the soft, heated space between you as his slow rocking pulled your bodies into a rhythm.
“Keep your hand there,” he whispered, breath warm against your cheek.
His own hand rose, fingers tracing the line of your throat before resting lightly against it—not to restrain, but to feel you. To feel your pulse.
The flutter beneath his fingertips quickened, blooming against his touch like a secret you couldn’t hide.
A soft sound escaped you—half breath, half need—and he answered with a sharp inhale, his body reacting before he could temper it. Even after two weeks of moments just like this, he still wasn’t used to how intensely you affected him.
How just the sound of your voice, or the way your heartbeat stuttered when he touched you, could send heat rushing through him so swiftly.
He lived for that shift—
that quickening,
that unguarded response,
that proof written in your pulse that you wanted him just as deeply.
And tonight, it hit him again, settling low and warm in his chest:
He would wait as long as you asked.
As long as it took.
Because these moments—slow, breathless, aching—
were becoming his favorite kind of high.
This time felt different—charged, fragile, intentional.
You didn’t stop him.
You didn’t pull away.
You didn’t break the moment the way you had every time before.
Instead, you let the quiet between you grow warm and electric, letting the space inside your ribs open for him.
After nearly an hour of kissing—slow, drawn-out, addictive—you felt something inside you shift.
Your body wasn’t just humming; it was pleading.
Not the kind of need you could tamp down and tend to later.
Not the kind you could soothe with your own hands once you were home and alone.
This time, you needed him.
“Hugo…” you moaned, breaking the kiss, your lips brushing his as you spoke.
He lifted his head just slightly, eyes fluttering open—hazy, heavy, bliss-soft.
“Hm?” he hummed, the sound low and sleepy, like he’d been drifting somewhere warm with you.
“I want… you to touch me,” you whispered, keeping your eyes locked to his, letting him see the truth in them.
You didn’t blink.
You didn’t hesitate.
You wanted him to know you meant every syllable.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—soft, not arrogant—but his response came quickly, voice dropping into something low and reverent.
“Want me to touch you, hm?…”
He brushed his thumb along your jaw, slow enough to ask again without words.
“Where?” he asked gently, already knowing, already feeling the answer in the air between you but needing the confirmation.
You took his hand and guided it down, both your hands moving together to the heat blooming between your thighs.
Even through your clothes, you felt his breath catch.
“Here?” he murmured.
“Mhm…” you hummed, your hips giving the smallest answering roll.
“Here,” he repeated, voice nearly a whisper. “Okay, bébé.”
He licked his lips, anticipation softening the edges of his expression.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing greedy.
Just want—deep, focused want.
“How you want it? Fast? Soft?” he asked, searching your face, waiting for the exact instruction that would let him give you everything you were asking for.
Your body answered before your mouth did—your hips rocking again, the tiniest movement, but enough to send heat spiraling through your spine.
“Soft… please,” you said, breath shaky with need.
He didn’t make you wait another second.
His hand slipped into your shorts with slow, deliberate care—knuckles brushing your skin, fingers gliding over warmth as they dipped beneath your panties.
You opened your legs a bit wider, giving him space, giving yourself over to the moment.
His breath hitched softly.
You felt it ghost over your cheek, warm, hungry, reverent.
He leaned down, lips grazing the shell of your ear, and as his fingers found your center—bare and velvet-soft—your breath stuttered like it was trying to escape your body.
He touched you gently, exactly as you asked—soft strokes that made your eyelids flutter and your back arch instinctively.
“Is this how you like it?” he whispered, his voice a warm curl in your ear.
“Yes…” you whispered, barely audible, “just like that, Hugo…”
His lips drifted down your neck, slow enough to feel every breath you took.
He kissed you like he was tasting you with his mouth open—soft presses, slow drags, carefully placed nibbles that matched the rhythm of his hand.
Your fingers dug into his biceps, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your palms.
He felt solid, warm, grounding, and gently overwhelming.
“Mmh… yes… that feels so good—” you groaned softly, your voice catching on the end.
He exhaled sharply through his nose—quiet, aroused—but kept his movements slow, careful, intentional.
His fingers pressed a little more firmly, moving in gentle circles that made the heat coil low and deep inside you.
He felt your pulse through your thighs, felt your breath stutter, felt your hips rise to meet him.
“Look so good like this. Pretty girl” he murmured, kissing the curve of your jaw.
He loved the way your body reacted—how nothing about this was performative or rushed.
Just real.
Just you.
Just want.
Your pulse fluttered beneath his touch—wild, blooming—and he felt it, soaked in it, drank it.
His voice dropped to a low murmur by your ear.
“Can’t wait to be inside of you”
You were already falling into a trance—your breath uneven, your voice a soft, constant hum.
And he kept touching you, slow and tender, building the moment like a song he didn’t want to end.
Every nerve in your body was awake, every breath a tremor, every heartbeat a drum echoing through your chest. His touch wasn’t just sensation—it was language, a slow, deliberate poem that traced the edges of your skin, mapped the geography of your desire, and pulled it taut until it vibrated with need. You arched toward him without thought, hips lifting, letting the warmth coil tighter, spiraling like fire inside you. The soft friction, the glide of his fingers, the weight of him leaning in close—it all wrapped around you like a current, a tide you had no wish to resist.
Your senses burned with awareness. The faint scent of him clung to your nose and made your stomach flutter. The soft, almost imperceptible rustle of the sheets beneath you, the delicate catch of your breath, the quiet hum of the city outside, all blended into a slow symphony that existed only for the two of you. You could taste the warmth of him in every kiss, every breath that brushed your lips, every soft exhale that trembled through the space between your mouths.
His fingers moved with meticulous care, coaxing, circling, exploring. Every gentle press was matched by your body’s subtle response: a quiver of your thighs, a gasp caught in your throat, a tilt of your hips. You felt the coiling, the slow building of something that had been simmering for weeks, something that had been patient, restrained, savored. And now, finally, it demanded to be released.
“Shh… s’okay” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice was a soft vibration, curling through you, wrapping around the coil of tension in your belly. “Let me have it. I want it”
You clung to him, fingers tangled in his hair, thumb brushing along the tense line of his neck. Your hips moved almost unconsciously, pressing toward him in silent invitation, in rhythm with the slow, deliberate strokes of his fingers. The sensation pooled low and deep, rolling through you like molten silk, gathering intensity with every heartbeat, every gasp, every tremor that escaped your lips.
“Feels… so good… Hugo…” you whispered, voice breathy, fragile, needing. Your chest rose and fell, uneven with anticipation, your back arching toward him as he followed every curve, every shiver, every sigh.
He pressed closer, letting the weight of his body ground you as his fingers drew soft, demanding circles that made your world narrow to a single, exquisite point of sensation. You could feel the heat spiraling, a tight coil that expanded with every brush, every glide, every gentle, insistent movement. Time seemed to stretch, to thicken, to hold you suspended in this moment that was both infinite and fleeting.
“Look at me,” he murmured, his eyes dark, heavy-lidded, almost reverent, catching yours and holding them. You could see the awe in his gaze, the way he marveled at you, at your body, at the way you surrendered to him with nothing but trust and desire.
You shivered, letting your lips brush his in a soft, tremulous kiss. “Ugh- please. Please” you whispered against him.
He hummed, a low, vibrating sound, and let his hands follow the silent commands of your body. Slowly, deliberately, he traced, coaxed, guided, each movement careful, reverent, full of intention. The sensation built, spiraling higher and higher, until it curled through your spine, pooling in your chest, your stomach, your thighs, until it was all-consuming, luminous, unstoppable.
Your climax came in waves, slow and rolling at first, then fast and consuming, each one leaving you trembling, gasping, lost in the heat of it. Your fingers dug into his arms, clutching him as if holding him close could hold the world still. Your voice caught on the edge of every breath, every soft moan spilling into the quiet, and he caught them all, memorized them, let them linger in the warm, electric space between you.
When the tide ebbed, leaving you shivering and glowing, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes soft, lips brushing your temple. “You okay?” he whispered, voice husky, gentle, reverent.
You nodded, still trembling, cheeks flushed. “Yeah…” you giggled, “I’m good” fingers tracing the line of his jaw.
A soft smile curved across his lips, the kind that held secrets and promises. “That was a big surprise” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “But I like it.”
For a long moment, you stayed like that, tangled together, breathing, hearts slowing, letting the heat settle and the quiet deepen. Outside, the faint hum of the city persisted, but inside, there was only the lingering warmth, the soft echo of touch, the intimacy of shared moments held like fragile treasure.
Finally, you shifted slightly, brushing a hand along his arm. “I should… go,” you said softly, voice reluctant, heavy with the desire to stay, to linger in the warmth a little longer.
He caught your gaze, a secret fire sparking in his eyes. “Yeah… but soon. Soon again, right?”
You pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his temple, savoring the warmth of his skin, the quiet tremor in his chest beneath your hand. “Soon,” you whispered, and he mirrored it, the curve of his lips a private promise that made your heart flutter.
You dressed slowly, savoring the memory of his hands, the soft echo of his breath, the lingering pulse of intimacy that clung to you. The sheets smelled faintly of him, of warmth, of moments held too long to let go entirely.
When the door closed softly behind you, you didn’t feel empty—you felt full, aware, alive, carrying the heat, the quiet thrill, the memory of him with you. And you knew, without needing to look back, that he felt the same, that the room still held the weight of your presence, that anticipation lingered like a secret shared between the walls.
As you walked away, a shiver ran through you—not just from the memory of what had happened, but from the thought of next time. That slow, electric intimacy, the careful, reverent exploration, the thrill of wanting and being wanted—would return. And when it did, it would be even more exquisite.
Somewhere behind you, Hugo leaned against the edge of the bed, eyes closed, a small, private smile curling at the corners of his lips. He traced the empty space you had occupied, imagining the warmth of your skin, the curve of your thighs, the tremor of your hips, and the soft, breathy sounds that lingered in his mind.
And in the quiet, he knew the next time would come—slow, intentional, impossible to resist. And he couldn’t wait.
sidenote: i feel like kissing is soo underrated. kiss more in 2026!!!!!!!!!!!!
Summary: Lewis’ little friend making yet another appearance unprovoked.
note: wanted to do a tiny little headcannon about sir jr. down there lolll. enjoys guys🤍!!!!!!
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Lewis had a big dick. Everyone knew it. Everyone saw it. Ignoring it was like trying to pretend the sun wasn’t blinding—impossible and frankly, exhausting. Every week, without fail, he went through the same pre-race ritual: a delicate, almost ceremonial adjustment before sliding into his F1 car. You’d watch him from a safe distance, arms crossed, secretly impressed and slightly horrified.
It was like he carried a dangerous weapon between his legs, one that demanded respect, attention, and, apparently, precision engineering. And as his wife, you’d done your fair share of “research.” You knew exactly how much potential chaos it could cause if left unchecked. You knew it was heavy, that it needed to be coaxed, positioned, balanced—a precarious little ecosystem of hardware and pride.
And yet… somehow, other people got to witness it for free. Mechanics, engineers, the occasional cameraman—innocent, unsuspecting bystanders, entirely unqualified for the experience. You were slightly, very slightly, annoyed.
It was yours. Exclusively yours. And the audacity of the world to get a peek? Unforgivable.
You sat on the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, typing away while waiting for Lewis to emerge with his final outfit before heading out for the day. He had gone through six different pant options already, deliberating over which pair complemented his outfit best, and honestly, giving him honest feedback while trying to concentrate on work was proving… difficult.
“Babe, just go back to the second pants you had on! Those looked really nice!” you yelled across the living room toward the bedroom.
