No More Stamina
Summary: You are exhausted and Carlos still has a lot more rounds in him
Song: So High – Doja Cat
Author’s note: WARNING! 18+ CONTENT BELOW!! Please like, reblog and share this! 🤭🫶
Word count: 2.8k
MASTERLIST - F1
The hotel room smelled like salt and sweat, the AC humming uselessly as Carlos pinned your wrist to the damp sheets with one hand, the other sliding up your thigh with the kind of practiced ease that made your breath hitch.
"You’re tired?" he murmured against your neck, voice rough with amusement, his teeth grazing your pulse point just enough to make you squirm.
You could feel the hard line of him pressed against your hip, relentless, as if the last three rounds had only sharpened his hunger instead of dulling it.
His grip tightened when you tried to shift away, his chuckle vibrating against your skin. "No, no, cariño," he teased, thumb circling the inside of your knee in a way that sent sparks up your spine. "You said you wanted to keep up with me."
The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, edged with that competitive streak that made him so dangerous on the track—and worse in bed.
You could already feel the ache between your legs, the overstimulation tipping into something headier, something that had you arching into him despite your exhaustion.
He didn’t give you time to overthink it. His mouth found yours, hot and demanding, swallowing your gasp as he hooked your leg over his shoulder, the stretch making you whimper.
You could taste the adrenaline on him, the same desperate energy that fueled his races, and it was intoxicating—the way he moved, like every touch was a lap time he had to beat. His fingers dragged down your stomach, slow, deliberate, before dipping between your legs again, and you shuddered, oversensitive and trembling, but he didn’t stop.
The sheets clung to your back as he pushed into you, your body yielding even as your muscles protested, the friction almost too much after so many rounds.
Carlos groaned, low and ragged, his forehead pressing against yours as he rolled his hips in that maddening, measured rhythm that drove you wild.
"Te gusta?" he breathed, the words curling around your ear like smoke, and you could only nod, your throat too tight to speak.
His laugh was dark, victorious, as his fingers dug into your hips, guiding you into each thrust until the bedframe rocked against the wall in time with your gasps.
You felt it then—the slow, inevitable coil tightening low in your belly, your thighs shaking around him as he angled deeper, hitting that spot that made your vision blur.
His breath hitched when you clenched around him, his control slipping for the first time all night, his movements turning erratic, desperate.
"Mírame," he demanded, voice rough, and when your eyes met his, the intensity there stole your breath—like he was memorizing every twitch of your expression as you unraveled.
The climax crashed over you in waves, your back arching off the bed as pleasure burned through your veins, white-hot and consuming. Carlos followed with a sharp curse, his body locking tight against yours, his fingers lacing through yours as he came, his pulse thundering where your palms pressed together.
For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the only sound your ragged breathing and the distant hum of Monaco’s nightlife beyond the balcony.
Then his mouth curved against your shoulder, lazy and satisfied. "Round five," he murmured, and you groaned, swatting weakly at his chest even as he nuzzled into your neck, already half-hard again against your thigh.
"Dios, you're insatiable," you muttered, and his grin was all teeth in the dim light. "You love it."
He wasn’t wrong.
His fingers traced idle patterns down your ribs, featherlight, almost apologetic—until they weren’t. The sudden pinch of his nails against your hipbone made you gasp, and he hummed, pleased, as your body jerked against his.
"Still so responsive," he mused, tongue flicking over the shell of your ear. "Like you’re wired just for me."
The exhaustion clung to you like a second skin, but the way his knee nudged your legs apart again sent a fresh pulse of heat between them.
You bit your lip, torn, and he chuckled darkly at the hesitation. "Tell me to stop," he challenged, but his thumb was already circling your clit in slow, maddening arcs. You didn’t.
The balcony doors rattled faintly with the ocean breeze, carrying the distant laughter of Monaco’s elite below, but all you could focus on was the way Carlos’ breath hitched when you finally arched into his touch—how his pupils swallowed the hazel of his eyes as he watched you come undone again, slower this time, like he was savoring every tremor.
His teeth grazed your collarbone, not quite biting, as his fingers worked you with a precision that felt criminal, dragging out pleasure until your thighs trembled and your nails scored his shoulders.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his Spanish accent thickening with hunger, “taking me so well.” The words coiled low in your belly, hotter than his touch.
