Pairing: Lando Norris x f!reader
Summary: You’ve been in a situationship with Lando Norris for over a year, every time he leaves, he comes back, and every time, you let him in. Lately things start to feel different. But deep down, you wonder if he’ll ever stop ruining it.
Warning: Smut, p in v, oral m!receiving, f!receiving, choking (bareley) shower sex, car sex, kitchen sex angst, Lando is a bit of a dickhead
You haven’t seen him in weeks, no calls, no texts, just silence, the kind that makes your stomach burn and makes your hands shake every time you think of him. It something you are used to now, but you tell yourself, that you won’t let it happen anymore.
You shouldn’t open the door, you know it, before your hand even reaches for the handle. You stand there frozen, chest tight and heart beating heavy out of your chest.
The message pops up on your phone, you stare at it blankly and then there’s a knock on the door, followed by another when you don’t answer. You don’t move, you should walk away, stay strong. Before your mind can stop your body, you move closer and twist the knob.
There he is, stood so confident, so gorgeous. His mouth twisted in a smirk, like he knew you wouldn’t or that you couldn’t resist.
“Miss me, sweetheart?” he says, brushing past you and into your apartment.
Gosh, you wished you could slam the door in his smug face. Pretend that you haven’t been waiting around for weeks, for him to show up. Instead you step aside, leaving enough from for him to enter.
Lando walks in without a word, drops his keys and shuts the door behind him. You barely hear the door click shut, before he has you pushed up against the wall.
‘You always act like you’re done with me,” he spits, his breath hot against your ear. “But you open the door, every fucking time.”
Your breath stutters, but your thighs are already clenching. “You’re asshole, do you know that.”
He grins like his proud of it. “Yeah? But this asshole fucks you like nobody else could, hm?”
Lando doesn’t wait for an answer, his hands are at your throat and his lips are on yours kissing you hard, tongue deep in your mouth. And you know you’re done for. His hands slip beneath your thong, like he owns the space between your legs, like it’s his. You moan as he slides his fingers over your soaked pussy.
“Fuck,’ he murmurs against your lips, “you’re soaked already? What the fucks wrong with you?”
“You,” you gasp, biting on his lips, as his fingers work there way around you.
Before you know it, he’s down on his knees, yanking your shorts and thong off roughly, no teasing, no gentleness, just his tongue hot and wet, licking and sucking mercilessly.
“Fuck, lan-“ you scream, legs shaking as he licks you, like he’s trying to completely ruin you. He shoves two fingers inside of you, still sucking on your clit, until you’re grinding on his face.
He looks up at you smirking. “You taste like you missed me,” his lips glisten in your juices. “Say it.”
“I missed you.” You pant, hips rolling as he fucks his fingers deeper into you.
He sucks you clit harder and fingers you deeper. “Say it again.”
He stands up, licking his fingers slowly. “Good girl.”
You don’t have time to respond before he’s shoving you down onto the sofa, your cheeks pressed firmly into the cushion, you gasp loud as he cock slides along your folds.
“Beg me, baby.” He growls, his hand wraps around your ponytail, yanking your head back.
“Lando, please –“ you whimper. “Please just fuck me!”
He thrusts into you hard, “Fuck!” you cry, as he grabs your hips and fucks you ever harder.
“I’ve missed your pussy, feels so fucking good,” he hisses, while slamming into you again and again.
You whine, hips jerking back into him and he yanks on your pony tailed harder, one hand around your neck squeezing, not enough to hurt. But enough to show you who’s in control.
“You gonna come like a good little slut for me?” he pants in your ear. “God, this pussy still so tight for me.”
You moan, your body twitching beneath him, his words turning you on even more. And then his fingers are on your clit, rubbing in just the right spot while he’s still fucking into you, he knows you’re going to fall apart any minute.
“Yeah, that’s it. Come all over my cock, like the little slut you are.”
You can’t hold it in anymore, your whole body explodes, you’re shaking, screaming out his name as your walls pulse around him.
Lando pulls out, and grabs your chin suddenly, turning your head towards his cock. “Open your mouth.”
You do as he says, still dazed and gasping from your own orgasm. And then he shoves his cock past your lips and you can taste yourself on him, he lets out a deep groan.
He fucks into your mouth slow at first and then gets rough. “Bet you’d let me use you all night, wouldn’t you?”
You want to say no but instead you take his cock deeper in your mouth, one hand also wrapped around his cock. He throws his head back, a deep moan escaping his lips, and you feel the warm liquid hit the back of your throat.
When he pulls out, he grabs your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “Don’t pretend you hate this,” he pauses for a moment, his eyes dark. “You fucking love when I ruin you.”
You absolutely fucking do, as much as you wishes you didn’t.
You lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, sheets tangled between your legs, his scent heavy in the air. A million thoughts race through your mind, making it impossible to sleep. There’s a deep ache throughout your whole body, and not just from the sex. Only lando could make your heart ache this bad.
You stare down at him sleeping next to you, the cover draped over his next body, one arm flung over your waist, like he’s claiming you, but only when he’s asleep. And you wonder how he can sleep so peacefully, like he didn’t fuck the sanity out of you and rip you to shreds once again.
And you keep thinking, you shouldn’t have let him in, shouldn’t have let him kiss you like it means something, shouldn’t have begged him to fuck you and you definitely shouldn’t still want him.
But you do still you want him, you have since the moment you first met him. But what hurts the most, is knowing it won’t last, it never does. You should be used to him leaving, it’s happens so often it’s hard to keep track of how often he comes and goes. You never know how long it will be until you see him again..
But he always comes back, eventually. In between the racing and the girls, always when you begin to feel okay without him. You know he’ll be back at your door, waiting to be let in.
The shower is running when you wake up, it’s one of the rare mornings that he’s still here by the time you’ve woken up.. And for a moment you pretend that this is normal, that he’s yours.
You stretch out, body still aching from the night before. Your thighs sore from the way he gripped them tight, chest marked by possessive kisses he never wanted to talk about after. You reach for your phone, and scroll through absentmindedly.
Lando finally makes his way out the bathroom, towel slung low around his wait, damp curls stick to his forehead, he doesn’t say anything instead stares into your mirror, hand running through his hair. He turns slightly and that’s when you see it, the mark. It’s faint, slightly faded but unmistakable. It sits right below his jaw, not from you. Maybe it was too dark in the apartment last night, maybe you were too caught up in the sex to notice, but you can see it now clear as day and you know every mark you had left on his body and that isn’t one of them.
You stare at it, a heavy pit forms in your stomach, that almost makes you forgot how to breathe, the blood draining from your face. He caught your eyes in the reflection, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t attempt to hide it. That’s the thing about lando – he never pretends, but never says the truth out loud either.
He can tell what you’re going to say before you even speak, sees the way your eyes narrow and focus on his on throat, and he sees your jaw tense.
And before you can even part your lips -
“Don’t start,” he mutters, like you’re the one who will ruin everything if you speak. Like he isn’t the one standing there, marked by someone else.
You sit up slowly, and pull your knees to your chest. “Who is she?” you ask, quiet, voice shaking.
He rolls his eyes and lets out a deep sigh, like he’s already bored of the conversation. “You don’t want to do this, trust me.”
Maybe his right, you shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t press any further but you can’t help yourself. You laugh, a bitter laugh that has no humour in it. “You show up after weeks, fuck me like I’m yours and you can’t give me the decency of a lie.”
Lando runs a hand through his hair. “Do you think I owe you that?”
“Don’t you?” your voice cracks.
He’s looking at you now, really looking. And something mean flickers in his expression, that cold defensive look he gets, every time you touch too close to where it might hurt.
“I’m not doing this, I’m not talking about her.” he says, voice sharp.
You stare. “So there is a her.”
He shrugs his shoulder nonchalant. “Does it matter?”
The silence between you grows, loud and ugly. And all of the air feels like it’s been sucked out the room.
“I’m here with you aren’t I?” he finally says, like that’s meant to be enough. Like you’re lucky, that he’s that’s he’s here with you. Like being chosen along with how ever many girls, is a prize.
“What?” he scoffs, staring at you blankly. “You think this is something that it’s not?”
And you shouldn’t expect anything different from him, you should know the way he kisses you in middle of fucking, like he wants to devour you means nothing. Like the way he wraps his arms around you after, and tucks his face into the crook of your neck and falls asleep with you, like he doesn’t want to let go, is nothing more than a coincidence. And you hate yourself for falling for it every time.
Your heart feels like it’s splitting in two. “I think you fucked me like it meant something, you touch me like you own me. Yet there’s always someone else.”
“I. Told. You. Not. To. Start.” He says each word, slow and harsh, as if he’s twisting the knife in even more.
“And I told you I fucking missed you, I begged you to fuck me because you told me to.” You’re shouting now. “I wait around for weeks each time, like an idiot. Waiting for you for come back.”
He stares at you, his expression is something you can’t read. Chest rising and falling, like his fighting something back, but he says nothing. Lets you talk yourself into pieces.
“I hate that you think you can show up here, and crawl back into my bed.” You whisper, voice croaking. “I hate that I let you do it. I hate that I still want you, even when you don’t choose me.”
He steps closer now, jaw tense. “Don’t do that, don’t try and make me feel guilty for something we both agreed to.” He says coldly. “You always knew what this was.”