He appeared almost instantly, striding out with that signature mix of charm and mild exasperation. “No, those make me look stubby! I need all the height I can get. A few NBA players are visiting today, and the last thing I need is to look like I’m three feet tal—”
He froze mid-sentence, abruptly cut off by the shocked, indignant sound of your voice.
“Lewis Carl Davidson,” you said, wide-eyed over your glasses, your tone oscillating somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
“What?” he asked, stiffening slightly, clearly aware he was already teetering on dangerous territory, though he didn’t yet know why.
“Absolutely not. Go change those pants right now,” you said, fighting to keep a straight face.
And then… there it was.
A full, unapologetic view of his very prominent dick print outlined in those fitted slacks.
His heart skipped a beat, and then lightened when he saw you trying—and failing—to hold back laughter. He glanced down at himself to see exactly what you were reacting to and promptly burst out laughing, clutching his torso as he bent over slightly in defeat.
“Baby… you cannot be serious right now,” he managed between chuckles.
“I am so serious,” you replied, letting the laughter spill out anyway. “You can’t wear that to work, Lewis. They’re going to arrest you for carrying that weapon.”
“They see this ‘weapon’ every week,” he said, stepping closer, grinning through his laughter. “Surely they’re used to it by now.”
You raised an eyebrow and gestured with your hands, practically theatrically. “And actually… now that you’re standing this close, it looks even worse. This is outrageous. You have to change.”
He froze, staring at you for a beat, a small smile playing on his lips as he realized just how much you cared—how much he must truly love you for actually listening, despite the absurdity of the situation. Then he shook his head slightly and said, still chuckling:
“You’re ridiculous, babe.”
“Maybe,” you admitted, trying to sound stern while your grin betrayed you, “but someone has to protect the public from… hazards like this.”
He laughed again, muttering something about how he’d “never marry anyone else who would publicly scold him for pant crimes,” before turning around and retreating back into the bedroom to swap into something less… arrest-worthy.
You shook your head, laughing softly to yourself, already imagining the look on the NBA players’ faces if Lewis had actually gone out like that. The combination of pride, amusement, and just a little bit of exasperation made your chest warm. Somehow, even something as ridiculous as pants and a very noticeable outline could make you love him even more.
summary: you both are so exhausted but you need him and he needs you.
tag list: @lewismcqueen @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @amirawrah @jessnotwiththemess @ayeshami @dexastres @kyoshithewriter
note: i’m not back guys don’t get excited lol but i know everyone is getting freaky this month so say thanks to @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro & @amirawrah for encouraging me to turn the dream i had into a fic :) it’s just a little something for my babies. miss you guys. anyway, as always enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!!
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Tonight had wrung you dry.
Not in the dramatic, stormy way that left you furious or weeping — no, this was a quieter kind of depletion. The kind that began the moment you opened your eyes this morning and knew, instinctively, that the day would drag across your skin like sandpaper. One of those mornings where the sun felt too loud, your clothes too heavy, your own thoughts too crowded. All you had wanted was to remain still, to curl into a cocoon of blankets and silence, to let the world spin without you.
But of course, life — his life — rarely paused.
And so you went. Because even at your lowest, you knew that staying by Lewis’ side, even at some glittering, pretentious business function, was still better than being alone in your own head.
He knew. Of course he knew.
He didn’t question your quietness, didn’t force conversation or tease you out of your mood like others might have tried to. Instead, he became your anchor — his hand finding its familiar resting place on your hip as if drawn there by instinct. He stayed pressed to your side like a secret vow, his touch speaking where words would have felt like intrusion.
His thumb made slow passes against the fabric of your dress, barely-there motions that sent tiny waves of calm through your foggy mind. Occasionally, his hand would drift, gliding up your waist to find your fingers, gently kneading them in his much larger palm. Not demanding anything of you — just affirming you were here. Present. Held.
You barely spoke the entire night. You let the meaningless chatter of wealthy strangers wash over you like static, answering only when necessary. They asked about superficial things — your shoes, your ring, what it was like to be with a man like him. You gave them polite smiles, well-trained responses, though deep down you longed to stab one of the crystal caviar spoons into your own skull just to feel something.
The only thing tethering you to sanity was him.
And Lewis looked unfair tonight — as if God Herself had decided to show off.
His skin glowed beneath the low chandeliers, radiant and bronzed like burnished gold. His lips — plush, perfectly formed. He looked soft enough to sink into. His hair was slicked back with meticulous precision, edges sharp, curls tamed but teasing rebellion. And that suit. Tailored by angels. Worn by sin. Midnight silk hugging muscle and frame like it had been poured onto him.
You could barely look at him without forgetting your own name.
And yet, despite the steady thrum of desire simmering beneath your gloom, you stayed silent — subdued, a slow-burning ember rather than flame.
All you wished, as another soulless conversation droned on nearby, was that this night would finally end.
That someone — anyone — would announce last call so you could finally leave this gilded hell, crawl beneath soft sheets, and breathe again.
Preferably with him wrapped around you.
Another forty-five minutes of smiling through agony. Forty-five minutes of nodding politely at people whose names you didn’t care to know, answering questions that scraped at your soul like dull utensils. Lewis felt it every time your posture wilted a little more, every time your eyelids dipped with exhaustion.
So when the final toast was raised and crystal clinked in fake celebration, Lewis didn’t wait for applause or farewells. He simply took your hand, laced his fingers through yours, and guided you through the crowd without a single backward glance. No goodbyes. No explanations. Just swift escape, like two fugitives fleeing captivity.
The cold night air kissed your skin as he found the back exit, ushering you into the quiet of the SUV waiting just beyond the service corridor. The door shut behind him, sealing you both away, and with it came your first true exhale of the evening — long, shaky, almost reverent.
You didn’t wait for permission.
You simply melted. Sliding across the leather seat until your cheek rested against the place you craved most: his lap. His thigh was warm beneath your skin, firm and solid like the heart of a sun-heated stone. Familiar. Safe.
His hand found your head instantly, as if magnetized — fingers threading into your hair with instinctive tenderness. He stroked slowly, deliberately, palm heavy and warm against your scalp. Soothing. Protective. Possessive.
Your body unclenched one muscle at a time.
You felt sleep reach for you like dark water, pulling you under — gentle, inevitable. Your breathing slowed, syncing with the muted rhythm of the road beneath the tires. You were so close to slipping away when you heard it:
His breath.
Heavy. Controlled. But tight at the edges — like he was fighting something back.
Your lashes fluttered. You tilted your head up just enough to see him, the way he sat with tension in his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple dipped as he swallowed. His fingers flexed against your scalp before trailing lower, brushing the back of your neck.
Then you saw it. His hand reaching for his tie, fingers slipping beneath the knot.
Loosening.
And something low in you stirred.
You didn’t mean for your thighs to press together — it was a reflex, a quiet clench of want, barely noticeable.
Except he noticed everything.
His gaze flicked down to you, soft but alert — assessing, reading you like scripture.
“You tired?” he murmured, voice low and velvety, laced with concern.
Words would give you away too quickly, so you only nodded — small, slow, eyelids still drooping.
“I know,” he sighed, remorse in every syllable. “I’m sorry. I should’ve canceled.”
The apology landed like a caress across your chest — but so did something else, tugging deeper, darker.
“It’s okay,” you managed — voice barely above a whisper, steady but not entirely honest.
Because while your body begged for sleep…
Something far more dangerous was waking beneath it.
The car ride was mercifully short — just long enough to hover between wakefulness and want, but not long enough to drift fully into sleep.
The moment the SUV rolled to a stop, neither of you spoke. No need. You knew the rhythm of nights like this too well — the ones where exhaustion and desire existed side by side, tangled like limbs beneath a bedsheet. Lewis reached for your hand again as you stepped out, guiding you through the soft glow of the porch lights and into the house.
Shoes were toed off. Jewelry slipped free. Your heels were abandoned beside his polished loafers at the door, an unspoken agreement that tonight was not about order or perfection. It was survival.
Neither of you bothered filling the silence with small talk. Instead, you fell into your nightly routine with a kind of sleepy choreography — separating only long enough to freshen up, cleanse tired skin, tend to tired muscles. Soap. Steam. Lotion. Water against face. Toothbrush against teeth. Familiar motions performed with heavy limbs.
Dinner was simple. Reheated leftovers eaten at the counter. Forks scraping quietly against plates. The only sounds were the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of cutlery. No conversation. No questions. Just presence. Just him. Just you.
And in that silence… something bloomed.
The house was dim — lit only by scattered candles left from mornings prior and the silvery ribbon of moonlight spilling across the floors through wide glass windows. It painted everything in shades of gold and blue, turning your quiet exhaustion into something almost sacred.
No words, and yet, so much was being said.
It wasn’t loneliness.
It was intimacy.
Not loud or chaotic, but gentle. Reverent. Like your bodies were speaking to each other without needing your mouths.
And that understanding — that rightness — made the ache between your thighs deepen with slow, creeping insistence.
Lewis noticed.
He always noticed.
He caught you when you passed by the bathroom mirror — catching your stare from the adjoining shower. You hadn’t even realized how intensely you were watching him, the glass fogging slightly around the edges while steam curled around his frame. The muscles of his back flexed under the water, glistening beneath the spray. Droplets slid down his spine like tiny rivers, trailing lower—
Your fingers tightened around the towel at your chest.
You weren’t bold enough to speak.
But your eyes were loud.
And when he glanced sideways — catching your reflection watching him like sweet relief, something in his expression shifted. The corner of his mouth lifted. Subtle. Knowing.
Desire, heavy and patient, coiled in the space between you.
You were both too tired for frenzy. Too weary for the frantic kind of passion that tore clothing and clawed skin.
But God you wanted to touch him.
Softly. Sleepily. Reverently.
And now, judging by the way his gaze lingered a second too long
He wanted to be touched.
It was nearing midnight when you finally reached your bed. Everything felt hazy — not the sharp kind of exhaustion, but the floaty, underwater kind. Like the world had gone muffled around the edges.
Lewis didn’t bother turning on the overhead lights. He only flicked on the bedside lamp — soft amber spilling across sheets in a sleepy glow. You stood there for a moment, bare-faced, bare-legged, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder. He stood on the other side of the bed with his hair tied back into a loose, low bun, curls still damp at the edges. His sweatpants hung slouched around his hips — dark grey, thin enough that the fabric clung softly to his thighs. His chest was bare, tattoos sharp, skin smooth and warm-looking, the kind of warmth that made you want to press your cheek against it and breathe.
You didn’t speak.
He just lifted the blanket on his side and looked at you — eyes heavy, half-lidded. His voice came out low and gravelly with fatigue.
“Come.”
Just one word. But it rolled through you like thunder in slow motion.
You swallowed. Your shoulders tensed. Your knees almost gave out. You obeyed him without even thinking — slipping under the covers, the sheets cool against your skin as you slid closer, inch by inch, drawn to him like tide to shore.
You shifted, turning slightly toward him, instinctively about to tuck your face into the familiar crook of his neck — your safe place — when his hand came up and caught your chin. Gently. Two fingers beneath it, tilting your face up to his.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t rush. Just held you there, his gaze sweeping over your features as if memorizing them all over again. His brows pulled together sweetly, like he was asking a question without needing to voice it.
Is this what you want?
You answered with the smallest nod — slow, certain.
You lifted your chin the rest of the way, closing the tiny distance between you.
And when your lips met, it felt like your souls mended.
Not fire. Not frenzy. Just completion.
His mouth was warm, soft but weighted — sinking into yours with a pressure that made your toes curl beneath the sheets. Your eyelids fluttered shut. His thumb stroked beneath your jaw as he angled you closer, tasting you with slow, deliberate movements. He didn’t devour you. He soothed you. Kiss after kiss, deep and languid, like you had all the time in the world.
