Mercedes Girl (aka Max's Girl) ☆ MV1
summary: you manage george russell’s image & max verstappen manages to ruin everything.
word count: 5.8k ~ one shot | kinda during the russtappen drama
pairings: max verstappen x reader
tags: enemies to fwb's?, kinda fast paced, second person POV, reader POV, STORY ENDS WITH SMUT, P in V, AFAB reader, max is aggressive but then sweet in the intimate moments, slightdom!reader, kindaswitch!max, brat!reader, mature themes overall, not really proofread
warnings: use of y/n (once?), pet names (baby, pretty girl), smut (18+), talking through it, unprotected sex, unprofessional... sex at work oops
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You’ve been George Russell’s PR manager for just over a year now, and up until recently, you would’ve called the job… manageable.
George is, by all accounts, the dream client. Polished. Charismatic. The kind of driver who can step in front of a microphone and deliver exactly what you need without more than a raised eyebrow from you in the background. He knows the talking points, he respects the image Mercedes cultivates, and he’s rarely the one to spark controversy.
At least, that’s how it used to be.
When you first started, most of your workload was smoothing over minor hiccups: a slightly arrogant sound bite here, a poorly timed laugh during a press conference there. Nothing you couldn’t handle with a carefully worded quote or a redirect in an interview. The press liked him. Fans called him “Gentleman George,” and you wore that nickname like armor—it made your job easy.
But in the past few months, something has shifted.
He’s edgier. Sharper in his tone. More willing to push back when reporters bait him. You’ve started noticing the jaw-clenching, the tight grip on water bottles when certain names come up. And one name in particular has become the trigger for every storm.
Max Verstappen.
It started small—some barbed comments after wheel-to-wheel racing incidents, subtle digs during press conferences. At first, you dismissed it as rivalry. That was normal, even healthy. But it didn’t stay that way.
Now, George bristles at the mere mention of Max. And worse, Max seems to enjoy provoking him. It’s become a pattern: George speaks, Max twists the knife, and suddenly your carefully maintained PR strategy collapses under the weight of yet another headline about their “feud.”
Which is why you’re here now, at the tail end of another race weekend, watching George glare daggers across the paddock as Max smirks his way through an interview. Cameras flash, microphones crowd closer, and you feel the migraine coming before the quotes even hit Twitter.
This isn’t what you signed up for.
But lately, with George a live wire and Max determined to light the fuse, you’re starting to wonder if anyone could manage this mess.
And if you don’t step in soon, it’ll be your reputation on the line too.
You find George pacing just outside the media pen, jaw tight, arms folded like he’s holding himself together by sheer will. The reporters are still circling Max like vultures a few feet away, microphones angled to catch whatever unmannerly line he’ll drop next. You don’t need to hear it; you know it’s about George.
“George.” Your voice is calm, practiced. Crisis management mode.
“Don’t give them anything more. Just smile, answer what’s asked, and leave.”
He spins on you, eyes flashing. “It’s his fault. He pushed me. He called me names. And now I’m supposed to stand here and pretend it never happened?”
“Yes,” you say simply. “Because the moment you rise to it, you give him exactly what he wants. Headlines. Fuel. He wants to make you look weak and he’s getting in your head.”
George shakes his head, sharp and bitter. “So he gets to run his mouth and I’m meant to sit here like a coward?”
You step closer, lowering your voice so no one else can hear. “Not a coward. Smarter. You’ve built an image, George— you’re polished, unshakable, ‘Gentleman George.’ That’s your armor. Don’t throw it away for something so… pointless.”
For a moment, his gaze softens, uncertainty breaking through the anger. But then his jaw sets again. “You don’t get it. He’s made this personal.”
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. Of course he has. That’s Max’s specialty—turning everything into a personal battle, dragging everyone else into the fire with him.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don’t need to check it to know what it is: the first wave of headlines, already spinning out of control. You look at George, who’s still simmering, his chest rising and falling too fast. “Let me see what I can do.”
He raises a brow. “You think you can get him to back down?”
You square your shoulders, already dreading the answer. “I don’t have a choice. I’ll talk to the Red Bull team. This is getting out of hand.”
