Pairing: Lando Norris x Female reader
Word count: 15.1k
Summary: You're tired of Lando seeing you as just his best friend's little sister. Or that one summer you decided to get over Lando or get with him.
Tags: brother's best friend trope, angst, fluff, 18+ content, dom! lando, degradation, spit kink, a tiny bity of spanking, oral (m and f receiving), intercourse...
A/N: i cannot actually believe i wrote this much. am i going insane? lmao, anyways, hope you enjoy this.
For as long as you can remember, Lando Norris has followed one stupid, invisible rule when it comes to you: you are off limits.
He has never said it out loud, obviously. That would require acknowledging that there was ever anything there to forbid in the first place, and Lando has always been annoyingly good at acting like the line between you is simply natural. Easy. Obvious. As if it was written into the fabric of the universe somewhere, right between gravity and bad decisions.
It isn’t. It’s built on two reasons, and one of them is complete bullshit.
The less important one is the age gap. Five years. Which, fine, maybe that mattered once. Maybe it mattered when you were thirteen and gangly and awkward and trailing after your brother and his friends like a little shadow who refused to be left behind. Maybe it mattered when Lando was already old enough to drive, old enough to go out without needing anyone’s permission, old enough to look at you and see somebody younger, smaller, safely filed away under Max’s little sister.
But now? Now you’re twenty-two, and he’s twenty-seven, and if anyone still acts like that’s some impossible, scandalous difference, they need to grow up. You are not a child. You haven’t been for a long time.
The real problem, the actual problem, the one that has always mattered, is Max. Your brother. Lando’s best friend. Which means that, somewhere along the way, some prehistoric, deeply irritating bit of boy logic settled into place and apparently became law: you do not hook up with your best friend’s sister. Just like you apparently do not hook up with your friend’s ex, or date within the sacred male ecosystem, or whatever ridiculous version of “bro code” they all pretend isn’t ridiculous because it benefits them.
You have always hated it. Not enough to cause a fight about it, but in the quiet, festering way that only comes from being spoken around instead of spoken to. Like your existence is some kind of diplomatic issue. Like your love life is a thing other men get to silently make treaties over.
And none of it would matter nearly this much if you didn’t happen to be stupid enough to be in love with Lando Norris. Because that’s the worst part, really.
If he were just hot, it would be manageable. If he were just charming, or famous, or funny in that easy, dangerous way of his, maybe you would have gotten over it by now. Maybe you could have written him off as a crush that got out of hand when you were younger and eventually faded into something harmless.
But Lando is impossible in all the wrong ways. He is kind. Which is so much worse. He is the sort of person who notices when you’ve gone quiet and doesn’t let it slide. The sort of guy who can pull you out of the worst mood of your life with one stupid joke and a grin. The sort of guy who remembers what coffee you drink, who sends you songs at two in the morning because they “feel like your vibe,” who will absolutely make fun of you for tripping over your own feet and then, in the same breath, ask if you’re okay.
And he’s protective, too, though never in a way that feels forced. Just instinctive. Immediate. If somebody makes you uncomfortable, Lando notices. If some asshole says something condescending to you, Lando is suddenly there, all sharp edges and effortless disdain, making them feel about two inches tall. If you’ve had a bad day, he is somehow always the one leaning against the kitchen counter later, asking, softer this time, what happened.
It would be easier if he were cruel. Or distant. Or if he had ever once given you a proper reason to hate him.
Instead, he’s been ruining your life by being good to you for years. And you, embarrassingly enough, have never really stood a chance. You’ve tried, obviously. God, you’ve tried.
There have been other boys. Men, technically, though most of them were still boys in all the ways that counted. A whole line of them, really, if you’re being honest. Enough to look like effort. Enough to convince yourself, every now and then, that maybe this one would finally help. Maybe this one would distract you. Maybe if you kissed enough people who weren’t Lando, dated enough men who didn’t smile like him, didn’t laugh like him, didn’t look at you like you were worth listening to, the feeling would eventually wear itself out.
It never did. At best, they blurred together. At worst, they made it obvious how unfairly high he’d set the standard without ever meaning to.
And then there was your ex, who turned out to be exactly the sort of useless man Lando had warned you about in the beginning. Not in words, of course. Lando had never said don’t date him. That would’ve been too much, too obvious. But he had looked unconvinced when you first mentioned him. Had gone quiet in that particular way he does when he disapproves of something and is trying to be polite about it. Had asked, too casually, whether this guy was “actually all right” or just “good at pretending.”
You had rolled your eyes at the time. Three months later, after one too many stupid arguments and one truly humiliating evening in which your ex managed to make you feel needy for asking for basic respect, you broke up with him in the rain outside a restaurant and spent the entire drive home thinking, with mounting bitterness, that Lando had been right.
Which was insufferable. Because he so often is.
Still, the breakup ended up doing you a favor. Not because heartbreak suddenly turned you into a new person. That would be too cinematic. But because somewhere in the mess of getting over him, you finally started putting yourself back together properly.
You found a skincare routine that actually worked. Your skin cleared. Your hair finally started behaving like it had been waiting for you to get your life together first. You stopped buying clothes just because they were safe and started buying things you actually liked. Things that fit well. Things that made you look in the mirror and think, for once, oh.
You changed in small ways at first, then all at once. And maybe “glow-up” is a stupid phrase, but that doesn’t make it less true. Because now, this summer, something has shifted. You can feel it.
You are not the little girl with braces and scraped knees that Lando used to absentmindedly pat on the head like some sort of irritatingly affectionate older brother. You are not the teenager who got dropped home by him after parties because Max said no way were you getting in an Uber alone. You are not the one left behind at home while the boys went out and did whatever stupid things boys do, pretending not to care while secretly praying Lando might walk back in through the door and decide to stay.
You are not the kid sitting on the sidelines anymore. And Lando knows it too.
Maybe not consciously. Maybe he would deny it if somebody asked. But he knows. You can tell in the way his eyes sometimes catch and stay a little too long now. In the slight stutter in his tone when you walk into a room dressed for a night out. In the way he still tries, every now and then, to slot you into the old dynamic, to tease you like you’re younger, to act like the line between you is obvious and immovable, only for it to come out slightly wrong, slightly forced, like even he’s starting to realize it doesn’t fit the same way anymore.
And that is exactly why this summer is going to be different. Because you are tired. Tired of pretending the bro code matters. Tired of letting Max’s friendship with Lando dictate some unspoken boundary that nobody ever asked you about. Tired of acting like your feelings are a thing to be managed quietly, neatly, politely, while Lando gets to go on being gorgeous and kind and infuriatingly off-limits right in front of you.
Most of all, you are tired of being scared. Scared of rejection. Scared of making things awkward. Scared that if you push, even a little, you’ll lose the version of him you already have.
But liking Lando from a distance hasn’t exactly protected you either. It has just made you miserable in prettier ways. So maybe enough is enough. Maybe this summer, for once, you stop caring about all the invisible rules men make for each other and start caring about what you want.
And what you want is embarrassingly simple. You want Lando. Even if it blows up in your face. Even if he says no. Even if Max loses his mind and starts speaking in some ancient, overprotective brother dialect about loyalty and respect and whatever other nonsense men pull out when they realize the women in their lives are actual people with their own desires.
You don’t care. Not anymore. Because one way or another, this ends now. You either get over him. Or you get him. And if Lando Norris is going to keep acting like you’re untouchable, then maybe it’s finally time to touch the damn line and see if it burns.
Summer arrives the way it always does with this group, loud, sun-bleached, full of old habits.
Max rents a villa by the shore because that’s what he always does, and everyone falls into the usual rhythm within hours. Bags dumped in random bedrooms. Music by the pool. Beer bottles multiplying in the kitchen. Someone always shouting for towels. Someone else always stealing the best room and pretending it wasn’t deliberate.
It should feel familiar. It does. That’s what makes the changes so noticeable. Because the villa is the same. The people are mostly the same. Even Lando is, at first glance, the same, all easy smiles and stupid jokes and looking far too good in summer clothes like it’s an act of carelessness rather than war.
But you are not the same. And if Lando notices, he does what Lando always does when something makes him uncomfortable. He laughs. He calls you kiddo. He acts like none of it matters.
It would almost work, too. If he were better at lying.
The first proper crack in him happens on the beach.
Everyone is heading out after lunch, towels over shoulders, coolers packed, Max already halfway out the front door barking at someone to stop forgetting sunscreen every year like it’s not a fixed personality trait at this point.