“But you let me believe –“
He shakes his head in disbelief. “I didn’t let you believe shit.” Lando says, his voice flat and unforgiving. “You just want it bad enough, that you make shit up in your head that isn’t real.”
You look away from him, eyes stinging.
And then he adds, low and cruel, “Don’t confuse pussy that feels good with love. You’re not stupid.”
The words hit you hard, harder than they should. Because deep down, you already know how he feels, his actions prove it time and time again. But hearing him say it out loud makes it real.
Your voice is barely whisper. “Why did you come here, Lando.”
“I wanted to fuck you.” he says simply.
You stare up at him, a tear rolls down your face. “I can’t do this,” you say. “Not anymore.”
And for the first time his jaw clenches like that might sting. But he all can say is “Fine, suit yourself.”
Lando turns away from you like nothing just shattered, like he didn’t just gut you.
You watch in silence as he pulls his clothes on, checks his phone and doesn’t mutter another word.
When the door closes behind him, it’s not a slam. It’s worse than that, it’s quiet. Like he was never really there.
You don’t hear from after he leaves you apartment, not that night, or the night after, or the week that followed. No calls, or messages, not even cold half assed apology he likes to throw at you when it’s convenient. Not even a selfie or stupid emoji he would send, when he doesn’t really want to talk to you, but does it to keep you dangling there, like he hasn’t decided if he done playing with you yet.
You keep checking your phone anyway, opening and closing his chat like something new will suddenly appear. You know it won’t. Not when had just won a race, which means he’ll be celebrating, and you aren’t one of the girl he celebrates with. You’re the girl that when it all goes wrong, when the weekends fucked up and he needs someone to take his frustration out on, you’re that girl.
And now you’re here. Lying in bed a week later, wearing the same oversized hoodie that still smells faintly of him, staring at the ceiling with eyes to tired to cry anymore. The silence in your apartment has grown into something loud, something you won’t admit.
Like how much you hate yourself for opening the door that night and every other night. How much you hate yourself for hoping he’d come back, and when he does you know that you’ll let him in again.
It’s a few hours later when your door knocks. You sit up fast, your heart leaping in your chest, like maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he’s come back to explain, to undo they way he looked at you like you were lucky to even get pieces of him.
But it’s not him when you open the door, it’s your best friend, Elle. And you’re not sure if your relived or gutted. She stares at you like she was expecting it, like she already knows what’s happened, just one look in your eyes and she knows how far you’ve fallen. And of course she does, because she’s there to pick up the pieces every time.
“You did it again, didn’t you?” she sighs, loud and frustrated, but not angry or cruel, no judgment. But tired, of seeing you hurt over and over again.
“I thought you were done,” she says gently.
You flop down onto the couch with a deep sigh, sinking as far in as the couch will let you. And you pull the throw around you tight, as if it can protect you from the ache in your chest.
She sits down next you and pulls you into her arms, and you let yourself fall into the comfort of her arms. It’s the only time you haven’t felt alone all week.
“I don’t get it, I don’t get him.” you whisper.
You squeeze your eyes before any tears could leave your eyes. “He looked at me like I should be thankful, grateful that he showed up.”
“Because he wants you to feel that way,” She says, and pauses for a brief moment. “That’s how he keeps you coming back. He gives you nothing but somehow makes it seems like it’s everything.”
You don’t answer, you can’t argue with it because you know it’s the truth.
She pulls back a little, studying your face. “You need to get out of here, a night to feel like you again.”
You let out a groan in annoyance at the suggestion. “I don’t want to go out.”
“I know,” she says, standing up and pulling you up with her. “but you need it.”
You start to protest, think of any excuse you can to not go out, but she knows anything that comes out your mouth nor is a bullshit excuse. And it’s too late now, she already pulling outfits out of your closet.
“Absolutely not.” You shake your head, as she holds up a tiny little black dress, one that hugs your hips tights and hangs low across your cleavage, leaving little to the imagination.
She raises her brows. “You’re wearing it, and your highest heels possible. And I’m going to remind you that you are the kind of woman that people lose their minds over, not the other way around.”
You want to say no, but she’s got that look, that tone, that certainty. And god you’re tired of saying no to yourself.
The club is loud, the kind of loud that makes your skin vibrate and your brain slow down. There’s not room to think in a place like this, only to drink, dance and forget.
That’s what you do, you drink a lot. More than you probably should, but then again that’s the point. You let your friends drag you to the dance floor and let the music take over your body. You close your eyes tight, head spinning and you let the bass drown everything out. His face, his curls, his body, his voice, the memory of his hands on your skin, was gone for the moment.
That’s until you feel the heat of a body standing close behind you – too close. You can feel his hands wrap tightly around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He smells like cologne and expensive vodka, the smell hits your nostril, strong and unwanted. He whispers something in your ear that you don’t hear, not because you’re too drunk, not because the music is too loud. But becuase it’s not him.