A sigh slipped from your chest before you even realized it. His own breath caught in response, a quiet groan rumbling low in his throat — spilling into your mouth like molten gratitude.
Then he reached for your hand beneath the covers.
His fingers found yours easily, threading through until he had you secure in his hold. He guided your arm across the space between your bodies, slow enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted — but you didn’t. Your pulse thrummed hot beneath your skin as he positioned your hand over him.
Even through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, you could feel the firm heat of him, already there, already waiting. Hardness pressing into your palm like a confession.
You froze — a tiny inhale caught between nerves and anticipation.
He deepened the kiss then, as if to steady you. His other hand came up to cradle your cheek, holding you firmly against his mouth.
His lips brushed yours with quiet urgency as he whispered against them, breath warm and shaky:
“You wanna touch it, baby?”
The words fluttered through you like silk.
You nodded, lips still grazing his.
“Yes,” you breathed. Barely sound. More air than voice. “Please.”
A soft sound — approval, relief — rumbled from his chest.
“You can touch it.”
Still kissing you, he reached down with his free hand, tugging loose the knot of his waistband. The fabric relaxed, sliding down just enough. He slipped his hand beneath yours, guiding your fingers beneath the waistband, down past soft fabric.
Until your palm met bare heat.
Thick. Warm. Heavy in your grasp.
Your breath caught. Your body melted deeper into the mattress.
His hand curled around yours — large and sure — wrapping your fingers securely around him, pressing them tight so you could feel every inch of his hardness. He moved your joined hands slowly, just once. A slow glide down, then up, dragging your palm along his smooth, pulsing length.
His hand guided yours with deliberate care, wrapping your fingers around his warmth like he was teaching you something sacred. He moved with patience, letting you feel him — the weight, the heat, the heavy pulse beneath your palm. His breath hitched softly against your lips, but he didn’t rush. He wanted you to take your time.
And it stunned you — how gentle he was being.
He wasn’t usually like this. On most nights, he would take you without hesitation, rough and half-asleep, pulling you to your side and slipping inside you before either of you could think. Quick. Wordless. Familiar in its own right. But this… this was different.
This was offering.
This was closeness.
The way he guided your hand — not forcing, just showing — made something deep inside you twist with need. You loved that about him. How easily you surrendered when he led. In every way. How his direction made you feel safe and wanted all at once. How he knew — better than anyone — how much you needed to touch him. To feel him. Whether wrapped around him or filled by him, it never mattered. It was always more than desire. It was grounding. Healing. Addictive.
He seemed to understand that without a word.
His mouth found yours again — deeper this time. Hungrier. He caught your bottom lip gently between his teeth, breathing into the kiss as his hand tightened around yours, urging you into a steady rhythm. Your body responded instantly, melting beneath both his guidance and his need.
A soft, helpless sound escaped you — half-moan, half-sigh — because suddenly he was everywhere.
His lips consuming yours.
His hand covering yours.
His warmth throbbing beneath your touch.
You around him and him around you.
You whimpered into his kiss.
And he swallowed it whole — deep, gentle, unhurried — as if your need was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
His breath grew heavier against your lips, warm and uneven. You could feel his chest rising quicker now — the steady rhythm you loved turning erratic under your palm. Still, he didn’t rush you. He let you set the pace, even as his body begged otherwise.
You stroked him slowly, guided by the weight of him and the quiet sounds spilling from his throat. The softness of his moans made your body heat from the inside out.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to hover in front of him. Noses brushing, lips barely apart. You wanted to see him.
His lashes were low, his expression hazy, softened by pleasure. His curls had loosened slightly near his temples. His lips were parted, glistening from your kisses. You felt a swell of something warm in your chest — fondness so intense it made your hand squeeze around him tighter without thinking.
He drew a sharp breath.
He whispered, voice hoarse. His hand tightened gently at the back of your head, fingertips grazing your scalp in slow reassurance. “Feels good, baby.”
You nodded, stroking him a little firmer now, movements steady. His hips lifted subtly in your grasp — the smallest show of need. His forehead rested against yours, warmth pressed to warmth.
You could feel his heartbeat in your palm.
“So- good-” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyelids fluttered shut as he exhaled, jaw tense. The sound that followed was low and deep — almost a growl, but softened by restraint. He was fighting to stay calm for you. Not to overwhelm. Not to rush. Letting you take him there at your pace.
You felt a tremor under your touch — a subtle tightening along his abdomen. His thighs tensed. His breathing turned ragged.
He was close.
“You’re right there,” you whispered, stroking him with careful precision, your thumb brushing over his sensitive tip. “Keep going”
He let out a broken sound — half-moan, half-exhale. His hand clenched softly in your hair, but not to control. Just to anchor.
“Baby…” That one word — drenched in need — spilled from him like a confession. His forehead pressed harder to yours, his voice growing uneven.
“Mmm— keep going. Please.” You obeyed, milking him with gentle certainty, every stroke deliberate, loving. His entire body went taut beneath the sheets, breath stuttering as if he was trying to hold on.
But he couldn’t.
His mouth fell open, his spine arched just slightly, and his voice came out raspy and shaky as pleasure overtook him.
“Fuuck… baby…”
Hot release spilled across your hand — thick and warm, coating your fingers as you stroked him through it. His breath hitched, then broke into soft groans as you slowed your pace, coaxing every last wave out of him.
You leaned forward and caught his mouth in a slow kiss — deep, lazy, lingering — keeping him grounded as he trembled lightly beneath your touch. He kissed you back with a different kind of urgency now — grateful, raw, undone.
When his breathing finally steadied, he loosened his hold in your hair and pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were heavy but tender, admiration softening his entire face.
He didn’t say thank you.
He didn’t have to.
The look was thank you.
Without a word, he gently took your hand — the one still damp with him — and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. Then he reached for the discarded sweatpants at the foot of the bed, using them to carefully clean you both.
He tossed them across the room without care and shifted closer.
Completely bare now, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you into his chest. Skin to skin. Warm and solid and yours.
You nestled into him instantly. Cheek finding the familiar curve of his neck.
He exhaled — slow, content — and pressed his lips to your forehead.
No more words.
Just the sound of your breathing syncing, the shared heat beneath the covers, the quiet knowing.
His hand traced slow circles across your back.
You fell asleep like that.
Held.
Wanted.
Home.
note: i used beyonce lyrics unironically here lol. lmk if you can find it. also, don’t get your hopes up please but i feel like we’re in a hugo fic drought??? i can’t find what i’m looking for and i might have to just do it myself chile😪.
hi everyone! this post is something i’ve been putting off for a little bit. i want to say that i’m really happy i started writing on this blog. it was very fun for me let my imagination run wild and also a way to distract myself at a very hard time in my life last year. but now, and for quite some time, i don’t feel the same joy as i did when i first started. i don’t feel passionate about this anymore and the last thing i want to do is half ass anything, especially for the people who enjoyed my writing.
with that being said, i am officially putting myself into retirement. if i ever, ever, feel a strong spark of creativity i will not hesitate to come back. but for now and for a long while i don’t think that will happen. i want to say thank you to everyone who reads and loves my writing. i really appreciate every interaction, like, and reblog. thank you to everyone who requested and suggested ideas for me to write when i needed inspiration. love you guys so much💋.
i will leave everything up. feel free to read whenever you like.
i will still be around posting and supporting my other writer friends on this account @snowseasonmademe . we can still chat and interact there the same as we did here.
# summary: It's been almost five years since you last saw Lewis, and in those almost five years, so many things have changed......
# author’s note: This is a very short series, only 12 parts
# previous chapter | next chapter
Thursday, May 8th - Lewis's NYC Penthouse
The Almave bottle sat half-empty on Lewis's coffee table, the non-alcoholic tequila doing absolutely nothing to dull the ache in his chest. He'd been staring at his phone for the better part of an hour, scrolling through old photos and videos that he should have deleted years ago but couldn't bring himself to erase.
There you were in Monaco, 2020, wearing nothing but a pair of lace underwear, laughing at something he'd said off-camera. Your hair was longer then, and you looked younger, softer around the edges in a way that made his throat tighten. The video was barely ten seconds long—just you turning toward him with that smile that used to make him forget his own name, reaching out to pull him back into bed.
"Come back here," your voice said through the phone speaker, sleepy and warm and full of affection. "I'm not done with you yet."
Lewis's voice, younger and carelessly happy: "The camera's still recording, love."
"Good. Maybe I'll watch this when you're gone for three weeks and miss you so much I can't sleep."
The video ended, and Lewis felt something twist in his chest. You'd said things like that so easily back then—casual admissions of how much you'd miss him, how much you'd cared. He'd been stupid enough to think it was just pillow talk, sweet nothings said in the afterglow of good sex.
Now he wondered if you'd meant every word.
He scrolled to another photo—this one from Silverstone 2020, taken in his motorhome after he'd won his home race. You were curled against his side, wearing nothing but a black bra and the biggest smile he'd ever seen, your hand resting on his chest right over his heart. He remembered taking that photo, remembered the way you'd felt in his arms, warm and solid and real.
"I'm so proud of you," you'd whispered against his skin. "You were incredible out there."
He'd kissed your forehead, tasted the salt of happy tears on your skin. "Couldn't have done it without you watching."
"Bullshit. You're Lewis Hamilton. You could win races in your sleep."
"Maybe. But it feels better when you're there."
The memory hit him like a physical blow because it was true—everything had felt better when you were there. Racing, winning, losing, the pressure of being perfect all the fucking time. You'd made it all bearable, made him feel human instead of just a carefully constructed public image.
Lewis set the phone down and leaned back against his couch, staring at the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Tribeca penthouse. The city sparkled below him, all lights and movement and life, but he felt disconnected from it. Had been feeling disconnected from everything since Saturday.
Since Luna.
He'd spent his entire adult life choosing racing over everything else. Over relationships that couldn't survive his schedule. Over the possibility of a normal life with someone who understood what it meant to love someone who was never really present. He'd told himself it was worth it—the championships, the records, the legacy he was building.
But sitting here now, half-whatever on fake tequila and drowning in memories of what he'd lost, Lewis couldn't remember why any of it had seemed more important than you.
The thing was, he wasn't even close to retirement. Still had fuel left in the tank, still had things he wanted to accomplish before hanging up his helmet. The eighth championship. A few more wins. Maybe even a ninth title if the stars aligned and Ferrari finally gave him a car that didn't fight him every step of the way.
But if Luna was his—and God, the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that she was—how would it work?
Other drivers had made it work. Seb had kids, had somehow managed to balance being a father with the demands of Formula 1. Kevin Magnussen, too. Plenty of guys on the grid had families, had found ways to make the impossible logistics work.
It wouldn't be easy. Would be uncomfortable as fuck, actually, with growing pains and complicated planning and probably more sacrifice than he'd ever made before. But it wasn't impossible.
And the fact that you worked in sports media would help. You understood the schedule, the pressure, the way the sport consumed everything in its path. Maybe Luna could come to some races, maybe you'd both travel with him sometimes. Maybe the two of you could make it work.
If you'd even let him try.
Lewis had gone out Monday night after the Met Gala, had hit three different clubs in Manhattan looking for a distraction. Some model or influencer or whatever had been all over him at the second place, beautiful and eager and exactly the kind of meaningless hookup that used to help him forget his problems.
But when she'd leaned in to whisper what she wanted to do to him, all Lewis could think about was you. The way you used to look at him like he was something precious instead of just famous. The way you'd touch him like you couldn't get enough, like you were trying to memorize the feel of his skin.