You come downstairs last. And Lando looks up.
You catch it immediately. The pause. The one beat too long. The way his eyes flick down and then back up again like his brain tried to do a quick, private inventory and got much more than it had bargained for.
Your bikini isn’t outrageous. That’s the thing. It’s not some tiny scandal designed to shock anybody. It’s just pretty. Elegant. A little lower cut than you used to wear, a little more fitted, a lot more confident. Soft cream against your skin, gold rings at the hips, the sort of thing that says you know exactly how good you look and are not at all interested in apologizing for it.
Lando’s face stays neutral. Mostly.
Then he clears his throat and says, “That’s new.”
You slide your sunglasses on top of your head. “Is it?”
He shrugs, bending to grab the cooler as though the cooler has suddenly become the most important object in the room. “Bit fancy for the beach, kiddo.”
You smile sweetly. “I didn’t realize we had a dress code.”
Max, oblivious as ever, just says, “If she wants to show up the rest of you, let her,” and heads outside.
Lando gives a short laugh that sounds almost real. Almost.
Then he says, “Just don’t complain when you burn.”
You take the sunscreen he’s already holding out toward you and let your fingers brush his on purpose.
His hand tightens once on the bottle before he lets go.
On the beach, it gets worse for him. You know it does because he won’t quite settle. He keeps moving around. Standing up for no reason. Going to the water and coming back. Talking too loudly to Max. Checking his phone when nobody has texted him. Every now and then you catch him looking, and every time he catches himself almost immediately after.
When you come back from the sea with water running down your stomach and salt drying on your skin, he looks up from where he’s sitting beside Max and has to look back down again just as quickly.
You dry off slowly. Not provocatively. Just slowly enough to make it impossible for him not to notice.
Then, as if trying to force things back into the old shape, he says, “Need help with your sunscreen, kiddo, or are you all grown up now?”
The teasing lands somewhere between a joke and a challenge. You turn toward him with a bright little smile.
The silence that follows is extremely satisfying.
Max says, without even glancing up from his phone, “Yeah, Lan, just help her out. I’m kinda busy right now.”
“Busy or lazy?” Lando looks at him like betrayal has become a physical object. Max does not even answer.
Then he comes over anyway. You sit on your towel and hand him the bottle. He takes it. Says nothing.
The first touch of his hands on your back is almost careful enough to hurt. Too careful. Too broad. Too deliberate. He’s trying so hard to make it practical that it becomes intimate by accident. You can feel the tension in his fingers. The way he doesn’t let them linger anywhere and yet somehow the whole thing still feels like too much. When his hand reaches the curve of your waist, he stops for just half a second too long before pulling away entirely.
You look back over your shoulder. He’s already standing up.
And then, because he is incapable of leaving it there, he adds, “Would’ve been embarrassing if you’d crisped up on day two.”
Kiddo again. A joke again. The same old box, dragged back into place.
You just smile. Because by now you know what it means when he says it. It means he noticed too much.
By the third evening, the whole group walks down into town for ice cream. It’s one of those slow, golden coastal evenings where the air still holds heat from the day and everything smells like salt and sugar and sunscreen drying off skin. Max is arguing with someone over flavors before you’re even inside the shop. Lando is beside you in line, all loose-limbed ease and quiet glances, talking to you like none of the last two days have happened at all.
You get strawberry and lemon. Lando gets chocolate.
“It’s not boring, kiddo, it’s reliable.”
“Right. Like a tax return.”
He laughs despite himself. “You’re awful.”
The walk back to the villa splits everyone into little clusters. Max falls behind with two of the others. Someone starts a conversation about going out later. The pavement is still warm under your sandals.
You glance sideways at Lando. There’s a little streak of melted chocolate at the corner of his mouth. You stop walking.
He notices at once. “What?”
You step in closer. He goes still. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice if they were watching. Just enough that you feel it in the air between you.
You lift your hand. “Hold still.”
His eyes track your face, then your fingers. You wipe the chocolate from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.
“Messy,” you say lightly.
And then, because you are pretending innocence and therefore committed to the bit, you put your thumb in your mouth and lick it clean.
It’s casual. That’s what ruins him. If you’d made a show of it, he could’ve rolled his eyes, called you dramatic, done something with the performance of it. But you don’t. You just do it, like it never occurred to you that he might have trouble surviving the sight.
Lando stops in the middle of the pavement. Actually stops.
His throat works once. Then he says your name in that low tone that sounds much more dangerous than a name should.
You widen your eyes at him. “There was chocolate.”
“That,” he says slowly, “was deeply unnecessary.”
You smile. “You’re welcome.”
He looks at you for one long second, jaw tight in a way that makes your stomach go warm.
Then, because he can’t help himself, he gives a short, disbelieving laugh and mutters, “You’re a fucking nightmare.”
But when he starts walking again, he does it half a step too fast, like he needs movement for cover. Like he really, really wishes he could stop thinking about your mouth.
The bathroom thing happens the next day. Of course it does.
The villa is too full, people are everywhere, and privacy lasts about six minutes at a time. You’ve just gotten out of the sea and gone upstairs to shower before everyone heads out to dinner. The room is warm and fogged with steam, and you’re standing under the water when the bathroom door opens.
You turn your head. Lando freezes on the threshold. He’d clearly come in on autopilot, hand still on the handle, gaze already halfway toward the sink, and then his eyes land on you. And stay. It lasts maybe one second. Maybe less. Still, it’s enough. Enough for him to see your body through the shower glass and the steam. Enough for you to see exactly what happens to his face. The shock. Then the instant, involuntary hunger under it. Then the way he realizes you’ve seen that too.
You don’t shriek. You don’t cover yourself. You don’t panic. You just stand there. Water sliding over your skin, hair slicked back, looking at him with your hand resting lightly against the tile like an invitation you’re not even pretending to disguise.
Lando goes red all the way down his throat. He looks absolutely winded. For one insane second, neither of you moves. Then his gaze drops, betraying him, just briefly, and when it comes back up it’s worse. Darker. Tighter. The kind of look that makes the room seem suddenly much smaller than it is.
He shuts the door so abruptly it bangs in the frame. You hear him swear under his breath from the hallway.
By the time you come downstairs later, dressed and dry and glowing from the shower, Lando is already on the terrace with a beer he has not touched and a face that suggests he is currently losing a private war with himself.
Max says something to him. He answers too late. You step outside. Lando looks up.
And the look he gives you this time is so quick, so sharp, that if you didn’t already know exactly what you were doing to him, you’d know now. Then it’s gone.
“Bathroom’s free now,” you smile sweetly.
“I noticed.” he says, voice tight.
His ears go pink. God, it’s almost cruel how easy this is becoming.
Night four, everyone goes to one of those beach bars that pretends to be casual while charging enough for one cocktail to finance minor surgery.
It’s loud and crowded and warm, the whole place washed in amber light and bad music. Max disappears into a group near the terrace almost immediately, which leaves you at the bar waiting for drinks when some guy starts talking to you.
He’s not hideous. That would be easier. He’s just the wrong kind of confident. Leaning too close. Smiling like he already assumes he’ll get whatever answer he wants. You’re halfway through planning a polite escape when a hand lands lightly at the small of your back.
You don’t even need to turn to know who it is. Lando steps up beside you like he’s always been there.
“Hey,” he says to you, not the guy. “Max was looking for you.”
It’s an obvious lie. Max is twenty feet away doing tequila shots and yelling at somebody about football.
You look up at Lando, feigning mild confusion. “Was he?”
Lando’s expression doesn’t change. “Yeah.”
The guy hesitates. Reads the room. Backs off with a mumbled excuse. The second he’s gone, you turn.
Lando lets out a short laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
The bartender hands over the drinks. Lando passes yours to you, fingers brushing yours in the process, and he doesn’t quite let go quickly enough. You feel it. So does he.
“I was saving you from a very boring conversation,” he says.
You tip your head. “Then what was that?”
He looks at you then. Not playful. Not brotherly. Not safe. Just one quiet second of pure, irritated honesty. Then it vanishes.
“You’ve got terrible taste,” he says, and turns away to bring the drinks back to the others.
You stand there smiling into your glass because, really, he can call it whatever he wants. But he was jealous. And you both know it.
The argument happens on the fifth night. Of course it does.