You gasped when he shifted suddenly, lifting your hips with one hand while the other guided himself back into you, the stretch just shy of painful—a delicious, familiar burn.
His groan vibrated against your throat as he bottomed out, his hips rolling in a slow, grinding rhythm that had you seeing stars. Every nerve felt alight, oversensitive and raw, yet your body arched to meet him greedily.
The sheets tangled between your legs as he pinned your wrist above your head again, his grip just tight enough to make your pulse jump. His lips brushed yours, teasing, before he pulled back to watch you—the way your breath stuttered when he angled deeper, the helpless little noise you made when his thumb found that sweet, swollen spot again.
“Again,” he ordered, and your body obeyed before your mind could protest.
The drag of him inside you was almost too much now, every nerve ending singing with oversensitivity, but the pain bled into pleasure so fast it left you dizzy. His teeth scraped your shoulder as he fucked you in slow, deliberate thrusts, his breath ragged against your damp skin.
You could feel the tension coiling in his thighs where they pressed against yours, the way his control frayed at the edges—his rhythm stuttering when you clenched around him on purpose.
The balcony doors swung wider with a gust of salt air, carrying the scent of the sea and the distant chime of yacht rigging, but all you could smell was him—sweat and sex and that faint, expensive cologne clinging to his collarbone.
His hips snapped forward suddenly, burying himself to the hilt with a groan that sounded punched out of him, and your nails raked down his back in answer.
His laugh was breathless, rough, as he caught your wrist again, pressing your hand into the mattress beside your head. “Still fighting me,” he murmured, but his voice was wrecked now, the words slurring into Spanish as his thrusts lost their rhythm.
You could feel it building again, that slow, molten pressure low in your belly, and when his mouth crashed onto yours, tasting of salt and desperation, you let it pull you under.
The mattress groaned beneath you as his hips jerked erratically, his control unraveling in the way his fingers trembled against your thigh, in the way he bit off your name like a prayer.
Every nerve felt scraped raw, oversensitive to the point of pain, but the way he shuddered when you dragged your teeth down his shoulder—like he was feeling it just as acutely—made the ache delicious.
The breeze from the balcony tangled the sheets around your ankles, cool against the sweat-slick heat of your bodies, but Carlos didn’t seem to notice. His focus was singular, unrelenting, his gaze locked on where you were joined as if he couldn’t bear to look away.
The sight of him like this—hair damp with sweat, jaw clenched tight, the muscles of his abdomen flexing with each ragged thrust—was almost enough to send you over again.
Then his hand slid between you, his thumb pressing just shy of too hard against your clit, and the world blurred at the edges. You arched off the bed with a soundless cry, your body clamping around him in waves as pleasure crested sharp and unforgiving.
Carlos swore, his hips stuttering as he followed, his forehead dropping to your collarbone with a groan that vibrated through your bones. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved, the only sound the rush of blood in your ears and the distant clink of champagne glasses from the terrace below.
His exhale was warm against your damp skin as he lifted his head, his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks.
"Still alive?" he murmured, lips quirking when you could only manage a weak nod. His fingers traced idle patterns down your ribs—featherlight, almost apologetic—before pausing at the curve of your hip.
"Good," he said, and the slow drag of his fingertips lower made your thighs twitch in warning.
The breeze carried the scent of salt and jasmine through the open balcony doors, cooling the sweat at your temples as Carlos shifted, his knee nudging your legs wider.
You expected fatigue, but the way his palm smoothed up your inner thigh lit a fresh spark under your skin, low and insistent. He chuckled when your breath hitched, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
"Thought you were done, cariño," he teased, but the rough edge in his voice betrayed him.
The sheets rustled as he rolled you onto your side, his chest pressed flush against your back, his fingers already working you open again with a patience that bordered on cruel.
You gasped when his thumb circled that oversensitive spot just so, his laughter hot against your neck. "Shh," he murmured, his accent thick, "just feel it."
And you did—every slow, deliberate stroke, every hitch of his breath against your shoulder, the way his hips rocked against you in time like he couldn't help it.
The night stretched ahead, endless and sweet. . . .