He'd gone home alone, to this empty penthouse that cost more than most people made in a lifetime, and he'd sat on this same couch wondering how his life had become so fucking hollow.
The intercom buzzed, jolting him out of his spiral.
"Sir Hamilton? Your team is here."
"Send them up."
Lewis screwed the cap back on the Almave and tried to make himself look less like a man having an existential crisis. Marc Hynes, his agent, would take one look at him and start asking questions Lewis wasn't ready to answer. At least, not until he had to.
The elevator doors opened a few minutes later, and Marc walked in followed by Penni Thow and Chelsea, his publicist. They were all smiles and professional efficiency, tablets and coffee cups and the kind of focused energy that meant business.
"Lewis!" Marc's voice was warm, familiar. He'd been Lewis's agent for over a decade, had guided him through contract negotiations and sponsorship deals and more drama than either of them cared to remember. "Looking good, mate. How was the Met Gala? The photos were incredible."
"Thanks. Grace killed it with the design."
"Absolutely. And the coverage has been fantastic. Very positive response to your role as co-chair." Chelsea settled into one of the leather chairs, already pulling up metrics on her tablet. "Engagement is through the roof, brand sentiment is excellent. Really reinforced your position as more than just a driver."
Lewis nodded automatically, but he wasn't really listening. These meetings usually energized him, got him excited about the next project or partnership or opportunity to expand his influence. Today, it all felt like background noise.
"So," Penni said, opening her own tablet, "shall we go through the upcoming commitments? You've got the Dior event next week, then the Richard Mille shoot, and we need to finalize details for the new RIMOWA partnership—"
"Actually," Lewis interrupted, "there's something else we need to discuss first."
Marc's smile faltered slightly. He'd been in this business long enough to recognize when a client was about to drop a bomb. "What kind of something else?"
Lewis took a breath. "I need to hire a private investigator."
The silence in the room was deafening. Chelsea's fingers froze over her tablet screen. Penni looked like she'd been slapped. Marc's expression went carefully neutral, the way it did when he was trying to process information that could potentially explode in their faces.
"A private investigator," Marc repeated slowly. "For what purpose?"
"I think... I think I have a daughter."
If the silence had been deafening before, it was atomic now. Chelsea actually dropped her tablet.
"You think you have a what?" Marc's voice was dangerously quiet.
"A daughter. Her name is Luna. She's three years old, and her birthday is November eleventh." Lewis felt the words tumbling out of him, days of suppressed panic finally finding an outlet. "Her mother is a motorsports reporter. We had... a relationship. A few years back. She left without explanation, and now she's back with this kid who looks exactly like me."
Marc was on his feet, pacing. "Jesus Christ, Lewis. Jesus fucking Christ."
"I know how it sounds—"
"Do you? Because it sounds like someone's looking for a massive payday." Marc's protective instincts were in full swing now, the same ones that had gotten Lewis through dozens of potential scandals over the years. "How much does she want?"
"It's not like that. She doesn't know that I know. She's been avoiding me, actually."
"Then what's her angle? Why come back now?"
"She's working. She was in Miami for ESPN, probably covering the race. We ran into each other by accident."
Chelsea finally found her voice. "We should sue her. If she's been hiding your child for three years, that's—"
"No." Lewis's voice was sharp. "I don't even know for sure yet. That's why I need the PI. I need to know if Luna is mine before I do anything."
Penni had been quietly listening, and now she pulled out her phone. "What's the mother's name?"
Lewis told her, and she started typing. Within minutes, she was scrolling through what looked like social media photos from the Miami weekend.
"Is this her?" Penni showed him the screen—a photo of you from someone's Instagram story, taken in the media center.
"Yeah, that's her."
Penni kept scrolling until she found what she was looking for—a paddock photo that included Luna in the background, her face partially visible as she looked up at something off-camera.
"And this is the little girl?"
Lewis's breath caught. Even in profile, the resemblance was unmistakable. "Yeah."
Penni stood up and walked over to Lewis, holding the phone next to his face. "Stay still," she ordered.
The three of them—Marc, Chelsea, and Penni—all looked between the photo and Lewis's face, comparing, analyzing. Lewis felt like a specimen under a microscope.
"I mean, the whole fucking face is yours, Lewis," Marc said finally, his voice flat with resignation. "Take away the nose piercings and she's your twin."
Lewis nodded, feeling something settle in his chest. He'd known, deep down, from the moment Luna had read his tattoo with those big brown eyes that were exactly the same shade as his own. But hearing someone else confirm it made it real in a way that terrified and thrilled him in equal measure.
"So what do you want to do?" Marc asked, settling back into business mode. "Because this is about to get very complicated very quickly."
"I want to know for sure. DNA test, legal confirmation, whatever it takes. And then..." Lewis ran both hands over his face. "Then I want to be in her life. However that works. Are you going to help me or not?"
Marc looked at him for a long moment, then sighed. "Of course we're going to help you, you idiot. But Lewis, this isn't just about wanting to be a father. If Luna is yours, you have rights. Legal rights. And if her mother has been deliberately keeping her from you..."
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
But even as he said it, Lewis felt sick to his stomach. The thought of going to court, of fighting you for custody, of turning Luna into the center of some legal battlefield... it made him want to throw up.
"Let's start with the PI," Chelsea said practically. "Get the facts first, then we can figure out next steps."
Lewis nodded, already reaching for his phone to make the calls that would change everything.
Saturday, May 10th - Private Investigation Agency, Manhattan
The conference room was sterile and intimidating, all glass and steel and the kind of expensive minimalism that was supposed to inspire confidence. Lewis sat at one end of the long table, flanked by Marc and one of his lawyers, David Chen. Across from them sat two private investigators who looked like they'd stepped out of a crime drama—professional, serious, and probably capable of finding out anything about anyone.
The only other people in the room were Miles and Rachel Keen—known professionally as RAYE—who'd flown in from London the moment Lewis had called them. Rachel was one of his closest friends, had been since they'd met at a music industry event years ago. She understood the pressure of fame, the way it could isolate you from normal human connection, and she was one of the few people who could talk him off a ledge when his anxiety got the better of him.
"So let me make sure I understand," said Jennifer Walsh, the lead investigator. "You want us to conduct a full background check on the subject, confirm the child's parentage, and provide a comprehensive report on their living situation."
"That's right," Lewis said, his voice steady despite the fact that his hands were shaking under the table.
"And you understand that this investigation will likely require surveillance, interviews with associates, and potentially some... intrusive methods of gathering information?"
Lewis felt Rachel squeeze his hand under the table, a silent reminder that he wasn't alone in this.
"I understand. But I need to know the truth."
David Chen leaned forward, his expression serious. "Lewis, I have to advise you that if paternity is confirmed, you'll have significant legal options. Depending on the circumstances of why the child was kept from you, we could pursue anything from visitation rights to full custody."
"I don't want full custody," Lewis said quickly. "I travel forty weeks a year. No judge is going to give me full custody, and I wouldn't want that anyway. Luna needs stability, needs her routine."
"But you do want to be involved in her life?"
"Yes. However that works out."
David nodded, making notes. "We'll need to document everything. Every interaction you've had with the mother, any attempts she's made to contact you or avoid contact, any evidence that she knew you were the father."
Lewis thought about that text you'd sent four years ago, about the way you'd disappeared so completely it was like you'd never existed. About the way you'd looked at him in Miami—guilty, scared, like you were hiding something massive.
"There's something else," he said slowly. "When she left, she sent me a text. Said she needed to focus on her career, told me not to contact her. But the timing... if Luna is mine, if she was pregnant when she sent that..."
"We'll need to see that text," David said.
Lewis pulled out his phone, scrolled back through four years of messages until he found it. The words were burned into his memory, but seeing them on the screen still made his chest ache.
Please don't ever contact me.
"Short and to the point," Jennifer observed. "Almost like she was trying to end things as quickly as possible without explanation."
"That's what I thought too."
Rachel cleared her throat. "Lewis, can I ask... how are you feeling about all this? I mean, beyond the legal stuff. If Luna is your daughter, that's huge."
Lewis looked at her, grateful for the question. Everyone else was focused on the logistics, the legal implications, the potential PR nightmare. Rachel was the first person to ask about the emotional reality of what he was facing.
"Terrified," he admitted. "And excited. And guilty as hell."
"Guilty for what?"
"For not knowing. For not being there. For letting her grow up without a father because I was too focused on racing to see what was right in front of me."
Miles spoke up for the first time since they'd arrived. "Mate, you can't blame yourself for something you didn't know about. If she chose not to tell you..."
"But what if she had a reason? What if I did something, said something that made her think I wouldn't want Luna?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with possibility and regret.
David's voice cut through the moment. "That's exactly why we need a full investigation. We need to understand not just the facts, but the context. Why she left, why she's been avoiding you, what her intentions are now."
Lewis nodded, even though something about the lawyer's tone made him uncomfortable. David was talking about you like you were an adversary, someone to be defeated rather than someone he'd once loved.
"How long will this take?" Lewis asked.
"Two to three weeks for a comprehensive report," Jennifer said. "Less if we get lucky with key information early on."
"And what about the DNA test?"
"That's trickier. We'll need a sample from the child, which means either cooperation from the mother or more... creative methods."
Lewis felt his stomach drop. "What kind of creative methods?"
"A hair from a hairbrush, saliva from a drinking cup, anything with genetic material. It's not uncommon in paternity cases."
The idea of someone secretly collecting Luna's DNA made Lewis feel sick. But what choice did he have? You weren't going to voluntarily submit to a paternity test, and he needed to know for sure.
"Do whatever you have to do," he said finally. "But be careful. I don't want Luna scared or traumatized by any of this."
Jennifer nodded. "We'll be discreet. The child will never know we were there."
As the meeting wrapped up and contracts were signed, Lewis felt like he was crossing a line he couldn't uncross. In two weeks, he'd know for certain whether Luna was his daughter. And then... then he'd have to figure out what came next.
Because whatever happened, there was no going back to the way things were before Miami.
The truth was coming, whether any of them were ready for it or not.
Tuesday, May 13th - ESPN Seattle Bureau
You were staring at your computer screen, trying to focus on an article about the upcoming Indianapolis 500, when the email arrived. The subject line made your blood run cold: Urgent - Assignment Change for Emilia Romagna GP.
Your hands were shaking as you opened it.
Hi Y/N,
Hope you're well. Unfortunately, Tom has come down with food poisoning and won't be able to cover Imola this weekend. I know it's short notice, but would you be available to fly out tomorrow? We need someone who knows the sport and can handle the driver interviews.
Let me know ASAP.
Best, Sandra
You stared at the email for a full minute, your heart hammering against your ribs. Of all the weekends, of all the races, of course you'd be called up for Imola. The one race where you'd definitely run into Lewis again, where there'd be no avoiding the conversation you'd been dreading for four years.
Your first instinct was to say no. To claim you were sick, that Luna needed you, that you had some unmovable commitment. But this was work, professional work that you needed to keep your career on track. And saying no to a last-minute assignment would raise questions you couldn't answer.
You typed back a response before you could lose your nerve.
Hi Sandra,
Yes, I can cover Imola. Will need to arrange childcare but should be able to fly out tomorrow evening.
Thanks, Y/N
The moment you hit send, you wanted to throw your laptop across the room. Instead, you called Gabriel.
"Hey babe, what's—"
"I have to go to Italy," you said without preamble. "Tomorrow. For work."
There was a pause. "Italy as in...?"
"As in Emilia Romagna Grand Prix. As in I'm going to have to face Lewis again whether I want to or not."
Gabriel was quiet for a long moment. "Maybe this is a sign."
"A sign of what?"
"That it's time to tell him the truth."