♡
The Red Bull hospitality suite smells faintly of coffee and rubber, the sharp tang of post-race exhaustion. You find Max’s PR manager slumped at a table, phone buzzing endlessly in her hand as she scrolls through what you assume are the same trending headlines you’re already battling.
You don’t bother with pleasantries. You drop your tablet on the table, screen lit up with article after article. MAX VERSTAPPEN TAKES AIM AT GEORGE RUSSELL. FEUD BOILS OVER IN BAKU. IS GEORGE RUSSELL OUT OF HIS DEPTH?
“This has to stop,” you say flatly.
She glances up at you, dark circles under her eyes. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Then rein him in. Tell him no more digs, no more one-liners, no more throwing my driver under the bus every time he opens his mouth.”
She laughs, humorless. “If you think I can control Max, you’re out of your mind. He’s back to being ‘Mad Max.’ Right now, he doesn’t listen to anyone.”
You fold your arms, frustration bubbling. “So what, you just let him torch reputations? Sponsors? The sport itself? Just because he’s ‘Max Verstappen’?”
Her expression softens with weary resignation. “Look… I’ve tried. We all have. But when Max decides he’s angry, he’s angry. And honestly? He just enjoys this too much.”
You press your lips together, the headache pounding behind your eyes. Of course he does.
And then you feel it.
The weight of a stare.
You glance across the room and there he is, Max Verstappen himself, standing near the catering table with a bottle of water in hand. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are locked on you, sharp and assessing.
Your chest tightens, heat prickling the back of your neck. He doesn’t look away—not when you catch him, not even when your expression hardens.
You roll your eyes, exaggerated enough to make a point, then snap your gaze back to his PR manager. “Fine. If you won’t do it, I will.”
The manager exhales like you’ve just volunteered for execution.
“Good luck.”
You don’t say it, but the thought sears through you anyway: I’m going to regret this.
You follow him near the back of the paddock, where the noise has thinned and the air hums with the low growl of generators. Max leans against a barrier like he owns the place, still in his fireproofs, water bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. He doesn’t look surprised to see you behind him.
“Mercedes girl,” he drawls, lips quirking as his gaze flicks from your polo shirt to your face. “Should’ve guessed you’d come marching in sooner or later.”
You stop a few paces away, chin high, every inch of you professional armor. “It’s PR manager, actually. And I’d appreciate it if you stopped using my driver as your personal punching bag every time a microphone’s shoved in your face.”
That earns you a sharp laugh. He tips his head back, amused. “Your driver? Cute. What are you, his babysitter?”
Your eyes narrow. “No, but clearly someone needs to babysit you.”
His smile fades just enough for the bite underneath to show. “I don’t need anyone telling me what I can or can’t say. Especially not George’s… what? Manager? Spokesperson? Girlfriend?” The word drips with sarcasm.
You bristle, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I’m not his girlfriend.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Max mutters, pushing off the barrier. He takes a step closer, just inside the line of your personal space, daring you to flinch. “The way you’re sticking up for him, like he’s helpless. Running to protect him.”
“Because he doesn’t deserve this,” you snap, refusing to back down. “He doesn’t deserve the names, the digs, the constant—”
“What?” Max cuts in, eyes blazing. “The truth? He doesn’t like me, I don’t like him. That’s racing. That’s life. And if it gets under his skin, maybe he’s not as composed as you think.”
You hold his stare, pulse hammering. “Or maybe you just can’t stand not being the center of attention.”
That does it. His jaw clenches, shoulders tight, the water bottle creaking in his grip. For a second, you think he’s going to snap back with something vicious. Instead, he laughs again—low, sharp, dangerous.
“You’ve got a mouth on you, Mercedes girl.”
“And you’ve got an ego problem. I can see I’m getting no where with this.”
The silence between you crackles, electric and hot, neither of you willing to look away first until you finally let out a frustrated sigh and walk away from him.
♡
The feud doesn’t disappear overnight, but things quiet down a bit. After your confrontation with Max, the headlines shift from all-out war to the usual mix of podium chatter, strategy critiques, and sponsor plugs. George, to his credit, listens when you urge him to stay composed. He bites his tongue in interviews, delivers clean soundbites, and even flashes his trademark smile when journalists probe too close.