Everything’s been building toward it all week, the looks, the jokes, the way Lando keeps trying to shove you back into the old role every time he wants you too obviously. You’re tired of it by then. Tired of the barrier. Tired of him acting like the line between you is some law of nature when half the time he looks at you like he wants to break it himself.
Most people have gone to bed. The terrace is quiet except for the sea in the distance and the faint clink of bottles on the low table. Lando is out there alone, sitting on the wall with a beer in one hand and one foot braced against the stone.
You step outside. He looks up, immediately alert in that way he always is with you now.
You lean on the wall beside him. “No.”
Then he says, without looking at you, “You’ve been trouble all week.”
He huffs a laugh. “You know you have.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
That makes him finally turn his head. The look on his face is enough to make your pulse jump.
“You want me to list it?”
You widen your eyes, innocent. “Please.”
Lando stares at you like he can’t decide whether to laugh or lose his mind.
Then he drags a hand through his hair and says, “This is exactly what I mean.”
You fold your arms. “What, specifically?”
He sets the beer down too hard.
“You act like you don’t know what you’re doing.”
That lands. Because, yes, maybe you do know. But he knows too. And still he won’t say it cleanly. So you push.
“Maybe I don’t,” you say lightly. “Maybe you’re just imagining things.”
Lando laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Right.”
You turn more fully toward him. “Then say it.”
He goes still. “Say what?”
For a moment it looks like he might. Then the wall comes down again. He reaches for the old script.
You almost laugh in his face.
“And you’re twenty-seven, not fifty.”
“No,” you say. “The point is Max.”
Lando’s jaw tightens. You push off the wall and take one step closer.
“The point is you keep hiding behind Max because it’s easier than admitting anything real.”
He gives you a warning look. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” you ask. “Because it’s true?”
He stands up then. That changes things immediately. Lando is taller than you by enough that every argument with him has the potential to become something else if he decides to let it, and right now there’s nothing casual left in the air between you. Just heat. Tension. The sound of the sea and both of you breathing too carefully.
“You’re his little sister,” he says.
You tilt your chin up. “And?”
“Only because you’ve decided it does.”
“No.” His voice drops. “Because it’s a bad idea.”
You laugh, and this time there’s no softness in it. “Right. That’s why you’ve spent the whole week looking at me like that.”
He goes still. Good. You step closer again until there’s barely space between you.
“What?” you ask softly. “Are you scared?”
His eyes narrow. You keep going, because by now you’re angry too, angry at the week, at the joking, at being called kiddo every time he loses his nerve.
“Too scared to do something about it? Too scared to stop pretending you don’t want me?” Your voice lowers, quieter and more dangerous. “Too scared to man up and actually fuck me?”
The silence after that is absolute. Lando stops breathing for one second. Then everything about him changes.
It is instant. The temperature of him. The look in his eyes. The set of his mouth.
You have seen him flirt, laugh, tease. You have seen him awkward and sweet and trying too hard not to stare. You have not seen this.
Lando steps into your space so fast your back hits the terrace pillar before you quite realize you’ve moved. One hand lands beside your head, the other catches your waist hard enough to make your breath snag.
His voice is low now. Controlled in a way that feels much more dangerous than if he’d raised it. You look up at him. Your pulse is everywhere.
But you’re still stubborn enough to whisper, “Why?”
His eyes drop to your mouth. Then back up.
“Because,” he says, and the hand at your waist tightens just once, “you don’t get to say things like that and then look at me like you have no idea what happens next.”
Heat floods straight through you. He’s close enough now that every word lands against your skin. You should be terrified. Instead, your whole body goes hot.
“So what happens next?” you ask.
For one second, you think he’s going to kiss you. You actually think it. The air is that tight. His face is that close. His hand on your waist is too warm, too firm, too sure.
But then you watch it happen, the flicker of something across his face. Not lack of want. God, no. That’s not the problem. It’s restraint.
He closes his eyes once. Opens them again. And steps back. Just like that.
The loss of him is immediate and humiliating. Lando drags a hand through his hair, jaw hard enough to cut glass.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he says.
The words hit harder than they should.
You straighten slowly away from the pillar. “Right.”
Your whole chest tightens. “Do what?”
“Act like this is some game.”
You stare at him. Because that hurts. Because it isn’t a game. Because if anything, you’ve just handed him more honesty than he’s given you all week and he’s still the one pulling away.
You laugh once, short and disbelieving. “You think I’m playing?”
Lando doesn’t answer. That’s somehow worse.
He just picks up his beer again, looks everywhere except your face, and says, rougher now, “Go to bed, kiddo.”
There it is again. This time it feels like a slap.
You stand there for one long second, waiting for him to stop you, say something else, admit this mattered as much as it clearly did.
He doesn’t. So you nod once.
“Sure,” you say, and your voice sounds frighteningly normal. “Goodnight, then.”
You walk inside before he can see your face properly. The door closes behind you.
And out on the terrace, Lando stays exactly where he is, hand still too tight around the bottle, jaw clenched, looking like the only thing he hates more than you leaving is the fact that he let you.
The week after the terrace is unbearable.
You don’t cry. You don’t slam doors. You don’t throw anything or demand explanations or make Max suspicious. You just do the one thing Lando clearly never expected you to do.
You stop. You stop lingering in rooms when he walks in. Stop leaning on his shoulder when everyone crowds into the kitchen. Stop asking him things first. Stop laughing at every stupid little comment he makes just because it’s him.
You’re not rude. That’s the worst part for him. You’re perfectly pleasant. Perfectly normal. You talk to everyone else. You swim with the group. You have breakfast out on the terrace with your sunglasses on and your hair damp from the pool and answer Max when he asks if you want to go into town. You smile at the others. You even smile at Lando, sometimes.
Just not the same way. And he feels it instantly. Of course he does.
By day one, he’s watching you. By day two, he’s trying to get you alone. Not enough for anyone to notice. Just stupid little attempts. Hanging back when you go inside for a drink. Dropping into the seat next to you when there are six others open. Catching your wrist lightly in the kitchen and saying your name in that lower, quieter voice he only uses when he means something.
You slip away every time.
By day three, he tries apologizing. Sort of. You’re by the fridge, reaching for a bottle of water when he appears beside you and says, without looking directly at you, “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
You shut the fridge door with your hip. “Mean what?”
He looks at you then, jaw tight. “The terrace.”
You twist the cap off the bottle. “It’s fine.”
That clearly is not the right answer. Because Lando hates when you say it’s fine in that flat little voice that means the exact opposite.
You shrug. “Then maybe you should’ve thought about that before telling me to go to bed like I was twelve.”
His face changes. You walk away before he can answer.
After that, he starts getting restless in a way nobody else would spot if they didn’t know him the way you do. Louder with everyone else. Quieter when you’re nearby. More sarcastic. Less settled. Every now and then you catch him looking at you with that same frustrated, almost angry heat from the terrace, only for him to ruin it a second later by forcing a joke or saying kiddo like the word itself can save him.
And by the sixth night, when one of the guys from a party in town, dark-haired, pretty, very obviously Italian, asks if you want to meet up the next evening, you say yes mostly because you can.
His name is Matteo. He kisses your hand like he’s walked out of a bad romance film and says things like bella with enough charm to make Max laugh and enough confidence to make Lando go silent halfway through his beer.
You pretend not to notice. That part is easy. Because if Lando gets to spend a week pretending none of this matters, then you can do the same.
By the seventh night, you’re in your room getting ready. The villa is warm and noisy in that soft pre-going-out way, music somewhere downstairs, glasses clinking, somebody in the hall yelling for a charger. Your bedroom door is half-shut. The mirror over the dresser is catching the last of the gold light from outside.
You’re doing your lipstick when there’s a knock. Not even a real one. Just two hard taps and then the door pushes open before you answer.
He steps inside and shuts the door behind him with more force than necessary.
You meet his eyes in the mirror for one second, then go back to your lipstick like it doesn’t matter at all that he’s here.
He doesn’t answer right away. And when he does, his voice is too controlled.
You cap the lipstick slowly. “Do we?”
You turn then, leaning back against the dresser, crossing one leg over the other.
He’s still in the doorway. Barefoot, T-shirt, linen shirt left open over it, hair still damp from a shower. He looks good enough to be irritating. He also looks like he’s one wrong word away from breaking something.
You smile a little. “You’ve had all week.”
You laugh softly. “No? The terrace felt pretty fair at the time.”
“No,” you say. “You sort of implied it in the kitchen while staring at the fridge.”