You closed your eyes, leaning back in your desk chair. "Gabe..."
"I'm serious. You can't run forever, and Luna's going to start asking harder questions. Maybe this is the universe giving you a push."
"The universe can mind its own business."
But even as you said it, you knew Gabriel was right. Every day, Luna asked more questions about other kids' fathers, about why she didn't have a daddy, about the fuzzy photos she'd seen of you from your reporting days. You were running out of deflections, out of age-appropriate explanations that didn't involve outright lies.
"I'll watch Luna," Gabriel said finally. "Your parents can help too. We'll make it work."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. But Y/N? Promise me you'll at least think about it. About telling him."
You promised, even though you had no intention of keeping that promise.
Wednesday, May 14th - Seattle-Tacoma International Airport
Luna was a trooper about the early morning goodbye, clinging to you in the departure area while Gabriel waited patiently with her princess backpack and enough snacks to feed a small army.
"Mama, can you get the car man's signature?" she asked, looking up at you with those big brown eyes that were so much like Lewis's it made your chest ache.
"What?" you managed.
"The car man! From the garage! Can you get his autograph for me?"
Gabriel shot you a look over Luna's head, eyebrows raised.
"We'll see, baby girl," you said, kissing her forehead. "Be good for Uncle Gabe and Grandma, okay?"
"Okay! Love you, Mama!"
"Love you too."
Your mother appeared as you were getting ready to go through security, pulling you into one of her crushing hugs that smelled like vanilla and home.
"You look tired, mija," she said in Spanish, smoothing your hair back like you were still five years old.
"I'm fine, Mami."
"No, you're not." She pulled back to look at you seriously. "You've been carrying this secret for too long. It's eating you alive."
You glanced around, making sure Luna was distracted by something Gabriel was showing her on his phone. "Mami, not here."
"When, then? When Luna is fifteen and asking why her father never wanted her? When she finds out on her own and realizes you lied to her her whole life?"
The words hit like physical blows. "It's not that simple."
"It is that simple, mija. You tell him the truth. You let him decide what kind of father he wants to be. And you stop making decisions for everyone else." Your mother kissed your cheek and stepped back, her expression softening. "God gave you this chance for a reason. Don't waste it."
As you walked through security and toward your gate, your mother's words echoed in your head. But so did the memory of that text message, the one that had sent you running four years ago. The anonymous number telling you that Lewis didn't want kids, that you should disappear before he did it for you.
You'd never found out who sent it. Had been too scared and hurt and overwhelmed to investigate. But it had felt real enough at the time, had confirmed all your worst fears about what Lewis would say if he knew you were pregnant.
Now, sitting in the departure lounge waiting for your flight to board, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were walking into a trap of your own making.
Thursday, May 15th - Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari, Imola
The Italian sun was warm on your face as you walked through the paddock, press badge swinging from the lanyard around your neck. Imola had always been one of your favorite circuits—historic, challenging, and somehow more intimate than some of the bigger venues. But today, every step felt like you were walking toward your own execution.
You'd arrived late the night before and spent the morning in media briefings, trying to focus on tire compounds and aerodynamic updates instead of scanning every crowd for a flash of Lewis's face. So far, you'd been lucky—the driver's conference you'd been assigned to cover hadn't included him, and you'd managed to avoid the Ferrari hospitality area entirely.
But that luck ran out around 2 PM.
You were walking back from interviewing Charles Leclerc about the car's balance issues when you heard it—the distinctive sound of a Ferrari engine being pushed hard. Your head turned automatically toward the sound, and your blood froze.
Lewis was climbing out of an SF-25 that had just pulled up to the garage, pulling off his helmet and running a hand through his braids in that gesture you remembered so well. He looked frustrated, probably another difficult practice session, and he was talking animatedly to his engineer about something that clearly wasn't working.
You turned and walked in the opposite direction as quickly as you could without actually running.
But even as you made yourself scarce, disappearing into the media center where you could hide behind your laptop and pretend to work, you couldn't shake the image of him. Days since the Met Gala, days since you'd watched him on your friends' phone looking like he owned the world, and he was still the most beautiful man you'd ever seen.
And somewhere back in Seattle, his daughter was probably asking Gabriel for the hundredth time when Mama was coming home, still clutching that stuffed elephant that had the same stubborn cowlick as the man you were hiding from.
You thought you'd escaped.
You'd made it through the media center, past the paddock club, almost to the parking area where you could disappear into your rental car and drive back to the hotel. Your heart was finally starting to slow down from seeing Lewis by the Ferrari garage, and you were beginning to think you might actually make it through this weekend without having to face him directly.
That's when you heard your name.
"Y/N."
Your blood turned to ice. You stopped walking, your hand frozen on the door handle of your rental car, and slowly turned around.
Lewis stood about ten feet away, still in his racing suit with the top half tied around his waist, leaving him in just a tight fireproof undershirt that clung to every line of his torso. His braids was still mussed from his helmet, and there was a slight sheen of sweat on his skin that made your mouth go dry despite everything.
He'd never been tall—you were both around 5'9", which meant you could look him directly in the eye without craning your neck. You'd never minded his height, especially not when he carried himself with the kind of confidence that made him seem ten feet tall. And God, especially not when you'd discovered that what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in that big dick energy that had made you forget your own name on more than one occasion.
But standing here now, four years later, you realized that his presence still had the same effect on you. He commanded attention without trying, made the space around him feel charged with electricity.
"Lewis." Your voice came out steadier than you felt. "How... how did practice go?"
It was a stupid question, the kind of polite small talk you'd make with any driver, but you needed something to fill the silence that was stretching between you like a live wire.
His jaw tightened. "Really? That's what you want to talk about?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" He took a step closer, and you could smell his cologne mixed with the lingering scent of rubber and fuel that always clung to drivers after practice sessions. "Because I think you know exactly what I want to talk about."
Your heart was hammering against your ribs, but you forced yourself to maintain eye contact. "Lewis, I'm working. I've got deadlines to meet and—"
"Cut the bullshit, Y/N." His voice was low, dangerous in a way that sent shivers down your spine for all the wrong reasons. "We both know this isn't about work."
"I honestly don't know what you're talking about."
The lie tasted bitter on your tongue, but you couldn't—wouldn't—give him what he was looking for. Not here, not like this, not when you weren't prepared for the conversation that would change everything.
Lewis laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You're really going to stand there and pretend like nothing happened? Like there's nothing you need to tell me?"
"Tell you what?" You crossed your arms over your chest, partly for warmth and partly as a barrier between you and the intensity radiating off him. "Lewis, I don't know what kind of game you think we're playing here, but—"
"Game?" His voice shot up, and you glanced around nervously, hoping no one was close enough to overhear. "You think this is a fucking game?"
"Keep your voice down," you hissed.
"Or what? You'll disappear for another four years?" He took another step closer, close enough that you could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, the same eyes that Luna had inherited. "Is that your solution to everything? Just run away when things get complicated?"
The accusation hit like a slap. "You don't know anything about why I left."
"Then tell me." His voice dropped back to that dangerous whisper, and somehow that was worse than the shouting. "Tell me why you vanished without explanation. Tell me why you blocked my number, deleted your social media, acted like we never meant anything to each other."
You could feel yourself wavering, could feel four years of carefully constructed walls starting to crumble under the weight of his stare. There was pain in his eyes, real pain that you'd put there, and for a moment you almost broke.
Almost.
"People grow apart, Lewis. Relationships end. It happens."
"Not like that. Not the way we were." He was close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "We were good together, Y/N. Really fucking good. And you threw it away like it meant nothing."
"Maybe it didn't mean as much as you thought it did."
The words came out crueler than you'd intended, and you watched them hit him like physical blows. His face went carefully blank, the way it did during press conferences when reporters asked questions he didn't want to answer.
"Right," he said quietly. "Of course. How stupid of me to think otherwise."
He started to turn away, and panic flared in your chest. This was going all wrong, spiraling into territory you hadn't prepared for. You'd expected questions about Luna, not this raw excavation of what you'd had together.
"Lewis, wait—"
He spun back around, and the look in his eyes made you take a step back.
"No, you know what? I'm done being nice about this. I'm done pretending like I don't know exactly what you're hiding from me." His voice was getting louder again, and you could see a few people starting to notice the commotion. "Is there anything you want to tell me, Y/N? Anything at all that you think I might want to know?"
Your throat felt like it was closing. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"November eleventh ring any bells?"
Your blood turned to ice. "What?"
"November eleventh. Does that date mean anything to you?"
You forced your expression to remain neutral even as your world tilted sideways. "It's... it's a date. I don't understand—"
"It's your daughter's birthday."
The words hung in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, could feel sweat beading at your hairline.
"So?" you managed.
"So it's also my mother's birthday. Quite a coincidence, don't you think?"
You shrugged, fighting to appear casual. "Birthdays are just dates, Lewis. Millions of people share them."
"Right. Just like millions of three-year-old girls can read numbers and have my eyes and my stubborn chin and my exact hair texture."
Each word was like a knife twisting in your chest. He knew. Of course he knew. You'd been an idiot to think you could keep this secret forever, especially once Luna had started talking to him directly.
But you couldn't give in. Not yet. Not until you knew what he planned to do with the information.
"I think you're seeing things that aren't there," you said carefully.
Lewis stared at you for a long moment, and you could practically see him wrestling with his temper. When he spoke again, his voice was deadly calm.
"You know what? You're right. This isn't getting us anywhere." He took a step back, and somehow that felt more threatening than when he'd been crowding your space. "But I will get the answers I need from you, Y/N. I tried being nice about this, tried giving you the chance to tell me yourself. But the gloves are fucking off now."
The threat in his voice made your knees weak. "Lewis—"
"Save it." He was already walking away, not even bothering to look back at you. "Enjoy the rest of your weekend. I know I will."
You stood there in the parking lot, watching him disappear back toward the paddock, your entire body shaking with adrenaline and terror. The conversation had gone worse than your worst-case scenario. Not only did Lewis clearly suspect the truth about Luna, but you'd just essentially declared war by refusing to confirm what he already knew.
Your hands were trembling as you fumbled for your phone, scrolling to Gabriel's contact and hitting call before you'd even fully processed what you were doing.
"Hey babe," his voice was warm and familiar, a lifeline in the chaos of your panic. "How's Italy? Please tell me you didn't run into—"
"Gabe." Your voice cracked on his name. "Gabe, I need you to tell me the truth about something."
"Okay..." His tone shifted immediately, picking up on your distress. "What's wrong? You sound terrified."
"Have you noticed anyone following you? Anyone watching the house? Any strange cars on our street?"
"What? Y/N, what the hell are you talking about?"
"Please, just think. Has anything seemed off in the last week? Anyone asking questions about Luna, about me?"
There was a pause, and you could practically hear Gabriel thinking. "No, nothing like that. Why would someone be watching us? Y/N, you're scaring me."
You closed your eyes, leaning against your rental car for support. "He knows, Gabe. Lewis knows about Luna."
"How much does he know?"
"I don't know. Enough. He knows her birthday, knows that she's his fucking twin. He's been putting the pieces together, and I just... I couldn't tell him. I couldn't confirm it."
"Oh, honey..."
"He threatened me, Gabe. He said the gloves are off, that he's going to get answers whether I give them to him or not. What if he comes for her? What if he tries to take her away from me?"
"Y/N, breathe. Just breathe for a second."
But you couldn't breathe. Your chest felt tight, your vision was starting to blur around the edges, and all you could think about was Luna—sweet, innocent Luna who had no idea that her entire world was about to implode.
"He's coming for her, Gabe," you whispered into the phone. "Lewis is coming for Luna."
And as you said the words, you realized that your worst nightmare was finally coming true.
# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist
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Jensen stood on the balcony of his Miami Beach penthouse, watching the sun bleed orange across Biscayne Bay while nursing a glass of aged whiskey. Irony tastes bitter on his tongue—he'd bought this place with money earned protecting Lewis Hamilton.
Now he's using it as his base of operations to destroy the man who'd made it all possible.
He lifts his whiskey glass of an aged Macallan. Takes a slow sip. Doesn't flinch at the burn.
Loyalty. What a fucking joke.
Jensen had recognized the fundamental flaw in his position long before the opportunity to exploit it arose. Lewis was brilliant, ruthless, and utterly focused on expanding his empire. But he was also fundamentally limited by the same British reserve that made him so effective in negotiations—he trusted competence over charm, relied on systems over personalities, and worst of all, he believed loyalty was something that could be bought with fair treatment and steady pay.
The man had never understood that some people wanted more than employment. Some wanted partnership. Some wanted recognition. And some, like Jensen, wanted to surpass their former masters entirely.
The decision to betray Lewis hadn’t been made lightly or quickly. It had been a gradual recognition of opportunities, a careful analysis of risk versus reward, and ultimately, a calculated bet on his own ability to play a longer game than anyone realized he was capable of.
Suarez’s initial approach had come through intermediaries—subtle inquiries about Lewis’s security protocols, casual questions about operational procedures, the kind of intelligence gathering that any competent enemy would attempt. Jensen had played along initially, feeding them enough legitimate information to establish his credibility while gathering intelligence about Suarez’s resources and intentions.
You had been an unexpected complication in Lewis’s otherwise predictable existence. Jensen had watched your arranged marriage evolve from strategic alliance into something that genuinely mattered to his boss, and he’d recognized the vulnerability it created. Lewis Hamilton in love was Lewis Hamilton with weakness, and weakness could be exploited by someone patient enough to wait for the right moment.
Orchestrating your kidnapping had required an immediate shift. Not just the tactical elements—though coordinating with Suarez’s people while maintaining his cover had been challenging—but the psychological groundwork necessary to ensure Lewis would respond exactly as expected.
Because Jensen knew Lewis better than anyone. Knew how he thought, how he planned, how he reacted when something he valued was threatened. The man was predictable in his competence, which meant his responses could be anticipated and countered by someone with intimate knowledge of his methods.
The church had been perfect—a predictable location, familiar security arrangements, enough chaos during the service to mask the coordination required for a successful snatch. Jensen had positioned himself exactly where he needed to be to eliminate Naomi when she got too close to discovering his role, then executed the extraction with professional precision.
However, yesterday's dinner at Suarez’s compound had provided valuable intelligence about the Cuban’s state of mind, his relationship with his associates, and most importantly, the fractures in his alliance with Petrov.
Suarez was becoming unstable. Jensen had recognized the signs during their brief interactions—the manic confidence, the disconnect from tactical reality, the increasing paranoia about everyone except Jensen himself. The man’s obsession with you consumed rational thought, making him vulnerable to manipulation by anyone skilled enough to play to his delusions.
Which was exactly what Jensen had been doing for weeks.
The genius of his position was that Suarez saw him as a valuable asset rather than potential threat. A turncoat from Lewis’s organization, providing insider knowledge and tactical expertise in exchange for generous compensation. The Cuban had no reason to question Jensen’s loyalty because he’d already demonstrated his willingness to betray his previous employer.
But Suarez had made a critical error in assuming that previous betrayal meant future loyalty. Jensen had learned long ago that loyalty was a tool to be used rather than a principle to be maintained. And right now, his analysis suggested that continued alliance with Suarez was becoming a liability rather than an asset.
The man was yanking his chain, treating him like hired help rather than the strategic partner he’d positioned himself to become. Worse, Suarez’s deteriorating mental state was creating unnecessary risks for everyone in his orbit. When Lewis inevitably mounted his rescue operation—and Jensen had no doubt that Lewis would come, probably sooner than Suarez expected—the compound would become a killing ground.
Jensen had no intention of being caught in that crossfire.
Jensen's phone buzzes against the glass table. He glances at the screen—an encrypted message. His mouth curves into something that isn't quite a smile.
Showtime.
The message is brief, coded in the kind of business language: "Market analysis complete. Recommend immediate consultation. Venue secured."
Petrov. Right on schedule.
Jensen drains his whiskey, sets the glass down with deliberate precision. His reflection stares back from the surface—older than he feels, harder than he'd planned to become. The scar along his left temple, courtesy of a job in Prague three years ago. The slight bend in his nose from a disagreement in Belfast.
Battle scars. Lewis's battles, fought with Lewis's enemies, for Lewis's empire.
No more.
He stands, joints protesting slightly. Forty-two isn't old, but it's old enough to know that opportunities like this don't come twice. Old enough to recognize that loyalty is just another word for limitation.
The drive to the meeting takes thirty minutes through Miami traffic that moves like congealed blood. Jensen's rental car—a forgettable Honda Civic, the kind that disappears in plain sight—crawls past neon-soaked storefronts and palm trees that look artificial under the streetlights.
The venue is a warehouse in Little Havana, the kind of place where legitimate business and criminal enterprise blur into profitable ambiguity. Jensen parks three blocks away, walks the remaining distance with his hands loose at his sides.
Professional habits.
Petrov is waiting inside, his pale eyes reflecting the single hanging bulb like a cat's. At sixty-three, the Russian still moves like violence is always an option, his expensive suit unable to disguise the predator beneath.
"Jensen." The name sounds foreign in Petrov's accent, syllables clipped and precise. "You have my attention."
"Alexei." Jensen nods, not offering his hand. Petrov doesn't expect it. "Thanks for meeting."
"Your message suggested urgency." Petrov's rings catch the light as he adjusts his cufflinks. "I assume this concerns our mutual... complication."
Lewis. Always comes back to Lewis.
"Suarez is unstable," Jensen says without preamble. "More than we anticipated."
"Elaborate."
Jensen had prepared for this, rehearsed the conversation during his drive. But standing here, face to face with a man who could have him killed with a phone call, the words feel different. Heavier.
"The obsession with Hamilton's wife goes beyond rational strategy," he begins, watching Petrov's face for any tell. "It's personal in ways that make good planning impossible."
Petrov's expression doesn't change. "You are concerned about his... emotional investment."
"I'm concerned about his judgment." Jensen takes a step closer, lowering his voice. "He's making decisions based on what he wants rather than what makes sense. That's dangerous for everyone involved."
A long pause. Petrov studies him with those pale, unblinking eyes.
"And you propose what, exactly?"
This is the moment. The one Jensen has been building toward for months.
"Partnership," he says simply. "Real partnership. Not this hired gun bullshit."
Something flickers across Petrov's features. Interest, maybe. Or amusement.
"You would betray Suarez as easily as you betrayed Hamilton?"
The question hangs in the air between them like a blade. Jensen feels his jaw tighten, the accusation hitting closer to home than he'd expected.
"I didn't just betray Lewis for the money," he says finally. "I upgraded to a better opportunity."
"Ah." Petrov nods as if that explains everything. "And now you wish to upgrade again."
"Now I want to be on the winning side." Jensen's hands are steady despite the adrenaline singing in his veins. "Suarez's organization is held together by fear and cash. It won't survive serious pressure. And Hamilton will bring serious pressure."
"Yes," Petrov agrees softly. "He will."
The Russian begins to pace, his movements economical but restless. Like a caged animal that hasn't forgotten how to hunt.
"You have intelligence," Petrov continues. "About Hamilton's response to recent... developments."
"I have everything," Jensen confirms. "His tactical planning, resource allocation, psychological profile. I know how he thinks, how he operates. I've been inside his decision-making process for two decades."
"And you would share this intelligence with me."
"In exchange for equal partnership in whatever comes next."
Petrov stops pacing. Turns to face him directly.
"What makes you think there will be a 'next,' Jensen? What makes you think any of us will survive what Hamilton is planning?"
The question cuts deeper than Jensen wants to admit. Because the truth is, he's seen Lewis in full operational mode before. Seen what happens when someone threatens something he considers his.
"Because we'll be ready for him," Jensen says with more confidence than he feels. "Because we know he's coming, and we know what he wants."
"His wife."
"His wife," Jensen agrees. "Which gives us leverage."
Petrov's smile is thin, predatory. Dangerous.
"Leverage," he repeats. "Yes. But leverage cuts both ways, doesn't it? Make Hamilton desperate enough, and he becomes capable of... extraordinary things."
Jensen's heard the stories. Berlin, three years ago, when someone had tried to move against Lewis's operations in Eastern Europe. The bodies found in the Spree, tortured beyond recognition. The complete dismantling of a criminal network that had taken decades to build.
Lewis Hamilton doesn't negotiate when it's personal.
"All the more reason to have the best possible intelligence," Jensen argues. "All the more reason to be prepared for every contingency."
"Indeed." Petrov checks his watch—a Patek Philippe that costs more than most people's houses. "You have forty-eight hours to prove your value. Demonstrate that your intelligence is worth the risk of accepting your... partnership."
"What do you need?"
"Hamilton's timeline. His tactical approach. The resources he's bringing to bear." Petrov's eyes glitter in the dim light. "Everything you know about how he plans to retrieve his wife."
Jensen nods. He'd expected this kind of test.
"And if I deliver?"
"Then we discuss terms." Petrov moves toward the warehouse exit, their meeting apparently concluded. "But Jensen?"
"Yeah?"
"If you're playing games—if this is some elaborate scheme to feed me false intelligence while protecting your true loyalties—I will know. And I will respond... appropriately."
The threat doesn't need elaboration. Jensen has seen enough of Petrov's work to understand exactly what appropriately means.
"Understood."
Petrov nods once, then disappears into the Miami night like smoke.
Jensen stands alone in the warehouse for several minutes, processing what just happened. The die is cast now. No going back, no changing his mind if the situation deteriorates.
All in.
The drive back to his penthouse gives him time to think, to plan his next moves. Petrov wants intelligence about Lewis's response—fine. Jensen can provide that. But he'll need to be careful about how much he provides, and when.
Too much too quickly, and Petrov might decide he's more valuable dead than alive—eliminate the risk of him switching sides again. Too little, and the Russian might conclude he's not worth the investment.
Balance. Always comes down to balance.
Back in his penthouse, Jensen pours himself another whiskey and settles onto the balcony. The city sprawls below him like a circuit board, neon and halogen tracing patterns of light across the darkness.
Somewhere out there, Lewis Hamilton is planning war. Jensen can almost feel it—the cold fury, the methodical preparation, the absolute certainty that his wife will be recovered regardless of the cost.
Jensen's phone buzzes. Another encrypted message, this one from a different source entirely.
Time to earn his keep.
He opens his laptop, begins typing. A detailed intelligence report about Lewis's known associates, their capabilities, their likely deployment in a rescue operation. Information gleaned from years of close observation, packaged for Petrov's consumption.
But edited. Carefully edited.
Jensen includes enough accurate intelligence to establish credibility, but leaves out crucial details that might tip the balance too far in Petrov's favor. He's walking a tightrope now—useful enough to survive, dangerous enough to matter, but not so dangerous that he becomes a liability to eliminate.
The report takes two hours to complete. When he's finished, Jensen reads it through twice, checking for any detail that might reveal more than intended.
Perfect.
He encrypts the file, routes it through multiple proxies, sends it to the address Petrov had provided. Then he sits back and waits.
The response comes faster than expected. A single word: Adequate.
Not good. Not excellent. Adequate.
Jensen's jaw tightens. He'd given Petrov intelligence worth millions, information that could mean the difference between life and death when Lewis finally made his move. And the best response he can manage is adequate?