It’s all you can think about, the fact that it isn’t him. He’s not cold, not arrogant, he doesn’t burn you by just looking at you. You could feel you’re heart twisting in your chest, the moment ruined. And you have to get out of there as soon as you can, you stumble out of the club before your friends could stop you. You let out a shaky breath as the cool air hit you, all of sudden feeling more drunk than before. And you can’t stop yourself, you’ve hit the call button on his name.
Its rings a few times, you almost give up but he answer just before you can hang up. “What?” He snaps, voice full of sleep.
You can tell he’s irritated, even in your drunken state.
“Sorry… I shouldn’t have called,” you mumble, breathless. “I miss you.” And you regret saying it as soon as the word leave your lips, drunk or not you know you shouldn’t be doing this.
There a long silence through the phone, and then a deep harsh exhale. You can practically here him grinding his teeth and you know he pissed.
“You’re drunk,” he mutters, clearly annoyed you’ve woken him up.
“Why are you mad?” You whisper. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“No, you thought you’d call me up drunk and try and make me feel bad, so that I’ll come running to save you or fuck you,” he snaps. “Is that what it is?”
“No. I just – fuck, I miss you.”
There’s a long silence, you can hear him shuffling around his bed, and then he curses under his breath. “Don’t call again.” He says, voice sharp and final.
And just like that he hangs up.
You stand there alone in the street, your head spinning from all the alcohol consumed, body shaking from the coldness of the air but also from him. You stare expressionless at the black phone screen, and you’re not surprised but it still cuts through you like a blade.
Becuase not matter how many times he proves it, you still hold onto a version of him that doesn’t exist, the one who might call back, might have cared or have been yours. But he doesn’t and he won’t. A version that here and there he’s given you a small glimpse of, but you question it, maybe you have made that version up in your head.
It’s been four days since the club, since you drunk called him with shaking hands, too many shots deep, your voice thick with need and regret and things better left unsaid. Four day since he told you to not to call again, and hung up like you’re a waste of his time.
You told yourself that this time he wasn’t coming back, you’d pushed it too far. It was just sex, you could force your to let it go, that it didn’t matter.
But it does, it always does.
Something in you broke, pure desperation blurred into impulse. You stand in front of the mirror, skin almost bare, sheer black lace hugging your hips. It’s reckless and you know it, and you’re not drunk this time, there’s not excuses. Just raw vulnerability, stupidness even.
You take the photo, just one, no message along with it, you just hit send. You throw your phone down of the bed, and pace around your room, annoyed that you let yourself get this desperate.
Within ten minutes your phone screen lights up, you’ve never picked it up and opened a message so quickly. ‘Come out side’
You stumble around your room frantically, you didn’t think he was going to show up, thought he’d ignore your message or send a one word answer. You quickly pull on some clothes, and slips your shoes on, fingers trembling as you pick up your keys and head for the door.
His car is sat directly out side, headlights glowing dimly in the dark. The passenger door swings up open before you reach it. He doesn’t look at you, as you slide into the seat next to him. You stare at him, curls poking out his hoodie, eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw the tightness of his grip on the steering wheel. He looks tired, pissed off, jaw clenched and knuckles white.
His hand jerks the gear and the car rolls forward, he still doesn’t look at you, still doesn’t speak. The music hums lows, bass pulsing through the seats, it’s nowhere near loud enough to hide the tension. You fiddle with you keys, not sure if you should say something or wait for him to talk.
The city melts behind you, replaced by empty roads and a heavy silence. After a while his hand reaches over landing on your thigh, his fingers curl into your skin, firm and possessive. It stays there the whole time, squeezing every few minutes, almost like a warning. He drives for what feels like forever, you want to ask where you’re going, but you don’t because it doesn’t really matter.
Lando finally pulls off of the main road, and drives up onto the gravel, on a secluded overlook. The city lights flicker in the distant, it’s quiet and the moment he turns off the engine, the silence roars between you.
“You’re fucking nightmare.” He says, finally turning to look at, jaws tight and eyes sharp.
You turn to look at him, a small huff escapes your lips and you push his hand firmly off of your thigh. “Dick.” You mutter.
He grabs your jaw, turning your too look at him. “So this is what we’re doing, drunk calls and nudes when you need some attention?” His voice is low and clipped, everywhere digging in. “You’re not my girlfriend, not even someone I’m seeing. We don’t do that shit.”
You blink confused, heart hammering in your chest. “It’s fine when you do it, though? You can text me all hours of the day and expect me to open the door?”
Lando laughs humourless and shakes his head. “That’s different.”
“How?” You snap. “How is it any different at all?”