He exhales through his nose, already annoyed. “All right. Fine. I’m sorry.”
The words should feel satisfying. They don’t. Not really. Maybe because he says them like they’ve been dragged out of him by force. Maybe because it’s too late. Maybe because you’re still hurt enough to want him to feel a little of it too.
So you just look at him and say, “Okay.”
That lands even worse than if you’d fought him.
He takes a step forward. “That’s it?”
“What do you want, Lando?”
“I want you to stop doing this.”
You tilt your head. “Doing what?”
“Acting like I’m not there.”
That almost makes you laugh. Almost.
Instead you say, “I’m not acting.”
Something moves in his face then. Something quick and ugly and real.
You push off the dresser and move past him toward the bed where your bag is open, half-packed with lip gloss and your phone and the tiny bottle of perfume you like for going out.
He turns immediately. “So that’s it?”
You pick up the perfume. “What is?”
“You just…” He gestures sharply. “You ignore me for a week, and now you’re going out with him?”
You spray your wrists. Very calm. Very deliberate.
His mouth hardens at the name.
“Right,” you say. “So this is about Matteo.”
“No?” You rub your wrists together. “Because you seem very interested.”
Lando takes another step into the room. “You met him once.”
His eyes narrow. You smile. Sweetly. Innocently. God, you know that look on his face now. The one that says he’s trying not to show too much and failing.
“He’s taking you out,” Lando says.
“You know he wears too much cologne and says your name like he’s trying to sell it.”
That drags a real laugh out of you.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” you say, turning to face him fully now, “you only ever sound honest when you’re jealous.”
“No?” You lift a brow. “Then what exactly are you doing in my room?”
He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Right. Exactly.
You pick up one earring from the dresser and fasten it, keeping your eyes on him the whole time.
“I just thought,” you say lightly, “that after the week I’ve had, I might enjoy hanging out with an actual man for once.”
That gets his full attention. The room goes still.
Lando’s voice drops. “An actual man.”
You nod. “You know. One who doesn’t spend all week looking at me like he wants me and then talking to me like I’m a child.”
He takes another step forward. This time you feel it low in your stomach.
“One who doesn’t call me kiddo every five minutes because he’s too scared to say what he actually means.”
You almost smile. There it is. That tone. Low and controlled and a little dangerous. The one from the terrace. Only tonight, there’s something hotter under it. Less restraint. Less patience.
You should stop. Instead you step closer too.
“What?” you ask softly. “Does that bother you?”
His eyes drop to your mouth. Then lower, very briefly, to the dress you’re wearing. Not obscene. Just enough. Tiny straps, bare legs, a little gold at your throat. You did not expect to enjoy the way Lando looks at it quite this much.
“You don’t need him,” Lando says.
You laugh. “And whose fault is that?”
He goes still. You know you should leave it there. You don’t.
“You had your chance, Lando.”
That lands hard. You can see it in the way his shoulders shift.
So you keep going, because now you’re angry too. Angry at the week, at the terrace, at every stupid time he looked at you like you were the problem and then hid behind Max and age gaps and rules he invented because wanting you scared him more than losing you apparently did.
“You don’t get to act like this now,” you say. “Not after everything you said.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want you.”
“No,” you snap. “You just acted like touching me would kill your best friend and age me backwards five years.”
You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “No? Then what is? You making me feel insane all week while I stand there and let you call me kiddo like I don’t know exactly why you’re doing it?”
His breathing has changed. You notice that first. Then the way his hands flex at his sides. Then the way he looks at you, no more pretending now, no more brother’s friend politeness or weak jokes or stupid rules. Just want, straight and unhidden and furious with itself.
It makes your pulse jump. Still, you hold his gaze and say the thing that finally does it.
“Maybe I just got tired of waiting for you to man up.”
Lando stills. Not in that joking, buying-time way he’s used all week. Something in him goes taut. Focused. Dangerous.
Then he’s moving. Fast enough that your back hits the dresser before you can think to step away, one hand planting beside your hip, the other catching your waist hard enough to make your breath catch.
“Say that again,” he says.
His voice is low. Flat. Controlled in a way that feels far more dangerous than shouting.
Your pulse goes wild. You should stop there.
Instead, because you are incapable of backing down even now, you lift your chin and say, softer this time, “What? That you should man up?”
His grip on your waist tightens.
“You want an actual man?” he asks.
Heat flashes low in your stomach. You swallow, but don’t answer.
Lando steps closer, thigh pressing between yours, and suddenly there’s no room left to pretend you don’t know what you’ve been doing to him all week.
“Fine,” he says. “Tell me what exactly you think he’s going to do for you that I won’t.”
You try for a laugh, for something light and clever, but all that comes out is, “At least he’d stop talking and do something useful.”
That gets you one short, dark laugh. Then his hand slides from your waist to your jaw, fingers closing there just enough to make you look at him.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “That mouth’s been getting brave all week.”
The look in his eyes is enough to make you go warm all over.
“If I kiss you,” he says quietly, “you don’t get to act surprised after all the shit you’ve pulled.”
You mean to say something sharp back. Something smart.
What comes out instead is, “Then kiss me.”
And that does it. His mouth is on yours immediately. No hesitation, no testing the water, no gentleness to soften the blow of it. It’s hot and hard and immediate, like the whole week has finally snapped and this is what’s been under it the entire time. You make a small sound against his mouth before you can stop yourself, and he reacts to it instantly, hand sliding from your jaw to the back of your neck as the one at your waist drags you flush against him.
You kiss him back just as hard, but he takes over fast. Always that. Always dragging the moment under his control the second he gets the chance.
He kisses like he’s done being patient. Like he’s done pretending. Your fingers knot in his shirt, then slide up into his hair, and the second you tug, he swears softly into your mouth.
You’re already breathless.
His mouth brushes yours again, almost a smile, but there’s nothing playful in it.
“You have any idea what you’ve been like this week?” he says, voice rough.
Then he kisses you again before you can answer.
It gets hotter fast. His thigh stays firm between yours, and when you shift against it without meaning to, a broken little sound slips out of you. That makes him stop for just a second, not pulling away, just enough to look at your face.
And then his expression changes. Worse. More certain.
“What?” he murmurs. “You quiet now?”
Your cheeks burn. You open your mouth, but nothing useful comes out.
Lando’s mouth curves at one corner. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you again, deeper this time, and the hand on your waist spreads wider, holding you there while his thigh presses more deliberately between yours. The friction of it nearly takes the breath right out of you. You make another sound, softer this time, and he actually laughs against your mouth.
“There she is,” he says again. “Where’d all that attitude go?”
You want to answer him. You really do. But his mouth is at the corner of yours now, then your jaw, and the heat of him between your legs is making it very difficult to remember how words work at all.
“No,” he says, low and close. “You were very brave five minutes ago.”
The way he says it goes straight through you. You grab his shirt harder, and that only seems to encourage him.
“You wanted me to stop acting nice?” he asks, mouth brushing yours. “Wanted me to do something?”
Your head tips back against the dresser. His hand slides from your waist to your thigh, not hidden, not accidental, fingers firm as they settle there. You let out a small, helpless moan at the contact, and Lando goes very still for one beat.
Then his eyes lock on yours.
“Again,” he says quietly.
Your face goes hot all over.
His thumb flexes once against your thigh.
The command in his voice is enough to make your stomach flip. You barely even realize you’re moving against his thigh again until another breathy sound slips out of you, and this time his whole body reacts.
“Jesus,” he mutters, closing his eyes for half a second like that nearly finished him on the spot.
Then he looks at you again, and the dominance in his face now is almost unfair.
You’re gripping his shoulders now just to stay steady. He notices that too.
“Can’t talk anymore?” he asks softly. “Too busy?”
You glare at him, but it’s weak at best, and he knows it. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and the knowledge of that is somehow almost as bad as the touch itself.
“You’ve been driving me crazy all week,” he says, kissing you once, slower, then again harder. “Walking around in that bikini. Licking your thumb like that in front of me. Standing in the shower and looking at me like you wanted me to do something about it.”
Your breath catches all over again. He leans in, mouth close to your ear now, hand still firm on your thigh.
“And now?” he says. “Now you can barely get a sentence out.”
You make a tiny sound, half protest, half something else, and he laughs softly, dark and satisfied.
“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly.”
Then he kisses you again, and this time there’s no room left for pretending. You’re the one melting into him now, one of your hands buried in his hair, the other fisting in his shirt, and Lando is holding you like he already knows you’re not getting away from him tonight.