Fucking Russians.
But it's a start. A foot in the door. And Jensen has learned patience over the years, learned that building trust takes time even in their world of rapid betrayals and shifting loyalties.
His phone rings. Not a text this time—an actual voice call, routed through encryption protocols that make the CIA's security look like child's play.
Jensen checks the caller ID, sees the routing signature he's been hoping for. His entire demeanor shifts, professional calculation giving way to something more personal.
Finally.
He accepts the call, activating his own security measures.
"Yeah?"
"Jesus, finally." The voice is male, British, with a tone that suggests education and fine breeding despite the obvious exhaustion. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
The words hit Jensen like a physical blow. Six months of careful planning, of positioning himself for maximum advantage, of building the resources necessary for the impossible.
And it all comes down to this voice.
"Never," Jensen says, his own voice softening in ways that would surprise anyone who knew his reputation. "Just had to wait for secure comms. You know how it is."
"I do." Bitter humor bleeds through the phone. "Chinese prison isn't exactly ideal for making international calls."
Jensen's free hand clenches into a fist. Six months ago, a deal had gone wrong in Hong Kong. Intelligence had been compromised, law enforcement had been waiting, and someone Jensen cared about more than his own survival had been caught in the resulting net.
The reason. The only reason that really mattered.
Lewis's intelligence networks hadn't been good enough to prevent it. Lewis's connections hadn't been sufficient to fix it. Lewis's power had its limitations, and those limitations had cost Jensen the one thing he couldn't afford to lose.
"How are you holding up?" Jensen asks in genuine concern.
A harsh laugh comes through the encrypted channel. "Day by day. The food's shit, the guards are assholes, and my Mandarin's getting better than I ever wanted it to be."
Jensen closes his eyes. The casual tone doesn't fool him—six months in Chinese custody would break most people. The fact that the voice on the other end still sounds human, still capable of humor, speaks to reserves of strength that humble him.
"But I'm alive," the voice continues, "which is more than some people manage in here."
"I'm working on getting you out," Jensen promises, meaning it with every fiber of his being. "The deal I'm putting together... it'll provide leverage with Beijing. Enough to arrange a prisoner exchange or at least a reduction in sentence."
Please let that be true.
"How long?" The question is simple, but Jensen can hear the desperation beneath it. The careful control that's barely holding together after months of uncertainty.
Jensen wishes he could be more specific. Wishes he could guarantee a timeline, a specific date when this nightmare would end. But honesty is all he has to offer.
"Soon," he replies, hating how inadequate the word sounds. "Few weeks at most. I just need to—"
Shouting erupts in the background of the call. Angry voices speaking rapid Mandarin, footsteps echoing off concrete floors. Jensen catches enough to understand the gist—guards discovering unauthorized communication, moving to shut it down.
No. Not now.
"Shit," comes the voice, tension spiking. "They're coming. I have to—"
The line goes dead.
Jensen stares at his phone for a long moment, the broken connection feeling like a severed artery. All his careful planning, all his strategic maneuvering, all his willingness to betray everything he'd once believed in.
For this.
For someone whose name he hasn't spoken aloud in six months, whose face haunts his dreams, whose imprisonment has become the defining obsession of Jensen's existence.
The betrayal of Lewis Hamilton wasn't just about money or power or professional advancement. It was about desperation. The desperation of a man who'd finally found something worth more than loyalty, worth more than his own survival.
Getting that voice out of a Chinese prison cell was the only thing that really mattered. Everything else—Suarez's obsession with you, Petrov's arms dealing, the coming violence that would tear Miami apart—was just the price of admission to a game where the stakes were measured in human lives.
Jensen sets his phone aside, pours himself another glass of whiskey. His hands are steady despite the emotional earthquake that's just rearranged his entire internal landscape.
Focus.
Emotion is a luxury he can't afford right now. There's too much at stake, too many moving pieces, too many ways this could all go catastrophically wrong.
But for the first time in months, he has something resembling a plan. Petrov represents resources and connections that go far beyond Suarez's Miami operation. The kind of international reach that can influence governments, arrange prisoner exchanges, make the impossible merely difficult.
Jensen just needs to survive the storm that's coming. Lewis is planning something—Jensen can feel it like pressure in his bones, the certainty of violence gathering just beyond the horizon.
When it hits, the chaos will provide perfect cover for Jensen's own maneuvering. Suarez will be distracted, focused on defending his prize. Petrov will be evaluating options for protecting his investments.
And Jensen will be positioned to exploit whatever opportunities emerge from the wreckage.
He stands, moves to the railing of his balcony. Miami stretches out below him like a battlefield waiting to happen—beautiful, decadent, completely unprepared for what's about to engulf it.
Let it burn.
Jensen has been thinking longer term while everyone else focused on their immediate concerns. Lewis on building his empire. Suarez on his delusional romance. Petrov on his arms dealing.
None of them understood that Jensen was playing a completely different game. Had been playing it since the moment that phone call from Hong Kong had shattered his world six months ago.
Everything else was just means to an end.
His phone buzzes again. Another encrypted message, this one from Suarez's organization. A request for updated intelligence on Lewis's activities, couched in the kind of paranoid language that suggested the Cuban was still cracking under pressure.
Jensen smiles—the first genuine expression of amusement he's felt in days. Suarez had no idea what he'd bought when he'd purchased Jensen's loyalty. Had no idea that his new employee was already shopping for a better offer.
By the time anyone realized what Jensen was really after, it would be too late to stop him.
He begins typing his response to Suarez, carefully crafted intelligence that would feed the Cuban's overconfidence while positioning Jensen as an indispensable asset. Let Suarez think he was winning. Let him believe his delusions about Lewis's wife would somehow end happily.
Delusion makes for poor strategy.
While others had been focused on their immediate concerns, Jensen had been building the resources necessary for something much more ambitious.
A prison break. International in scope. Impossible by most standards. But most of all: freedom.
Not just for himself, but for the voice on the other end of that broken phone call. The voice that had given Jensen something to fight for, something worth more than money or power or professional advancement.
Love. Even if he'd never said the word aloud.
Even if saying it would mean admitting to a vulnerability that could destroy everything he'd built.
Jensen finishes his whiskey, heads back inside with his laptop. There are plans to finalize, intelligence to gather, alliances to shift.
Soon.
The word echoes in his mind like a prayer, like a promise, like the only thing standing between Jensen and complete surrender to the darkness that had been growing inside him since that first desperate phone call from Hong Kong.
Soon.
Raúl Suarez stands at the window of his private study, Cuban coffee growing cold in his hand as he watches you move through his gardens like you belong there. The morning sun catches the highlights in your hair, transforms your simple white sundress into something ethereal.
Perfection.
You pause beside the fountain—the genuine Roman piece he'd acquired from a collector in Naples—trailing your fingers through the water with unconscious grace. Even from this distance, he can see the elegant line of your neck, the way you tilt your head when something catches your interest.
His fountain. His gardens. His woman.
The thought sends warmth spreading through his chest like aged rum. Everything is falling into place exactly as he'd envisioned during those long months of planning, of waiting, of wanting with an intensity that surprised even him.
Jensen's betrayal had been a masterpiece of timing and execution. The church bombing, the chaos, the perfect extraction that had finally delivered what Suarez had been dreaming about since the first moment he'd seen you.
Two years of careful observation, of strategic patience, of watching Hamilton claim what should have belonged to him.
But now you're here. In his paradise. Away from Hamilton's influence, away from the artificial constraints of that arranged marriage, free to discover what they could build together.
You move toward the pool area now, your bare feet silent on the marble pathways he'd imported from Carrara. Everything about the estate has been designed for exactly this—to showcase beauty, to provide the perfect backdrop for the life he wants to build with you.
The infinity pool stretches toward the bay like liquid sapphire, its edges disappearing into the horizon in a trick of engineering that cost him nearly two million dollars. Worth every penny to see your expression as you take it in, that subtle widening of your eyes that suggests genuine appreciation despite her circumstances.
You're beginning to see. Beginning to understand what he can offer you.
Suarez sets down his coffee cup, moves to his desk where multiple monitors display feeds from the security cameras positioned throughout the grounds. He switches to the pool area, zooming in until he can see your face clearly.
No fear now. No defiance. Just quiet contemplation as you settle into one of the cushioned loungers, your movements fluid and unconsciously sensual.
Beautiful. More beautiful than he'd remembered, and he'd studied every photograph, every piece of surveillance footage his people had gathered over the months of planning.
But seeing you here, in his space, surrounded by the luxury he's created specifically for you... it's almost overwhelming.
The intercom on his desk chimes softly. "Señor Suarez?" Carmela's voice, respectfully neutral. "Shall I bring refreshments to the pool area?"
"Champagne," Suarez replies without hesitation. "The Dom Pérignon Rosé. And those petit fours from the French pastry chef. She has sophisticated tastes."
"Sí, señor."
Suarez returns his attention to the monitors, watching as you remove the simple dress you've been wearing. Underneath is a bikini—conservative by Miami standards, but the sight of your skin, the elegant curve of your waist, the way the fabric clings to you...
Mine. The word echoes in his mind like a prayer, like an affirmation, like the culmination of two years of careful planning and patient desire.
He'd first seen you at a charity gala in New York, long before Hamilton had entered the picture. You'd been barely twenty-three then, fresh from Columbia, radiant in emerald silk that had made your eyes look like precious stones.
Suarez had watched you navigate that room with unconscious authority, watched you command attention without seeming to seek it. And he'd known, with absolute certainty, that you were meant to be his.
The negotiations with your father had been... disappointing. Salvatore had been polite but firm in his rejection, citing existing arrangements and territorial considerations that seemed laughably irrelevant compared to what Suarez could offer.
Money. Power. Protection. A life of luxury beyond anything Ricci's provincial imagination could conceive.
But Salvatore had chosen differently. Had selected that British pretender Hamilton instead, sealing his daughter's fate with a marriage that was clearly political rather than romantic.
A waste. A beautiful woman trapped in a loveless arrangement, your potential stifled by her father's limited vision and Hamilton's calculating coldness.
On the monitors, you're entering the pool now, your movements graceful as you glide through the water. The sight is hypnotic—every stroke, every turn, every breath perfectly choreographed by genetics and unconscious elegance.
Suarez imagines joining you there. Imagines the conversations they'll have once you're free of Hamilton's influence, once you have time to see clearly again. He's researched your interests exhaustively—classical music, Renaissance art, modern architecture, international finance. They have so much to discuss, so much to discover about each other.
You complete several laps, then float on your back, face turned toward the sun. Your expression is peaceful, almost meditative, as if you're beginning to appreciate the sanctuary he's created for you.
Yes. This is how it should be. How it will be, once Hamilton is eliminated and you're free to embrace your true feelings.
Suarez knows she must be confused right now, torn between the artificial loyalty Hamilton has cultivated and the natural connection you'll feel toward someone who truly appreciates your worth. But confusion will pass. Clarity will come.
Time. All you needs is time away from Hamilton's manipulation, time to remember who you were before that arranged marriage constrained your spirit.
The intercom chimes again. "Señor, Señor Jensen is here to see you."
Suarez reluctantly turns away from the monitors. Business, unfortunately, must occasionally interrupt pleasure. But Jensen's intelligence has been invaluable, his insider knowledge of Hamilton's psychology providing crucial insights into how their enemy will respond.
"Send him up."
While he waits, Suarez allows himself one more glance at the monitors. You pulled yourself from the pool now, water streaming from your hair as you reach for a towel. The sight is almost artistic—like a goddess emerging from the sea, perfectly framed by his carefully designed landscape.