It’s working. You can feel it. The fire is dying down.
And Max? Surprisingly, he reins himself in. The pointed digs slow, the sharp comments dull to casual shrugs. You can’t tell if it’s because someone at Red Bull leaned harder on him or if your confrontation actually stuck in his head—but you notice the difference. It’s almost… unnerving.
Still, you don’t let yourself relax. Not yet.
It happens at Silverstone, of all places—home soil, high pressure. George pushes hard all race, defending against attacks until the very last laps. By the time he pulls into parc fermé, he’s white-knuckled and heaving, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He climbs out of the car, but you can see it in his eyes: he’s spiraling.
You cut through the crowd, ignoring the cameras, and reach him just as he grips the halo for balance. “George. Hey.” You keep your voice low, steady, grounding.
He blinks at you, chest rising too fast.
“Breathe,” you murmur, slipping a hand over his as it shakes against the carbon fiber. “In. Out. You’re fine.”
For a moment, he listens, matching your rhythm. You press your palm briefly against his chest, steadying the frantic thump of his heartbeat. Slowly, his breathing evens out.
“There you go.” You offer the faintest smile, professional but soft. “Cameras are everywhere—show them you’re in control.”
George nods, straightening, jaw tight as he forces composure back onto his face. By the time he walks toward the press, he looks calm again.
You exhale, relieved.
And then you feel it.
Across the parc fermé, leaning against the Red Bull car with arms folded, helmet off, Max is watching.
His expression is unreadable at first—eyes narrowed, mouth set in a thin line. He came second to George so you could practically feel whatever was lingering in the air between them. But then his gaze flicks from George to you, landing squarely on where your hand had been pressed against George’s chest.
His jaw ticks.
He takes a swig of water, mutters something under his breath to his engineer, and when he finally looks away, the air shifts. You don’t need to hear his words to know: whatever this truce was, it’s over. Sure enough, by Thursday he’s back at it.
A reporter asks about his rivals, and Max’s lips curve into that wolfish smirk you’ve come to dread. “Well, some people spend more time worrying about their PR image than actually racing. I suppose that’s one way to make up for lacking on track.”
The journalists eat it up. Cameras flash. Your phone buzzes nonstop.
George mutters under his breath beside you, “Unbelievable.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. Of course he couldn’t resist.
And when you glance across the room, Max is already looking at you.
That same sharp, knowing stare. He doesn’t smirk this time—he just raises an eyebrow, like he’s daring you to try and stop him again.
♡
You hear him before you see him—low, amused, that unmistakable Dutch lilt.
“Mercedes girl.”
Your shoulders stiffen instantly. You turn, finding Max leaning against the frame of the doorway, arms folded like he’s been waiting for you.
You exhale through your nose. “You need to stop calling me that.”
His brow quirks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Why? It suits you.”
“It doesn’t.” You slam your folder shut harder than necessary, nerves sparking hot. “My name is on every press release, every credential. You know it. Use it.”
Max shrugs, maddeningly casual. “I like Mercedes girl better. Rolls off the tongue.”
You step closer, eyes narrowing. “You don’t call me that because it ‘rolls off the tongue.’ You do it to belittle me. To remind me that you don’t take me seriously.”
His smirk only deepens. “Maybe because I don’t.”
The words sting, but you don’t let him see it. You force your voice steady, cold. “You should. Because I’m the reason your messes don’t stick. You think this feud makes you look strong, but it doesn’t. It makes you look insecure, Max. Small and weak. Like you can’t keep George out of your head long enough to focus on anything else.”
For the first time, his smirk falters.
The silence stretches, heavy and sharp. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t fire back immediately. He just looks at you—like you’ve managed to hit somewhere deeper than you intended.
You gather your bag, heart hammering, and brush past him without another word.
But halfway down the corridor, the weight of it sinks in. You hadn’t just snapped at him. You’d gone for the jugular. And as much as part of you had wanted him to stop, to finally shut up, you can’t shake the flicker of guilt in your chest.
Still, when you risk a glance back, he’s staring after you, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. Anger. Hurt. Maybe both.