He turns you just enough that the edge of the dresser presses into the backs of your thighs and then lifts you onto it in one smooth movement, stepping in between your knees immediately like he needs to be closer than close.
The new angle makes everything worse. He’s right there. Everywhere. Your breath leaves you in a soft moan, and Lando’s eyes flash.
You actually whimper at that, half in embarrassment, half because the words themselves are doing something to you now.
His hand slides up your side, then back down, then settles again at your waist, steadying, controlling, not letting you drift anywhere he doesn’t want you.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, and the heat in his voice makes your whole body tighten. “All week you’ve been winding me up, and now you can’t even mouth off properly.”
You shake your head once, though whether you mean no or stop or more, you’re not entirely sure.
Lando just smiles. Not sweet. Not nice. A little cruel, in the hottest possible way.
He kisses you again, and you’re gone enough now that all you can do is hold on and let him. Every time his thigh presses between yours, every time his mouth drags another little sound out of you, every time he says something low and taunting and looks at you like he knows exactly how turned on you are, you lose another piece of the argument.
By the time he finally pulls back enough to look at you, your lipstick is ruined, your breathing is wrecked, and your hands are still buried in his hair.
Lando looks almost smug about it.
“What happened to all that big girl talk?” he asks.
You stare at him. He waits.
You manage, barely, “Shut up.”
That makes him laugh, breathless and pleased with himself.
Then he kisses you again before you can recover, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other keeping your thigh firmly where he wants it, and whatever Matteo was supposed to mean tonight disappears so completely it’s laughable.
You’re trying to keep up, trying to match his intensity, but he’s making it impossible. His thigh is a relentless, perfect pressure between your legs, and every time you shift against it, seeking more friction, a ragged little sound escapes your throat. Each one seems to spur him on, make him rougher, more possessive.
He pulls back just enough to speak, his mouth brushing yours with every word. “That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrates straight through you. “Making all those pretty noises now, aren’t you?”
Your face burns, but you can’t stop it. You can’t stop the way your body arches into him, begging for more without a single word.
“Look at you,” he says, and his thumb drags over your bottom lip, swollen and wet from his mouth. “So fucking desperate for it.”
Before you can muster a reply, he spits directly into your open mouth.
The shock of it is electric. It’s filthy and degrading and so incredibly hot you see stars for a second. Your breath hitches, and you instinctively swallow, the action making your whole body flush with a deep, mortifying heat. Lando watches you, his eyes dark and fixed, a slow, satisfied smirk spreading across his face.
“Yeah,” he breathes, like he knew exactly how you’d react. “That’s my good girl.”
The praise, coupled with the degradation, is a devastating combination. It melts whatever resistance you had left. You’re pliant under his hands, ready to do whatever he wants.
“Such a fucking brat all week,” he continues, his voice dropping even lower as he leans in, his lips ghosting over your ear. “Walking around like you owned the place, teasing me, thinking I wouldn’t notice.” His teeth graze your earlobe, making you shiver. “Did you think I wouldn’t do something about it? Did you think I wouldn’t finally bend you over and fuck the attitude right out of you?”
You can only whimper in response, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
He pulls back, his eyes raking over your wrecked state. “Bed,” he commands. “Now.”
He doesn’t wait for you to comply. He grabs your thighs, lifting you effortlessly from the dresser. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you the few steps to the bed, dropping you onto the soft mattress. He follows you down immediately, caging you in with his body, his knees pushing your thighs apart.
His mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is different. It’s slower, deeper, more deliberate. He’s taking his time now, savoring it. His hands slide under your top, his warm palms flattening against your stomach, then moving up to cup your breasts through your bra. You arch into his touch, a silent plea for more.
He breaks the kiss, sitting back on his heels to look down at you. His gaze is heavy, possessive. “Take this off,” he says, tugging at the hem of your top.
You sit up, your fingers fumbling with the fabric as you pull it over your head, tossing it aside. Your bra follows next, the clack of it hitting the floor sounding loud in the quiet room. Lando’s eyes darken as he looks at you, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. He reaches down, his thumb brushing over one peaked nipple, making you gasp. “So fucking responsive.”
He leans down, taking the other nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. You cry out, your hands flying to his hair, holding him to you. He spends a moment there, lavishing attention on your breasts until you’re writhing beneath him, desperate for more.
Then he pulls away, his hands moving to the button of your shorts. He makes quick work of them, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties and dragging them both down your legs until you’re completely bare beneath him. He stands up for a second, his eyes devouring the sight of you, before he starts stripping off his own clothes.
His shirt comes off first, revealing the toned planes of his chest and stomach. Then his shorts, leaving him in just his boxers. The hard line of his cock is clearly visible straining against the fabric, and the sight sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.
He kneels on the bed again, leaning over you, his hands braced on either side of your head. “Last chance to back out,” he says, his voice low and serious. “Once I start, I’m not stopping.”
You reach up, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down for a hard, demanding kiss. “Don’t stop,” you whisper against his mouth.
He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
The kiss breaks, and Lando doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. He shifts, moving to sit back against the headboard, the pillows bunching behind him. He looks like a king surveying his kingdom, all lazy confidence and coiled power. His hand, which had been tangled in your hair, now rests on his own thigh, a silent, clear invitation.
Your eyes follow the line of his body, down the hard planes of his stomach to the prominent bulge straining against the fabric of his boxers. The thought is immediate, instinctual, and overwhelming: you want to make him fall apart. You want to be the one to undo him.
“Come here,” he says, his voice a low command.
You crawl up the bed, the sheets soft under your hands and knees, until you’re kneeling between his spread legs. The position feels submissive, powerful, and utterly right. You look up at him through your lashes, and the look he gives you in return is pure, unadulterated heat.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, reaching out to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. “So eager to please now. Where was all this obedience earlier, huh?”
You don’t answer with words. Instead, you lean in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the hard length of him through his boxers. His sharp inhale is all the reward you need. You do it again, a little lower, your tongue darting out to taste the cotton fabric. He’s hot and hard, and you can feel the faint, salty trace of pre-come already seeping through.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there. A weight. A promise. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
You smile against him, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips just enough to help you pull them down, freeing his cock. It springs up, thick and heavy, curving slightly towards his stomach. The head is flushed a deep, angry red, already beading with another drop of fluid.
“Go on then,” he says, his voice rougher now. “Show me how good you can be.”
That’s all the encouragement you need. You lean in and wrap your hand around the base of his cock, your fingers barely meeting. He’s velvety steel, impossibly hard. You give a slow, experimental pump, and his hips twitch.
You’re not about to. You lower your head and take him into your mouth, the taste of him clean and salty and uniquely Lando. You start slow, just taking the head, swirling your tongue around the ridge, lapping at the sensitive slit. His hand tightens in your hair, a firm grip that grounds you.
“Christ,” he groans, his head falling back against the headboard. “That mouth… I knew it would be good for more than just talking back.”
You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, taking him as far as you can. He’s big, and you have to breathe through your nose, but the slight stretch, the feeling of being so full of him, is intoxicating. You pull back slowly, your lips tight around his shaft, before sinking down again, a little faster this time.
You find a rhythm, a steady, wet slide of your mouth up and down his length. Your hand works what you can’t take, twisting in time with the movements of your head. The room fills with the sounds of it, the slick, wet noises, your own muffled moans of pleasure, and the harsh, ragged breaths being torn from Lando’s chest.
“Yeah,” he pants, looking down at you. His eyes are dark, fixed on the sight of his cock disappearing between your lips. “Just like that. Look so fucking pretty with my dick in your mouth.”
His praise sends a bolt of pure heat straight to your core. You moan around him, the vibration making him curse again. You want to be good for him. You want to be the best he’s ever had.
His grip in your hair tightens, and he starts to guide you, setting a faster, more demanding pace. He’s not forcing you, but he’s taking control, using your mouth for his pleasure, and the thought makes you dizzy with arousal. You relax into it, letting him use you, your hand dropping to grip his thigh for balance.
“You like that, don’t you?” he grunts, his hips starting to rock up to meet your downward strokes. “Like when I take control. Like when I fuck that pretty mouth.”
You can only moan in response, your eyes watering slightly as he hits the back of your throat. You look up at him, and the sight of his face, jaw tight, eyes burning with a primal hunger, is the most erotic thing you’ve ever seen.