Jensen enters without ceremony, his expression professionally neutral as he approaches the desk. "Morning update," he says simply, extending a tablet loaded with intelligence reports.
Suarez accepts the device, though his attention remains divided. Half his focus on Jensen's briefing about Hamilton's mobilization efforts, half on the monitors where you are settling back into the lounge chair, champagne and pastries arriving as he'd requested.
Perfect service. Just as it should be for someone of your quality.
"Hamilton's moving faster than anticipated," Jensen is saying, his tone carrying subtle warning. "Full tactical deployment, military-grade equipment. He's not approaching this as a negotiation."
"Good," Suarez replies, genuinely meaning it. "Let him come in force. Let him demonstrate the violent, primitive nature that she's finally free of."
Jensen's expression flickers—surprise, perhaps, or concern. "You're not worried about the assault capabilities he's bringing to bear?"
"I'm prepared for them." Suarez gestures toward the windows overlooking his compound. "This isn't just a home, Jensen. It's a fortress. Electronic surveillance, reinforced structures, professional security personnel with military backgrounds. Hamilton can bring his little army—they'll find themselves outgunned and outmaneuvered."
On the monitors, you accepted the champagne, sipping it while watching the peacocks strut across the lawn. Your expression is thoughtful rather than distressed, as if you are genuinely considering the beauty of your surroundings.
Appreciation. The first step toward acceptance.
"There's something else," Jensen continues. "Petrov's asking questions about timeline, about exit strategies if things go south."
Suarez's attention snaps back to Jensen, irritation flaring. "Petrov can ask all the questions he likes. This isn't his operation, and she isn't his concern."
"He's invested significant resources—"
"In my vision." Suarez's voice carries an edge that makes Jensen step back slightly. "Petrov's job is to provide the tools I need to succeed. My job is to ensure that success. And I will succeed."
Because failure isn't an option. Not when he's finally so close to everything he's wanted, everything he's planned for, everything he deserves.
You set down the champagne flute, lies back in the lounge chair with your eyes closed. The picture of serene contentment, as if some part of you recognizes that you are exactly where you belong.
Home. This is your home now, even if you don't fully understand that yet.
"Continue monitoring Hamilton's preparations," Suarez instructs Jensen, dismissing him with a wave. "But remember—when he comes, we'll be ready. And when it's over, she'll see exactly what kind of man she was married to, what kind of weakness drives someone who claims to love her."
Jensen nods, though something in his expression suggests disagreement with this assessment. No matter. Jensen is useful for intelligence and tactical support, but he lacks the vision to understand what's really happening here.
Destiny. Two years in the making, carefully orchestrated through patience and planning and unwavering commitment to an outcome that lesser men would have abandoned as impossible.
As the door closes behind Jensen, Suarez returns his full attention to the monitors. You're swimming again, strokes powerful and sure as you cuts through the crystal-clear water.
His pool. His estate. His woman.
Hamilton will come, and Suarez will demonstrate exactly why some prizes are worth any price, any risk, any amount of violence to claim and keep.
Soon you'll understand that everything happening now—the kidnapping, the separation from your previous life, even Hamilton's inevitable death—is just the necessary prelude to the happiness the two of you would build together.
Perfect love requires perfect commitment. And Suarez has never been more committed to anything in his life than he is to making you his, completely and forever.
You emerge from the pool again, and this time when you look toward the house, Suarez imagines he can see acceptance beginning to dawn in your eyes.
summary: the man of the hour finally reveals himself.
cw: kidnapping
a/n: finally. it's time for the main vampire to arrive! from this point on this is very much gonna become more of an 'interview with the vampire' sort of situation, ngl. it's so weird trying to make lewis hamilton feel intimidating when i spend so much time doing the opposite sdfghjk. please make sure you've read everything leading up to this point!
When you come to, your eyes and mouth are dry and your vision is slightly blurred at the edges. The former is most likely from the fabric that hangs limply around your neck. The little bits of mascara on white cloth tells you that you had been blindfolded at some point between being shoved into the British man’s car, and being dumped…here. You tilt your head up, startled immediately by the shape of the room you find yourself trapped in. It’s circular in a way that’s almost dizzying, warm lighting illuminating the panels making up the walls.
The next thing to capture your attention is a massive metal contraption: something supported on beams shaped like a camera’s tripod, and shaped like a cylinder. It’s tilted upwards towards something, and when you look up you realize that you’re staring into the pitch black of the night sky. A telescope. You’re trapped in an…observatory. You wouldn’t be shocked to find out that one of the men chasing you down was some crazed astronomer; anything was possible, at this point. A scene from a few hours ago returns to you:
A scowling, ruffled man with minimal facial hair, nose and cheeks flushed red from being tackled to the ground. A steering wheel with that gaudy yellow logo your dad loved so much. The crisp new-smelling leather of a Ferrari. You remember yelling until the car doors locked, your hands having been zip-tied by the man sitting next to you. Then, the frigid blue eyes in the rearview mirror. The ones that make you forget things. The two men appear to be arguing - or rather, the man in the back seat with you is attempting to argue while the one in the driver’s seat chuckles and riles his partner up further with gentlemanly replies that you don’t remember. Between that and here, you blacked out.
As if summoned by your thoughts, the narrow double doors at the far end of the room creak open.
The strange, lanky man from earlier enters the room. His dress shirt is wrinkled, one of the buttons seemingly missing. He holds a porcelain cup of tea, the steam curling upwards as if freshly-brewed. The temperature doesn't seem to bother the man as he takes a long, loud sip of it. He watches you curiously, as if he has no idea how you got here.
“Plan on telling me where I am?” You bite out as he takes another sip. Your voice grates on your throat, sore from yelling.
A grin spreads across the man's lips. “I don't want to ruin your fun, so I'll let you figure that one out on your own. Congratulations, by the way.”
You frown. “On what, exactly?”
The man’s eyes sparkle the way a frozen lake does.
“On waking the dead. He'll be here in just a moment!”
-
A couple minutes pass after he leaves where no one else enters, but that soon changes. A shorter, black man shuffles quietly into the room, and in no particular rush. His braids are thin and neat, the boxy sections gleaming in the way that braids do when they’re freshly-done and oiled. He’s got on a warm brown lounge set that sits loosely enough over his figure to look casual, but heavy-looking enough to suggest expensive taste. With white, cushiony slides on socked feet, he looks more prepared to go on a Netflix binge than to kidnap or interrogate. When he speaks, his voice rings with a familiarity that hits you like a ton of bricks.
“Nice to finally meet you,” the man greets with a smile too warm for the situation. As he steps further into the light, his facial features become clearer: wide brown eyes, full lips, and a rounded nose pierced on both nostrils. Your heart feels like it’s beating in your throat as you take him in; this guy could be Lewis Hamilton’s identical twin. When you don’t speak, he nods amicably and continues.
“I heard you tackled poor Charles back there.” He raises an eyebrow, “That true?”
“Yeah, like a quarterback,” You grunt without much thought as you struggle with the zip-ties. “He was light as a feather. You should get better goons to protect you.”
That was fucking Charles?
The ties don't budge, predictably, the plastic digging further into your palms and no doubt leaving red lines on the skin. Lewis Hamilton’s Clone makes a sound that you realize is a snort before he throws his head back and laughs. He is a perfect clone, right down to the gap tooth. He laughs with his whole body, and the force of it moves him around the room a bit as he bends down to slap his thigh. The man has to wipe a tear away by the time he catches his breath.
“You?” He points a ringed indexed finger in your direction. “I like you.”
A cold feeling settles in your stomach. “Where did you get that from?”
Hamilton’s eyes widen for a moment before he glances at his ring, the pearl gleaming delicately beneath the low lighting of the observatory. His face lights up with understanding.
“Ah,” he grins mischievously, spreading his fingers out in front of him. “This old thing? Well, it is mine. Not sure how it ended up in your pocket but, well. Guess it's my fault for leaving my door unlocked.”
Goodness, the voice is practically identical, you think. If this isn't the real Hamilton like you suspect (he would be about ninety-something - no one ages that well), then this guy has got to be at least a very, very close descendant.
Hamilton must have noticed your eyes narrowing, because he smiles. “You don't believe me. Understandable, but you'll have to get with the program soon enough. I mean, that's why I've invited you here.”
You give him a deadpan look. “Invited?”
His smile drops, expression souring a bit, but he keeps his tone light and speaks steadily.
“Yes, invited. You think I don't know when someone's been poking around my things? You broke into my home,” he turns his hand and shows you the ring again for emphasis, “Stole my things. Not even George could get you to cut the Nancy Drew act. You're lucky I enjoy your writing. Very lucky.”
Your scowl deepens. “That’s why I'm tied to a chair, then? Because I'm just so lucky? Real inviting of you.”
Hamilton wordlessly draws nearer until he's right in front of you, close enough that you can smell the warm spiciness of his cologne. He kneels, lowering himself until he's at eye level with you. The shine in his eyes, you realize, is not from the warm tint of the lighting but from the irises themselves. They're a glowing, violent orange that expands and dilates with his pupils in a manner that can't possibly be colored contacts. Like solidified amber that freezes things in time. You feel fixed to the chair and to the ground, unable to move a muscle.
“You're alive, young lady. And pushing your luck, I must say.”
Your voice trembles, in spite of yourself. “What…what are you?”
The smile that spreads across his lips is all teeth this time. When he speaks, you notice something unusual about it: long, white fangs. You can tell he wanted you to see them by this way he nearly hisses at the end of the word, “Guess.”
Your head is spinning with the possibility. But you refuse to take this man—whoever he really is—at his word just yet. Jumping straight to the mythological or paranormal would be shoddy journalism on your part. You take a deep, shaky breath.
“Let's say that you are. Why reveal yourself now? And to me?”
Hamilton rises to his full height, chuckling as he shakes his head. “Straight to the point, I see. Smart girl. But I've just told you why: I like your writing.”
For a moment, your survival instincts fall away and are replaced with snark. “What, you want a puff piece? An exclusive interview? Get over yourself.”
Hamilton’s eyes return to their deep brown color the next time he blinks, and he looks down at you, mildly amused. “Don't need an interview, you've already given me one of those.”
Your brows furrow in confusion as you try to do the math. You were only thirty. When would you have…?
His eyes crinkle even more, like he's pulled some elaborate prank.
“I'll explain soon enough. What I mean is, I want something more like an…” he gestures vaguely, “An autobiography. Or a scribe of sorts. What's happening to me is…unique. I need a storyteller such as yourself to put it all together. Make it make sense somehow.”
“I'm not too well versed in biology,” you say very carefully. “You sure this wouldn't be a better-suited job for a scientist? Or a medical professional, like you were doing before?”
Hamilton’s face lights up. “Good, you believe me now. Though, I'm a little offended that you've been reading my diary. ”
“You didn’t answer my question,” you press. “You got deep pockets. Surely there's some expert on eye conditions or anti-aging or whatever that you don't have to kidnap to get access to?”
He sighs, deeply, and suddenly looks very tired. The patience is gone from his voice and leaves behind a hint of rawness. He seems to plead with his eyes.
“Would you trust strangers to run tests on you because they think you’ve found the fountain of youth? The world's changed, but not that much. I don’t want ten fucking doctors in my house, not for this.”
Your expression softens, and you nod.
“Still. I'm not sure I can help you.”
He shrugs. “You've got no choice but to try.”
Your blood turns into ice. “But—”
“No excuses. You wanted a story, right?” He raises an eyebrow. “Now you're gonna get one. Now you have a good night, Charles will escort you. Rest assured, I will be in contact.”
“I’m not giving you my number.”
“Oh, I won’t be needing that,” Hamilton laughs. He winks at you. “I’ve already got your email.”
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