“Because when I call, it’s about sex. That’s it, you know that.” Lando voice cuts through you, razor sharp. “But when you call – when you send me shit like that, it’s not just about sex. You want something more from me, something I can’t give you.”
Every part of you is burning with anger, you hated him in that moment, hated that you know he’s right. You stare at him, wanting to scream out and cry, wanting to kiss him until it stopped hurting.
But all you say is, “Then stop touching me like I’m mean more.”
And for just a second he looks at you like you’ve caught him off guard, as if you had said too much.
His jaw flexes. “You heard me.”
You don’t move, you sit firm in the passenger seat as same sort of act of defiance.
Lando reaches over, fingers digging into your thigh. “Now.” He says it like a warning.
You do are your told and climb into the back, him following behind you. And the air feels heavy, thick with tension and words unspoken. He’s on you within seconds, hands rough, mouth hot and voice filthy.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t want this,” he growls against your throat. “Not when you’re drunk calling me and sending nudes, like a pathetic teenager.”
He yanks your leggings down, instantly pulling your underwear to the side, and you’re already soaking. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t ask, knows he doesn’t need too.
“Show me how much you’ve missed me,” he growls into your ear. You grind down on him as he slips his hand between your legs, curling two fingers inside of you. A grin twist at his lips at the way you moan for him. “That easy for me, huh? Pathetic.” His voice is cruel, breath shaky.
You try to glare at him, say something biting, but your head tips back as he pulls his fingers out of you, and brings them to his mouth, tasting you. And then he flips you over harshly, and pushes your chest up against the fogged up window. You gasp as he pushes into you, hard. One hand pushing hard into your hip, the car rocks hard with every thrust. The only sound in the car is panting and whimpers, and the wet sound him fucking into you.
His hand curls around your throat, and his mouth lingers just a second too long on your jaw. “This pussy’s mine,” his says with his mouth right against your ear. “Doesn’t matter who I’m with. You know that. Don’t you?” The words hit deeper than they should.
You bite down hard on your lip, and nod at him. Because it’s true, you hate him. But your body doesn’t. And he grunts your name like it means something, holds you down and fucks you harder like he can’t bear to let you go. He kisses you rough, and both come, whimpering into each others mouth.
Then he pulls out, pulls up his boxers, zips his jeans and doesn’t say anything. Instead leans back against the seat, chest heaving.
You watch as his slides back into the front seat, doesn’t even glance at you as he starts the car. But when you climb back through to the passenger seat, his hand finds yours. His fingers lace through yours in silence.. And you’re more confused now, than you ever have been before.
The drive back to your apartment is silent, when he pulls up outside of you place, he’s still doesn’t speak but leans in and presses his lips softly to yours. A kiss that doesn’t feel like goodbye, but maybe that’s was the cruelest part. Because as you step out of the car, door clicking shut behind you, you have no idea if if means something more… or if he was just saying goodbye in the only way he knows how too.
After the night in the car, you don’t except to hear from him, not after the way it ended, fingers laced in yours, a kiss that felt too careful to just be called casual, too tender to be meaningless. It messes with your head, more than the sex ever has. but he comes back. Three times this week he has shown up unannounced, as usual. He simply texts ‘here’ always when your were least expecting it. Always before you had time to talk yourself out of opening the door, not that you want to.
Something shifted, you could both feel it, he’s still distant, still doesn’t let you in. But you can feel it in the way his kisses lingered a few seconds longer, the way he pulls back and stares at you after. You can feel it when he reaches for you face, as he pulls out of you, forehead pressed to yours, staring into your eyes, breath shallow. It was the way he didn’t leave right after, or disappear first thing in the morning.
One evening he kisses your forehead before he goes and tells you he has a race coming up, that he’ll be back in Monaco soon. He’s not directly telling you that he’s coming back to you, but it feels like it.
And when the door knocks a few days later, there’s no text this time, he doesn’t need to, you know it’s him. You open the door, and stood there cap pulled low, hands shoved deep into his pockets, no real expression on his face. He looks exhausted, fed up. And you know why. You had watched the race on and it hadn’t gone well for him. He makes is way into your flat, walking past you quietly and makes him self comfortable on your sofa. You don’t say anything about the race, don’t ask if he’s ok, even though you really want to. But as he’s reminded you so many times, it isn’t what you do, don’t talk to deeply about things.
It’s quiet for a while, apart from some background noise of the tv. You’re not sure if you should say something, maybe kiss him or sit in the silence. Enjoy the fact, that hasn’t walked through the door wanting to fuck you straight away.
“You’re quiet tonight.” You eventually say.
“I’m not here to talk.” He says, simply.
Then he’s kissing you harder than he should, like he’s punishing himself. But then he slows down, it becomes more soft and careful, and he cups your cheeks in his hands. Lando pulls you underneath him, continue to kiss you slow and deep. But he stops before it goes any further, instead pulls you up from the couch, you legs wrap around his waist, arms slung around his neck.