“Such a good girl,” he breathes, and the words are your undoing. “Taking it so well. My good fucking girl.”
He pulls you off him suddenly, leaving you gasping for air. A string of saliva connects your lips to the tip of his cock. He looks at it, then at your wrecked, swollen mouth, and a dark, possessive satisfaction crosses his face.
You do, and he spits into your mouth again. This time, you’re ready for it, and you moan as you swallow, the act feeling intimate and dirty and incredibly arousing.
“Fuck,” he groans, his control clearly fraying. “You’re perfect.”
He pulls you back onto his cock, and now there’s no gentleness left. His movements are sharp, his hips thrusting up as he pushes your head down. He’s fucking your mouth in earnest now, chasing his release, and all you can do is hold on and take it. The sounds are wetter, messier, more desperate.
“Gonna come,” he warns, his voice strained. “Gonna come down that pretty throat. You gonna take it all for me? Be a good girl and swallow?”
You hum your assent, the vibration pushing him right to the edge.
With a guttural groan, his hips stutter, and his cock pulses in your mouth. The first hot spurt of his release hits the back of your throat, and you swallow instinctively. He keeps coming, filling your mouth with his taste, and you take it all, milking him with your lips and tongue until he’s spent.
He collapses back against the headboard, his chest heaving. You gently release him, licking your lips clean before crawling up his body to curl against his side. He immediately wraps an arm around you, pulling you close.
For a moment, the only sound is his ragged breathing slowly returning to normal. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, a gesture so at odds with the raw dominance of moments ago that it makes your heart ache.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice hoarse. “You really are perfect.”
Curled against his side, you can still taste him on your tongue, still feel the phantom weight of him in your mouth. But that’s not the problem. The problem is the throbbing, insistent ache between your legs. It’s a deep, pulsing need that has only been sharpened by what just happened, not soothed by it. You can feel how wet you are, a slick, embarrassing heat that has soaked through to your thighs. Every shift of your body against the sheets is a delicious torture.
Lando’s breathing is still ragged, but it’s starting to even out. He presses a lazy kiss to your hair, his hand stroking up and down your arm in a gesture that feels far too tender for what just transpired. “You okay?” he murmurs, his voice a low, satisfied rumble.
You just nod, not trusting your voice. If you speak, you’re worried a desperate whine will come out.
He must feel the tension thrumming through you, the way you’re practically vibrating with unspent energy. He shifts, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at you. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. His eyes, which were soft and sated moments ago, are now sharp with renewed interest.
“Oh,” he says, the word drawn out and full of dawning amusement. “I see.”
Your face flushes hot. “See what?”
“This,” he says, his hand leaving your arm and drifting down your side, over your hip. His fingers ghost over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you jolt, a soft gasp escaping you. He’s not even touching you where you need him, and you’re already coming apart. “All that mouthy attitude, and now look at you. So desperate you can’t even stay still.”
He’s right, and the humiliation of it is almost as potent as the arousal. You try to press your thighs together, to hide the evidence of your need, but he’s already there, his hand wedging itself between them, preventing it.
“Ah, ah,” he tuts. “None of that. Don’t you dare hide from me.”
His fingers finally drift higher, through your slick folds, and the contact is so electric you arch off the bed with a sharp cry. He’s barely touching you, just a light, exploratory stroke, but it feels like he’s touched a live wire.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his eyes widening slightly as he feels how wet you are. He circles your entrance once, then pulls his hand back. You almost sob at the loss. He brings his glistening fingers up between you, showing you the evidence. “Look at the mess you’ve made. All this just from sucking my cock? You really are a needy little thing, aren’t you?”
The taunt is meant to humiliate, but it only makes you ache more. “Lando, please,” you whisper, the words breaking on a sob of frustration.
“Please what?” he asks, his voice dropping to that low, dominant register that makes your whole body clench. He’s enjoying this. He’s enjoying watching you squirm. “Use your words. You were so good at that earlier.”
“Please touch me,” you beg, your hips rolling up in a silent plea.
“I am touching you,” he says, his smirk widening as he deliberately, slowly, traces a single finger through your wetness again, avoiding your clit entirely. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to beg him to fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. “I need you to make me come, please,” you finally manage to grit out, your voice shaky and thin.
He laughs, a soft, dark sound. “Oh, I will. But not yet. I’m not done playing with you.”
And then, in a move that completely disarms you, he flips you over. You land with a soft oof, face down on the mattress. Before you can even process it, his hands are on your hips, pulling them up. “On your knees,” he commands. “Ass up. Let me see you.”
Blushing furiously, you obey, rising onto your hands and knees, presenting yourself to him. You feel incredibly exposed, vulnerable, and more turned on than you have ever been in your life. You can feel his gaze on you, hot and heavy, as he takes in the sight.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, and you hear the rustle of him moving behind you. “So fucking pretty.” A hand comes down to rest on your ass, his thumb stroking the curve. “So ready for me.”
You’re trembling with anticipation, waiting for him to finally, finally give you what you need. Instead, you feel the bed dip as he shifts, and then his breath is warm against your most intimate place.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock. It’s a broad, flat lick, from your clit all the way back, and it’s so good you nearly collapse. Your arms give out for a second, and you have to brace yourself on your forearms. He does it again, slower this time, savoring the taste of you.
“Lando,” you gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets.
He hums against you, the vibration making your whole body tremble. “So sweet,” he murmurs, his voice muffled by your flesh. “Could eat this cunt all night.”
There’s no other word for it. He’s not gentle. He’s not exploring. He’s consuming. His tongue is everywhere, flicking over your clit, delving inside you, lapping at your slickness. He’s eating you out with a single-minded, filthy intensity that has you seeing stars. You’re moaning freely now, unable to stop the sounds being torn from your throat.
You’re so lost in the sensation that you’re completely unprepared for the moment his tongue drifts lower, swirling around the tight hole of your ass. Your whole body goes rigid. No one has ever done that to you before. The shock is quickly followed by a bolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure so intense it makes you whimper.
He chuckles, a dark, filthy sound. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he murmurs, before doing it again, this time pressing the tip of his tongue against the tight ring of muscle. He licks you there with the same focused attention he gave your clit, and the dual stimulation is overwhelming. You’re pushing back against his face now, shamelessly riding his tongue, chasing the pleasure.
You’re moaning loudly now, the sounds getting higher and more desperate as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. You can feel the coil tightening in your stomach, the pressure building.
“No!” you cry out, the denial a physical pain.
“Shhh,” he says, his voice a low warning. He lands a sharp, stinging slap on your ass cheek that makes you yelp. “What did I say about being quiet?”
You’re panting, trying to catch your breath. “But—”
“Your brother’s just down the hall,” he continues, his tone deceptively soft as his hand soothes the reddened skin he just slapped. “You really want him to hear what a dirty little girl you are? Hear you moaning while I eat this pretty little cunt? Hear you whimpering while I lick your tight little asshole?”
His words are filthy, degrading, and they make you even wetter. The thought of being caught, of Max hearing you, is terrifying and thrilling all at once.
“Be a good girl for me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your folds. “Stay quiet, and I’ll let you come. Can you do that for me? Can you be my good girl and stay quiet for me?”
You nod frantically, biting your lip so hard you taste blood.
“Good,” he says, and then his mouth is back on you.
This time, it’s even more intense. He focuses on your clit, sucking it hard into his mouth while he slides two fingers inside you, crooking them just right to find that spot that makes your vision go white. At the same time, his thumb presses against your ass, a firm, possessive pressure that adds another layer of sensation.
It’s too much. It’s perfect. You can feel the orgasm building, stronger than anything you’ve ever felt before. You’re trying so hard to be quiet, to follow his orders, but it’s impossible. The sounds are being ripped from your throat, muffled by the pillow you’ve buried your face in.
“Come for me,” he commands against your skin, his fingers pumping faster, his tongue working relentlessly. “Let me feel it. Come all over my face, you beautiful, filthy girl.”
That’s all it takes. The orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, a blinding, deafening rush of pleasure that steals your breath and shatters you into a million pieces. You scream into the pillow, your body convulsing, your cunt clamping down around his fingers as wave after wave of ecstasy washes over you.
He doesn’t stop, drawing it out of you, prolonging the pleasure until you’re a boneless, whimpering mess, completely spent. Only then does he pull away, pressing a soft, final kiss to your sensitive flesh before collapsing beside you and pulling you into his arms. You’re shaking, your body still humming with the aftershocks, and you can feel his heart beating fast against your back.