You realize with a chill: you haven’t ended this. You might’ve just escalated it.
♡
You know it’s going to be a disaster before the lights even go out.
From the first lap, Max is driving like a man possessed. Aggressive lunges, late braking, squeezing George out whenever the opportunity arises. It’s not reckless—not quite—but it’s furious. Like every ounce of his anger has crystallized into the car beneath him.
George comes over the radio, voice strained. “He’s leaving no room. None.”
Your stomach twists.
By the time the checkered flag falls, the air between the two of them is toxic. George climbs out of the car, jaw tight, and mutters something under his breath about “bloody Verstappen.”
Cameras flash, microphones swarm, and you’re right there at his elbow, reminding him silently: composure. Control. Max delivers another barbed quip with that ice-cold smirk.
“George seems to panic under pressure,” he says into the cameras. “I don’t.”
The crowd eats it up. George bristles beside you. And Max? He doesn’t so much as glance your way.
Not once.
It’s worse than his taunts, somehow—the deliberate ignoring, the way he acts like you don’t exist. Like your last words cut too deep and now he won’t give you the satisfaction of even acknowledging you.
Your blood pressure is a drumbeat in your ears.
Max leans against the barrier during his interviews, casual, unbothered, and every word out of his mouth is another knife:
“George? He’s quick, sure. But quick doesn’t win races. Mentality does.”
“Honestly, I don’t think about him much. He thinks about me.”
You’re so close you can see the smirk pulling at his lips, the way he delivers the lines like gifts to the journalists. And the worst part? They laugh. They lap it up.
George’s fists curl at his sides, and you lay a hand on his arm to steady him. He breathes, sharp and shallow, but he doesn’t rise to it. Not this time.
Still, your own composure is fraying. Every barb feels like it’s aimed not just at George, but at you—the long hours cleaning up, the endless briefings, the nights you’ve spent spinning disasters into talking points.
It’s deliberate. A punishment.
By the time the interviews end, your restraint is gone. You’re done smoothing over his chaos. You’re done letting him toy with you. Toying with George.
You don’t knock. You don’t pause. You shove the door open so hard it rattles against the wall, storming into the Red Bull motorhome like it’s yours to claim.
Max is there, peeling the top half of his race suit off, his undershirt clinging damp to his skin. You take him in, finally letting your gaze sweep past the smirk and the smug tilt of his head.
His fireproofs cling to him in a way you’ve never paid attention to before—the fabric stretched slightly from the race, still flecked with heat and sweat, sculpting the lines of his shoulders and chest. Even after everything he’s done, the curve of his jaw, the way his hair is damp and sticking in rebellious strands, face red and raw, it makes your pulse stutter.
He’s standing there, arms crossed, muscles subtly flexing as he leans against the wall. Every inch of him is sharp and taut, like a coiled spring—dangerous, unrestrained. And suddenly, for the first time, you notice it. The way his eyes catch the light. The careless confidence he radiates even after a punishing race. The slight sheen of sweat along his neck and collarbone.
And you realize, reluctantly, that yes—he’s infuriatingly, undeniably, frustratingly handsome.
You shift, trying to ground yourself in the fury that brought you here, reminding yourself: this isn’t about him. It’s about the damage he’s caused. The games. The constant tension. The way he’s made your life hell for weeks now.
And yet… the heat of him in this small motorhome, the tautness of his body, the reckless arrogance—it’s impossible to ignore.
You blink, take a deep breath, and square your shoulders. The moment passes—or at least, you try to snap out of it. He startles from your intrusion but it’s only a fraction of a second before those dark eyes settle back into place, like he’s been waiting for you.
“Wow,” he says, voice dripping with amusement. “Mercedes girl, do they not knock over there at Mercedes?”
“Cut the shit, Verstappen.” Your words are sharp, your voice trembling with rage. “You’ve crossed the line this time.”
He raises a brow, tilting his head, deliberately unbothered. “You’ll have to be more specific. I cross a lot of lines.”
“You humiliated him. You humiliated me.” You’re shaking now, fury buzzing under your skin. “The digs, the smirks, the cheap shots—fine. That’s who you are, apparently. But today? The blocking, the interviews? You’re being pathetic.”