“I’m tired.” He murmurs like an excuse.
He doesn’t leave, doesn’t fuck you either, but carries you into you room and gets into bed with you. You’re lay there, head resting on his chest. He doesn’t say anything just traces his hands through your hair, and you fall asleep like that.
When you wake in the morning, you want to ask him what’s happening, why he’s coming back so often all of a sudden, why he looks at you like this means something more but pulls away again. But you don’t push, don’t pry because you know the second you ask, he’ll vanish. So you let him exists in the spaces he chooses to, you let him touch your jaw softly before he leaves, like he’s trying to remember the shape of you. You let him touch you like it doesn’t matter, even when it does.
Another few days go by until he shows up again, he has you pushed up against the wall in your hallway, kissing you like he needs to drown in it. You barely made into the bedroom before he starts peeling your clothes off. He seems the same as a few might ago, like he has something heavy on his mind, but you don’t ask. He grabs your hand, leading you into the bathroom. The lights low, steam already curling around you as he steps into the shower first, hair slicking back, eyes focused on you as stand frozen, just outside of the glass.
“Come here.” He says, low and rough. And he’s not asking.
You step in, the water runs down your body and it’s almost scalding, but his hands are hotter as he slides them around your waist, pulling you against him. He kisses you like he wants to erase the world outside your shower. Lando’s palms drag down your arms, thumbs brushing gently against your ribs. You gasp when he ducks his head, lips finding your neck, your collarbone, pressing gentle kisses all over you, and you can feel your legs tremble.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders and thread your fingers through his wet hair, slightly tugging as he still sucks on your neck. And something in him breaks. Lando groans softly, and presses his forehead to yours. “You do something to me.” He murmurs, barely audible over the sound of running water. Your breathe catches, you don’t say anything, don’t move. Scared that if you acknowledge it, he will run.
So instead you kiss him, deep and desperate, the kind of kiss that tastes like longing and surrender and everything you both never say out loud. He turns you gently, pressing your back to the cool tiles. His mouth moves lower, dragging slowly along your throat and then he’s kneeling down, hands gripping the back of your thighs. And when he looks up at you, water dripping from his lashes, pupils dark, your heart cracks wide open. Because for a moment he looks lost, wrecked.
He peppers kisses along your thighs and then licks into you slowly, fingers spreading you open like a secret, his tongue unrelenting but also tender on your clit. You let out a load moan, as you sucks harder on you, pushes his fingers in deeper. Your hands find his hair, and he groans into your pussy like he’s wants to ruin you. You come apart on his mouth. “I’m gonna come Lando, don’t stop!” You scream in pleasure. And he grips your thighs tighter, sucking more on your clit, within seconds you come apart on his mouth, legs shaking like never before.
Then he’s standing up again, lifting you up and your legs instantly wrap around his waist and you let him carry you back under the water. Your stare into each other eyes, as he pushes into you slowly, a low grunt escapes his lips. It’s still rough, still heavy hands gripping onto your ass, sharp thrusts inside of you. But it feels different, doesn’t feel like you’re just fucking. Not detachment dressed up as lust. It feels like he need to feel everything, every kiss, every thrust, every moan, every inch of you. Lando fucks into you hard, and then soft and slow, one hand now cradling the back of your head, like he can’t risk letting you go. You don’t say a word, you just hold onto him, because for the first time it feels like he’s holding onto you too.
Later, wrapped in a towel and all fucked out, half asleep on your bed, you watch him as he’s stands looking out at the city through your window. You trace the lines of his back with yours eyes, memorising the small signs of tenderness that he refuses to acknowledge, and you still don’t ask what this all means. Maybe he doesn’t know himself, and maybe that’s okay for now.
It had now been over two month since he had started showing up more often, spending more time with you than he has in almost a year. There’s an unspoken routine of him came back to you after long flights, tossing his bag on the hallway floor and slipping into your bed like he belongs there. He never tells you that he misses you, never takes the conversation to deep. But he stays, more than he ever has, text a lot more often than he did before. He would lay beside you in bed, close enough to feel his breath, and close enough to reach for you in his sleep. His arms curling around your waist like his remembers what his pride refuses to admit. You wouldn’t move, would barely breathe as you lay there pretending like you heart wasn’t thudding out of your chest. You tell yourself not to expect anything. In your stupid, aching test, this feels like progress, you start to hope.
You should have known something would happen eventually. A week full of silence, no knocks on your door, no texts, no calls, no views on your stories you had secretly posted for him, no half assed explanations. Nothing. You try to pretend that you’re fine, that you don’t care. It’s nothing new. Lando has done this before, gone quiet for a few days when got too real or when you’d accidentally let a little too much feelings slip through.. But it hasn’t happened in a while. So this? This feels like a slap in the face.