“Told you I’d make you be quiet,” he murmurs smugly in your ear.
You’re a boneless, trembling mess in his arms, your body still humming with the violent aftershocks of your orgasm. You can feel the sticky evidence of your release on your thighs, a testament to how completely he just unraveled you. But the release wasn’t an ending. It was an appetizer. The throbbing between your legs hasn’t subsided; it’s transformed into a deep, insistent ache, a hollow emptiness that cries out to be filled.
You need him inside you. Now.
You shift in his arms, turning to face him. His eyes are dark and heavy-lidded with satisfaction, a smug, masculine pride etched onto his features. He looks like he’s just conquered a kingdom, and in a way, he has. He’s conquered you.
You push yourself up, leaning over him, your hair falling around your faces. “Lando,” you whisper, your voice still hoarse and shaky.
“Hmm?” he murmurs, his hand coming up to stroke your back in lazy circles.
“Please,” you beg, not caring how desperate you sound. “Please fuck me.”
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. “Please what?” he teases, his voice a low rumble. “I thought I just gave you what you wanted.”
You shake your head, your movements frantic. “No. I need you. I need you inside me.”
His eyes flash with heat. “Yeah?” he says, his hand sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you flush against him. You can feel his cock, already hard again, pressing against your folds. “You need this cock?”
“Yes,” you whimper, grinding against him. “Please, Lando. I’m on the pill. You don’t have to use anything. I just need you to fuck me.”
The raw, desperate plea seems to be the final straw. The teasing glint in his eyes is replaced by something darker, more primal. He flips you over again, easily maneuvering you back onto your hands and knees. You’re face down, ass up, presenting yourself to him like an offering.
“Hands on the headboard,” he commands.
You obey instantly, your fingers curling around the cool metal slats of the headboard. You’re facing the large wardrobe mirror, and you can see him behind you, see the raw, predatory look on his face as he kneels between your spread legs. The sight sends a fresh jolt of arousal through you.
He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your ear. “You asked for this,” he murmurs, his voice a low warning. “Remember that.”
Then he straightens up, and you feel him shift. You hear him spit, and then a moment later, you feel the warm, wet slickness of it land directly on your puckered hole, trickling down over your cunt. It’s filthy and degrading and so incredibly hot it makes your whole body clench.
He uses the head of his cock to smear the wetness around, teasing your entrance, coating himself in your arousal and his saliva. He notches the head against your opening, and you hold your breath, your entire body tensed in anticipation.
“Look in the mirror,” he commands. “Watch me while I fuck you.”
You force your eyes open, your gaze meeting his in the reflection. And then he pushes inside you.
He’s not gentle. He slides in with one long, relentless stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth movement. The sudden, full stretch is overwhelming. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound of pleasure and pain as your body struggles to accommodate him.
“Fuck,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “So fucking tight. So wet for me.”
He gives you a second to adjust, his body still, his cock a heavy, throbbing presence inside you. Then he starts to move.
He pulls almost all the way out before slamming back in, setting a hard, punishing rhythm from the very beginning. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by your ragged moans and his harsh grunts. Each thrust pushes you forward, your hands slipping on the headboard.
“You see that?” he pants, his eyes locked on yours in the mirror. “See how well you take me? See how fucking beautiful you look with my cock splitting you open?”
You can only moan in response, your eyes fixed on the reflection. It’s like watching porn, but it’s you. It’s your body being used, your face contorted in pleasure, his hands digging into your hips as he pounds into you from behind.
“You love this, don’t you?” he continues, his dirty talk a constant, filthy stream. “Love being on your knees for me. Love being fucked like the dirty little girl you are.”
His words are as arousing as his actions. They’re degrading and possessive and they make you feel wanted, desired, owned.
He reaches around you, his fingers finding your clit. He starts to circle it in time with his thrusts, and the added stimulation is almost too much. Your moans get louder, more desperate, and you can feel another orgasm already building.
“Shhh,” he warns, his voice low. “What did I say about being quiet?”
You try to bite back the sounds, but it’s impossible. He’s fucking you too hard, too deep, touching you in all the right places.
“I told you to stay quiet,” he says, his thrusts becoming even harder, more punishing. He lets go of your hip and brings his hand up to cover your mouth. His palm is warm and firm, muffling your cries. “You don’t want your brother to hear, do you? Don’t want him to hear his best friend fucking his little sister’s brains out?”
The thought, combined with the feeling of his hand over your mouth, is your undoing. The humiliation and the pleasure mix together into a potent cocktail that sends you spiraling towards the edge.
He can feel you getting closer. Your walls are clamping down around him, your body trembling. “That’s it,” he encourages, his voice rough. “Come for me. Come all over my cock. Be a good girl and come for me.”
His fingers work your clit faster, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release. The pressure builds and builds until it finally snaps. You scream into his palm, your body convulsing as a powerful orgasm tears through you. Your vision goes white, your ears ringing, as wave after wave of intense pleasure washes over you.
Your clenching, pulsing cunt sends him over the edge with you. With a guttural groan, he buries himself deep inside you, and you feel the hot, powerful spurts of his release filling you up. He keeps thrusting, riding out both your orgasms, until you’re both completely spent.
He collapses on top of you, his body heavy and warm, his face buried in your hair. You’re both panting, your bodies slick with sweat. After a moment, he gently pulls out, and you feel the combined wetness of his release and your own start to trickle down your thigh.
For a little while, neither of you says anything. The room is quiet except for the sea somewhere outside and the sound of both of you trying to breathe like normal people again. The sheets are twisted around your legs, the air still warm and wrecked around you, your skin oversensitive in that way it only ever is after being touched too much by someone you’ve wanted for far too long.
Lando rolls off beside you, half on his back, one arm thrown over his face, chest still rising a little too fast.
You stare at the ceiling. Then at him. Then at the ceiling again. And because apparently your body has decided the dangerous part is over, your brain chooses that exact moment to start catching up.
To the fact that you actually slept with him. That Lando is actually in your bed. That this is no longer years of wanting him from doorways and beach towels and stupid family-friend dinners. This is after. This is what happens when the line snaps and you don’t get to hide behind the tension anymore.
You shift a little. Lando drops his arm instantly and turns his head.
His voice is rough, lower than usual, but soft enough to make your chest ache.
You nod too quickly. “Yeah.”
He looks at you for one second and clearly does not believe you.
He pushes himself up onto one elbow. “You sure?”
The concern in his face catches you off guard more than it should. It shouldn’t, really. Lando has always been good at noticing. But this is different now. Closer. More intimate. He’s looking at you like you matter in a way that feels too open all of a sudden, and your instinct is to retreat before you can get hurt by it.
So you go for something light.
Lando’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t let it turn into a joke.
You look down at the sheet instead of him. “I know.”
He studies you for another beat, then reaches to the bedside table for the bottle of water, unscrews the cap, and hands it to you.
You take it because your throat is dry and because refusing would be childish and because it gives you something to do besides look at him and wonder what exactly this means now.
While you drink, he gets up. The sight of that alone nearly ruins your ability to think, him standing there bare and messy-haired and still a little flushed, looking like something dangerously domestic in the low light.
He disappears into the bathroom for a second and comes back with a damp cloth. That’s when the awkwardness really hits.
Because now he’s being gentle. Careful. Practical. The sort of aftercare that is almost worse than if he’d just kissed you once and left, because this feels like it means something and you are not sure you can survive assuming that if it turns out not to.
Lando sits back down on the edge of the bed and looks at you.
You do, mostly because he says it in that easy, matter-of-fact way that makes obeying him feel very natural very fast.
He cleans you up carefully. Not hurried. Not clinical. Just quiet and attentive, like this matters to him. Like you do. Every now and then he glances up at your face, checking, and every time he does, your pulse kicks all over again.
“You sore?” he asks after a second.
You shake your head once. “No.”
That almost gets a laugh out of you.
His hand stills for half a beat.
The question is immediate. Serious. You look at him then. Really look at him. There’s no arrogance in him now, no smug little edge from earlier. Just concern. Just him wanting the truth.
“No,” you say quickly. “No, not like that.”
He watches your face. “You’d tell me.”
It isn’t phrased as a question. That does something dangerous to your insides.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I would.”
He nods once, like he’s filing that away somewhere important.
Then, because apparently tonight is a long line of humiliations, he asks, just as gently, “You enjoy it?”
You look away immediately. “Lando.”