Something flickers across his face at the word, and you press the advantage.
“And you think ignoring me makes it better? That it makes you look strong? No. It makes you look like a spoiled, insecure brat who can’t handle someone not bowing to you. Well, I’m certainly not just going to worship you just because you’re Max Verstappen.”
His smirk falters, and for a second, you think you’ve finally stunned him into silence. But then he laughs—low, dark, infuriating.
“You really don’t hold back, do you, Mercedes girl?”
Your fists clench. “Stop calling me that.”
He steps closer, slow, deliberate. “Why? You hate it, but you always react. Makes me wonder if you like it even a little bit.”
You glare up at him, chest heaving. “You’re not funny. You’re not clever. You’re just—”
“Weak? Small?” he cuts in, voice low, sharp. The words you’d stabbed him with at Silverstone.
Your throat tightens, but you refuse to back down. “Yes. Weak. Small. Everything you’ve done proves it. Every petty word, every desperate move on track—you’ve made yourself look smaller and smaller. And the worst part?” You step into his space, your voice dropping like a blade. “You don’t even realize it.”
The air between you is molten. He’s close now, so close you can see the pulse ticking in his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls too fast.
Max’s eyes burn into yours, anger and something way heavier tangled together.
“You’ve got a mouth on you,” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous, almost teasing, and the edge of a smirk curls on his lips.
Max steps closer, closing the small space between you. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the sharp scent of sweat and adrenaline clinging to him from the race.
“And I’m not going to stop using it,” you snap, your hands trembling—not from fear, but from something else.
He tilts his head, eyes dark and unflinching, and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to just you two. The tension crackles so thickly it’s almost a physical thing in the small motorhome.
Before you can step back, he leans in. You barely have time to catch your breath before his lips press to yours. It’s heated, urgent—less about gentleness and more about the collision of weeks of anger, frustration, and unacknowledged attraction.
You stiffen at first, caught off guard, but the intensity pulls you in. Every nerve ending screams, every thought disappears except for the feel of him—close, impossible, infuriating—and the sharp edge of something dangerously like desire.
When you pull back, just slightly, your foreheads nearly touching, both of you are breathing hard, staring into each other. The tension hasn’t gone. If anything, it’s worse. It needs release. The motorhome feels impossibly small.
“You’re impossible. And infuriating. And you—” you breathe, trying to reclaim some control, even as your pulse still races. He slowly slides his hand into your hair, rubbing small circles on your temple. His eye contact intense before he cuts you off with another kiss.
“I know, I know,” he shushes you, lips hovering over yours. He breathes you in with a hunger that only you could feed. He laps your mouth over and over until you give in to him with a little whine.
The air between you hums, full of promise, anger, and everything you’ve been trying to ignore. There was a decision to be made. You either walk away or—
Fuck it, you thought. If you were kissing Max Verstappen in his motorhome, you might as well fuck Max Verstappen in his motorhome.
And then you’re on him, not even a moment later— it was you who was the starved one now. You pull at his fire proofs and practically rip them over his head. His lips find their way to your throat as he leans over to lift you into his arms. With you straddling him, he kicks the door closed behind him as he swings you around to a nearby desk.
You’re running your hands through his hair and peppering his face with aggressive kisses, sucking and nipping at his neck and jaw, gripping hard at the strands causing him to wince a little. Fine. You finally admit it. He was so hot, coming apart in your hands like this. Practically melting under your touch. With each nip at his jaw a little moan escaped his lips. You wanted him, you wanted him so badly it hurt. All these weeks, all the pent up sexual tension. You wondered if he was just desperate for your attention, like you were for his.
Once he places you on the desk, he steps back to look at you. You’re suddenly a little shy under his gaze. Cheeks flush as you sit back on your palms.
“Still hate me?” He smirks a little, licking his teeth and it causes you to roll your eyes at him. He reaches out and grabs you by the cheek, squeezing your lips together, and forcing you to look at him. His palm swallowing your face whole. You feel heat pulling between your legs now.
“I love when you do that.”