You can’t bring yourself to go out, not when you chest is aching so bad. You hate yourself for how much his absence hurts, for how many times you’ve stared at your phone this week, typed out a message and then deleted it again. You tell yourself you can’t be that girl, not again. but you wait for him anyway.
So when your door knocks that evening after a week of nothing, you already know it’s him. You almost don’t answer the door. Almost. But you always do.
You open the door and he stands there leaning against the frame, like nothing has happened. Like he hasn’t disappeared for week, leaving you stewing silence and humiliation. His hoodie is slightly damp from the rain, hair a little messy. He wears that familiar expression, cocky and unreadable and his eyes scan your face. You don’t smile, you don’t move, don’t say anything.
“Hey, trouble.” He says playful, like he’s entitled to a welcome.
You blink. “Are you serious right now?” you say stern, annoyed at the audacity he has.
Lando tilts head, amused, like it’s a game he’s all too familiar with. “You gonna let me in or we gonna do the whole dramatic scene before you fold…”
Your jaw clenches. “You disappears for a week. Fair enough you’re busy, but I know you’ve been back since. And you haven’t even bothered to text.”
“I know. This week has been crazy, I’m sorry. .” He says, too casually for it to be a real apology.
You let out a bitter laugh. “ and your hands were broken?you couldn’t even text once?”
“No,” you snap. “You can’t disappear for a week and show up, like it’s normal. It’s not.”
His eyes harden. “You know the deal. Don’t be so dramatic.”
Your stomach drops. God, there he goes again, using that line again. ‘You know what this is.’ The one you have heard so many times before. But that was before he started showing up multiple times a week. Kissed you, fucked you, slept next to you like it meant something more. He throws it back in your face every time, whenever you let yourself feel something again. And you think you’re so stupid for even thinking, that all of those times meant anything to him.
“Then stop showing up like you miss me.” You snap, voice slightly breaking.
“What?” You stare at him, like you can’t believe the words that have left his mouth.
“I missed you,” he repeats, this time softer.
The air between you shifted between you. Something tender slid between the heat of your anger, and it pisses you off even more.
“Don’t say that, lando.” You whisper. “You can’t just come back, saying shit like that.”
“It’s true,” he protests. “I missed you every fuck night.” And it’s the first time he’s ever said anything real to you.
There’s a long pause and then you move aside, letting him walk in. The air is thick with silence, unsaid tension, slow forgiveness and a low ache. You hate him, you love him, you miss him all at once, even though you shouldn’t.
Lando stands in your living room, watching you carefully. “You don’t have to let me stay. I can go, if that’s what you want.”
You sallow hard, unsure of what to say or how to feel. But your body knows before you brain can catch up. You walk towards him, until your standing right in front of him. “Don’t do that again.”
“I won’t,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the side of your arm. “I promise.”
You tilt your chin up. “Good. Because next time I won’t open the door.”
His lips twitch in a smile. “Got it.”
And that’s all it takes, you don’t wait for him to kiss you, you do it first. You kiss him hard, with all of the frustration, longing and confusion from the past week poured into it. He doesn’t respond like usual, no rough grabbing, no rush to pull everything off. He kisses you back, like he’s trying for etch every second in his brain.
Clothes hit the floor in a trail towards the bedroom, it’s not desperate like it usually is. He doesn’t just pull you under him and get it over with, this time he really looks at you. And he kisses soft, your collarbone, your jaw, your stomach. He kisses you, like he has something to prove.
“You sure?” he says, kissing down your neck.
You nod, your fingers slipping under the hem of t shirt. “Yes, but don’t fuck me like I’m a distraction.”
His eyes lift to yours, and there’s something in them that you haven’t seen before, something open, something real.
“I wasn’t going to,” he says. “Not tonight.” He whispers and kisses u you again, slower and deeper.
You both continue to pull the rest of your clothes off in-between kisses, and you feel the heat curling in your stomach and between your legs. He’s taking his time, hands gentle over your body, like he’s properly learning it for the first time. And when he finally sinks into you painfully slow, you feel it in your soul.
You gasp, head falling back against the pillow and he catches your face in his hands thumb brushing your cheekbone, his forehead rests against yours. “Fuck,” he moans. “You feel… so good”
“Don’t stop.” You wrap your arms around his neck, legs tightening against his waist and you pull him down closer to you.
“I won’t, I just want to feel you” Lando’s voice cracks on the words and you swear there’s something like emotion tangled in it.
Then he starts moving more, his hips rolling against you slow and deep. And you you feel each thrust, like it’s deliberate, like he’s taking you all in and savouring it. And you moan his name, soft and breathless.