“You cannot ask me that while I’m naked and having a crisis.”
His mouth twitches again, but only slightly. “You can answer it anyway.”
You try for dignity. “I think you know the answer.”
He tilts his head. “I want to hear you say it.”
That makes you look back at him. He is still holding the cloth, still sitting there naked and devastating, and somehow he looks more dangerous now being soft than he did when he had you pinned against the dresser.
“Yes,” you say, quieter than you mean to.
A slow, pleased warmth moves through his face at that.
He says it so simply that it almost hurts. Then he sets the cloth aside, reaches for the water again, and presses it back into your hands.
You stare at him. “You’re very bossy after sex.”
“You loved that five minutes ago.”
That gets a short laugh out of you despite everything. But the awkwardness is still there underneath it. Getting worse, if anything, now that the adrenaline is gone and all that’s left is this strange softness and the fact that he is still here. Still looking after you. Still acting like this means more than just what happened in the bed. And that’s exactly what scares you. So you do what you always do when something matters too much. You go defensive.
“You don’t have to do all this.”
Lando stills. The shift in him is immediate enough that you feel it.
You clutch the bottle a little tighter and make yourself sound casual. Mature. Unbothered.
“The water. The…” You gesture vaguely at the cloth, the sheet pulled over you properly, all of it. “You don’t have to do the whole aftercare thing because you feel bad or because you think you should. I’m fine. You can leave if you want.”
The silence that follows is immediate. Heavy. You regret it almost before the last word leaves your mouth.
Lando just looks at you. Not angry yet. Not exactly. More like he’s trying to figure out how you could possibly have reached that conclusion after everything that’s happened tonight.
Then he says, very quietly, “You think that’s what this is?”
Your heart starts beating too hard again, but now for a different reason. You shrug, because shrugging is easier than answering.
“I don’t know what this is.”
He sits back a little, not away from you, but enough to get a better look at your face.
“And your first guess,” he says, voice sharpening, “is that I’m doing this because I feel like I have to do the right thing?”
You wince. “That’s not exactly—”
“No?” His brows lift. “Sounds a lot like it.”
You look down at the sheet. “I’m just saying you don’t owe me anything after—”
“After what?” he cuts in. “After having sex with you?”
The bluntness of it makes you go still.
Lando runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly offended on a level that feels almost personal.
“You really think I only had sex with you because that’s all I wanted from you?”
You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.
He laughs once, and there is absolutely no humor in it.
“No, because that’s insane.” He leans in again, forearms braced on his knees now, all his focus fixed on you. “Do you actually think I’ve spent all this time trying not to touch you, trying not to look at you too much, trying not to completely fuck up my friendship with Max, just because I wanted one night with you?”
The room is very still now. You can barely breathe.
The words land hard. His expression changes then, softening around the edges but getting more intense underneath it.
“I am not here because I feel guilty,” he says. “I am not cleaning you up and checking if you’re okay because I’m trying to be polite, or because I think you’re incapable of taking care of yourself, or because I’m doing some decent bloke performance after sex.”
“I’m doing it because I want to,” he says. “Because I care. Because it matters to me that you’re okay.”
He reaches for your hand then, closes his fingers around it, and the warmth of that somehow makes everything worse.
“Because you matter to me.”
You stare at him. He keeps going before you can interrupt.
“You want crystal clear?” he asks. “Fine. Here.”
His thumb strokes once over your knuckles.
“This was never just sex for me.”
The words hit somewhere deep and aching. He doesn’t look away.
“I’ve wanted you for too long for that. I was an idiot about it, yeah. I hid behind Max, behind the age gap, behind every stupid excuse I could get my hands on because wanting you felt like a bad idea and wanting you this much felt worse.”
A shaky breath leaves you before you can stop it. Lando’s voice lowers.
“But don’t sit there and tell me I can leave like this was some one-night thing I got out of my system.” He shakes his head once. “That’s not happening.”
You look down because you can’t not. Because if you keep holding eye contact right now you might actually combust.
His fingers tighten gently around yours.
You do. And, God, there’s no escaping him when he says things like that.
“You are not some mistake I stumbled into because you pushed me too hard and I lost control,” he says. “You are not some guilty secret I’m going to sneak out on while you’re still in bed.” His mouth hardens slightly. “And you are definitely not getting rid of me by pretending to be cool about it.”
A tiny, helpless laugh escapes you at that. His mouth softens immediately.
You hate how much that steadies you.
You wet your lips. “So what, then?”
Lando doesn’t even hesitate.
It’s not flashy. Not dramatic. But the certainty of it nearly undoes you.
“I want this,” he says. “I want you. Not just tonight. Not just in bed. I want the whole fucking problem.”
He nods once, dead serious. “All of it.”
“You’re swearing a lot for a romantic speech.”
“That’s because you’re making me say it in this conversation instead of just trusting me.”
That actually drags a laugh out of you. He looks absurdly pleased by that.
Then he says, quieter now, “You really didn’t know?”
The question is so simple it hurts.
You shake your head. “I knew you wanted me.”
You look down at your joined hands. “I just didn’t know if you wanted me after.”
Lando’s face changes at that. Something in him goes soft all at once.
He moves without really warning you, climbing back up onto the bed, guiding you gently until you’re lying down again with the pillow under your head properly and the sheet tucked higher around you.
You look up at him, a little breathless from how intimate even that feels now. He settles beside you on his side and brushes his knuckles lightly over your cheek.
“After?” he repeats. “You think this gets worse for me after?”
Your face heats. “That’s not what I meant.”
“No, I know exactly what you meant.” He pauses. “And the answer’s no. It gets worse in the other direction.”
His mouth tips into a small, wrecked smile.
“I’m already in too deep, sweetheart.”
The nickname lands somewhere hot and soft all at once.
“I was in too deep before I got you naked,” he says. “This just made it a lot harder to pretend otherwise.”
You cover part of your face with the sheet in sheer self-defense. He laughs quietly and pulls it back down again.
You smile despite yourself.
And because apparently he can’t leave sincerity sitting there too long without making it worse, he adds, “Also, for the record, if all I wanted was sex, I would not currently be having an argument with you while holding a damp flannel.”
That startles a real laugh out of you.
“There,” he says softly. “Much better.”
You exhale and let yourself look at him properly again.
He doesn’t even let you finish.
“It’s not just that. It was never just that.” His hand slides to your waist under the sheet, warm and possessive and steady. “I’m not very good at saying things nicely, apparently, so here it is ugly instead: I really, really fucking want to be with you.”
“And before you ask,” he says, because of course he reads your face before the thought is even fully formed, “yes, I know Max exists. No, I don’t care enough to undo this because of him. And yes, we should probably tell him before he figures it out and kills me.”
That makes you groan and drop your forehead lightly to his shoulder. He laughs and wraps an arm around you immediately, pulling you in.
“Oh, now you want a cuddle.”
“Right. Sorry. Post-sex emotional positioning.”
He kisses the top of your head.
Then, after a beat, he says, “Maybe winter.”
You lift your head. “What?”
“We tell your brother in winter.”
You stare at him. He looks entirely too pleased with himself.
“Because I’ll be racing across different countries every four days and he won’t be able to find me fast enough to kill me.”
The laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it.
“Tell him what, exactly?”
Lando looks at you as though you’ve said something genuinely ridiculous.
The words settle over you slowly. Warm. Simple. Terrifying in the best possible way.
He pauses, then squints at you. “Unless you’d rather I tell him we fucked, which feels a bit aggressive as an opener.”
Your face goes hot all over again. “Oh my God, no.”
“Right,” he says. “That would’ve been my instinct too.”
You smack his chest weakly with the sheet still half tangled around your wrist. He catches your hand and kisses your knuckles just to be unbearable.
“Together,” he says again, quieter now.
And this time, when you look at him, there’s nothing uncertain in his face at all. Just fact. Just him. Just what he wants.
You smile before you can stop yourself.
His whole expression changes. Not dramatically. Just enough that you can see the relief in it, the warmth, the almost disbelieving little happiness he’s trying very hard not to make too obvious.
Then, because he is still Lando and still incapable of letting a perfect moment stand untouched, he says, “Good. Now drink more water before I have to start bossing you around again.”
You laugh and grab the bottle off the bedside table before he can use that tone on you a second time.
And when he settles back beside you, one hand warm on your waist like it belongs there, it finally starts to feel less like the end of something and more like the beginning of the thing you wanted all along.
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