“Shut up and take your pants off.” You tsk and he obeys. He begins to pull his pants down, watch still on his wrist, and eyes locked on yours.
You drop to the floor— cold, metallic panels under your knee caps. Max pulls his pants down just enough to release his hard, aching cock. Your eyes widen at the sight. He’s quite large, and his tip is pink and glistening. He looks devilishly handsome from this angle, and you hate it. You were about to let the man who had been tormenting you for weeks, violate your mouth— and honestly? You couldn’t be happier.
“I’ll go slow. Try to breathe through your nose for me, okay?” he instructs. “And try not to choke. We can’t be loud.”
You roll your eyes again. He was so cocky. No pun intended.
The first slide into your mouth is a test to see how deep Max can go. He reaches for your hair, steadying himself as he bottoms out in your throat. He catches his breath, and you are dripping now. You shift a little, trying to rub your thighs together, to provide some sort of friction. Your jaw relaxes the deeper he gets.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “That’s it, Mercedes girl.”
You hum, looking up at him in annoyance, nibbling his tip just a little as to tell him you’re still in charge even if you’re on your knees for him at the moment.
“Ow. Sorry— Y/N… I know your name, pretty girl, I’m just messing with you.” He moves your hair out of your eyes and pulls it together to get a better grip before bottoming out again. You run your hands up his thighs for balance as he thrusts into you a couple more times. He uses your face as a fuck toy, and the sounds in the office turned obscene very quickly.
“I’m going to cum if you keep sucking me like that.” He shudders a little, loosening the grip on your hair. “Come on, it’s your turn. I’m not selfish.”
With a pop he pulls out and your lips form a pout as he helps lifts you off the floor. He leans down and kisses you gently. For someone who has a reputation for being angry and aggressive, he was much sweeter in intimate moments like this. You almost look at him in confusion.
When he pulls away, he notices, “Why are you looking at me like that?” he furrows his brows.
“You just— you’re being nice,” you take a seat on the edge of the desk and cross your arms in hesitation.
“I just figured it was time I stopped making your life so hard.” He says with a cocky smirk, kissing you hard again. He lowers you so that you’re now flush with the desk.
With your hair sprawled out behind you, his fingers lightly brush over your cheek, then down your collarbone, and then he follows the shape of your right breast in your Mercedes polo shirt. He chuckles to himself a little.
“You should join Red Bull. Let me be your driver.” His eyes flick up to yours, and your cheeks immediately flush. His tone was serious, like there were suddenly no more games between you two.
“You know you wouldn’t listen to me. Plus, George—“ Max stops your next words with another kiss. This time, he takes your bottom lip in his teeth and sucks softly.
His hands explore your body, pulling your shirt off and over your head. He tossed it somewhere across the room, and you were praying that no one would walk in.
He palms over your stomach first. Rubbing small circles just above your belly button. Then higher. You sit up to unclasp your bra. And when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, you gasp. His left hand travels back up your neck, and he kisses along your collarbone and your shoulder before taking one of your breasts into his big, rough hands. He massages it and flicks at your nipple to harden it a bit before bringing his mouth down to your chest. He latches onto your nipple and sucks, eliciting a moan from deep within you.
You can feel him smile into your chest. “Max, that feels really good.” His eyes flicker to yours and your mouth falls open in another moan. Your brows pull together in pleasure.
He huffs a breath through his nose. “You’re really sensitive here, huh?” he asks, brushing his thumb lightly across your other nipple. You shift a bit biting your lip.
“Yeah, I am.” You flutter your lashes, your breath hitching. You whimper a little but don’t ask him to stop. Instead, you arch into him. Practically begging him to do more to you.
His hands follow the curve of your body and dip lower and lower until—one of his hands dip into your pants. He plays with the band of your panties, teasing a little before he moves in to cup your heat. Finding your clit and rubbing small circles with his middle finger.
You were fully his now. Melting under his touch. You arch more and you felt like you were practically levitating off the desk. You had never considered getting with an F1 driver, especially since two of them were your colleagues. But in this moment, part of you thinks you should’ve sooner. Max was really, really good with his hands.
“Feel good?” Max removes his mouth from your nipple to focus on pleasuring you between your legs.
“Fuck— yeah, it feels so good.” You try to form a coherent sentence but he quickened his pace before slowly dipping a finger into your dripping warmth. “Oh my god, Max!”
Max shoots his other hand to your mouth and smiles up at you. “Shhh, you’re going to get us caught.” You apologize with a look and throw your head back once more. His fingers were heavenly inside you. Now you just wanted the whole thing. You wanted— no, needed him to fill you up. He takes his hand off your mouth and you’re panting for him.
“Max, p-please, I need you inside. Right now.” You look at him with pleading eyes and who was he to turn you down when you looked so pretty for him.
He hooks his fingers around his pants, fully dropping them this time. He grabs your thighs and pulls you down to the edge of the desk to line himself up with your entrance. He pumps into his hand a few times before looking at you.
“You sure?”
You nod frantically, he runs his tip over the slick heat of your core. He rocks his hips forward to slip in slowly. He brings his forehead down to yours and his jaw clenches. You’re soaked and sensitive. You clench around him with every single inch he pushes further and further into you.
He bottoms out and his hand settles on your thigh, spreading you wide and keeping you steady.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“Yes,” You kiss his cheek and your nails dig into his shoulders. He takes a moment before he starts moving again. Allowing you to adjust to him. He kisses down your jaw and sucks at your neck gently. You whisper his name and he moans into your ear.
He sits up a little to hold your face. He moves some hair out of your eyes, his eyes flickering to your lips before he pumps into you deeper and deeper. Your mouth falls open and he kisses the corner of it before kissing you just as deeply as his thrusts. There’s a desperation to the way he’s fucking into you.
You choke on a groan, face against his shoulder.
“You feel so good, I can’t believe you’re letting me fuck you… I’ve wanted to for weeks now.” He groans into your neck, his voice vibrating against you. He finds that one spot, that one pace that makes you overstimulated. You can feel the invisible coil inside you twisting, you were about to come undone.
“Max, I’m going to cum.” You whine and your sweet voice makes his throbbing cock jerk inside you.
“Okay baby, cum for me.” His forehead is pressed against yours and he keeps the same rhythm, same pace to make sure he doesn’t mess it up for you.
You moan way louder than you mean to. He kisses you roughly as if to quiet you. With each pump you reach your high. You’re trembling and squeezing him tightly now.
“Oh god, I’m going to cum. You feel way too good, t-too tight.” Max growls and you wrap your legs around him.
“Coum for me,” you kiss his face, and wrap your arms around his shoulders pulling him in tighter.
You feel his tip kiss your cervix. He’s warm and you feel him jerk inside of you as he cums. Filling you up. Your velvety walls milking him for everything he’s got. Panting, he lays his head on your chest to catch his breath. You smile a little while running your fingers through his hair. You can’t believe you just did that.
Shit, you thought. Were you starting to like Max Verstappen? No… surely not.
After a minute or two, Max lifts himself off you and pulls his clothing back on. He finds your clothes scattered across the room and collects them to help you get dressed.
You can feel his cum dripping out of you and down your leg. Brushing your shirt and pants, you act as if nothing just happened.
“So… are you going to leave George alone now?” you ask, tilting your head up at him. He’s in your space, close enough that the warmth from his body presses against yours—and, against your better judgment, you don’t mind. Not one bit.
Max leans in, that smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah… I think I will. But when do I get to see you again?”
Your stomach flips at the way he tilts his head, that teasing glint in his eyes.
“Hmmm,” you murmur, letting your gaze linger. “Let’s say… if you manage to stay PR-friendly for the next three races, then maybe you can see me again. Deal?”
He laughs softly, low and amused, and before you can react, he pulls you into a quick, heated hug, pressing close enough to make your pulse race. “Deal,” he murmurs against your hair.
And true to both of your words, Max keeps himself in check for the next three races. No PR outbursts, no digs, no games. Like clockwork. And just as promised… There you are again, standing in his hotel room, anticipation and tension coiling tight in the air between you.
And within minutes, you’re naked, bent over his bed, cock deep inside you, and moaning his name. Only this time, once you’re filled with his cum— he asks you to be his girlfriend. And to your surprise, you say yes.