He lifts his head and meets your eyes, while still thrusting into you. “Say it again.”
You do, you say his name again and again like a prayer you’ve recited your whole life. Each time he kisses you like it’s actually means something, like you’re not just some girl he’s never going to see again, or someone he uses to fuck when he needs a quick release. You let him intertwine your fingers with his, arms pushed above your head, he pins them gently into the pillow. His thrust stay steady, deep, rocking into you with care instead of chaos.
“I miss this,” he whispers against your mouth. “Missed you.”
Your chest tightens at him again telling you that he’s missed you, something you never thought you’d hear, not from him, not like this. You clench around him at the sound of it and he groans out loud, desperate. “God baby… fuck, you’re gonna make me-“ his lips crash against yours and he fucks you deep, skin slapping together, rhythm faltering as you both fall apart together. And when it’s over, he stays inside of you, fingers still locked together, foreheads resting on each others, breathing hard.
He stays with you, arms around your waist and press gentle kisses into your bare shoulder, breathing in sync with yours. For a second, a small fragile moment, it feels like he wants something more too. Even after the way he just fucked you, you still know better than to ask.
Because moments like this, with him? They never last.
You’re on your sofa, tv humming in the background, laptop open with a half written email – you’re not expecting the text you get. He said he was coming tonight, he just hasn’t shown yet. So you expect the text to be from him, saying he’s on his way. But it’s not, it’s from Elle.. Af first you think it’s some silly selfies or video, you know she’s out tonight. But your heart drops when you read the caption with an attachment.
Your heart sinks as you quickly unlock your phone, hoping you’re not going to see what you think you will. You tap on the chat and the picture pops up instantly, your fingers behind to tremble immediately. . The rooftop is glowing the back ground, blue evening sky, bodies of different people spread across the frame. There in the middle, you spot him, even from behind it’s unmistakable, you know it’s him. Lando’s hat, his profiles the lazy lean that you know all to well. You can see him slouched back on a chair, legs spread open and a drink in his hand with the smirk on his lips that you’ve kissed a thousand times. And there’s a girl sat on his lap, short dress riding up her thighs, her hand draped lazily across his chest, like it’s been there before, as if it belongs there. Lando hand sits on her bare thigh, fingers spread wide, and they’re laughing, she’s leaning into his neck and his mouth is dangerously close to her ear. It’s intimate, careless, familiar. Like you never existed.
it makes you stomach turn sick, all of the air feels as it has been sucked out the room. You sit there, unable to move your eyes from the image, chest caving in.
No. No. It has to be old, you tell yourself. And you know deep down it’s not, you know you friend wouldn’t send you and old picture, and give you something to worry about. But you hope anyway, you look at time stamp – sent live, just now. You can’t move or speak, the blood runs through your body cold, tears pooling at your eyes.
You’re phone rings beside of you, Elle’s name flashes up on the screen.
“Babe,” she says immediately, voice tense. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t want you to see it from anyone else. They’ve been all over each other, all night.”
You don’t say anything yet, you can’t.
“I went to grab a drink and I overheard her talking to someone,” she continues, the words coming out faster now like she’s trying to rip the band aid off. “She said they been seeing each other for months now. That he flys out her for race weekends, and she was with him for a whole week recently. She said he can get ‘intense’ sometimes but always goes back to her.”
And it hits you like a ton of bricks, a few weeks ago when he ghosted you for over a week. Then showed up at your door like nothing was had happened, explained that he’d missed you he was just too busy, too exhausted to talk. You believed him, you fucking believed his lies. He was with her all along.
“He’s not hiding it,” Elle says softly. “It’s like he doesn’t care who sees.”
You swallow the lump rising in your throat. “Thanks for letting me know.” Not that your actually thankful at all.
“I’m sorry.” She says softly. “ Do you want me to come over?”
“No, I just… I need to be alone right now.”
A pause. “Okay. But I’m here, whenever you need.” And you nod, even though she can’t see you, then end the call.
The humiliation and hurt hits you hard. The sharp, searing ache that seeps through your body from your stomach, to your throat, chocking the air out of you.
It never lasts, you were right. every intuition you had, every time you had stopped yourself in the last few weeks from asking him what was really going on between you, there was a reason that you didn’t ask, because deep down you knew.. You can’t believe that she he told you he missed you, you thought he really meant it. Can’t believe the way he touched you that night, held you in his arms with you curled around him, his hand running along the dip in your spine, like it was made to be there.
None of it was real. Can’t think about how you let yourself believe, even just a little bit, that he was starting to feel the same as you do. And what what makes it worse is that you had told people, had told your closest friends, with wine stained lips and cautious smiles. ‘I think he’s different now, things are changing. I don’t think there anyone else anymore.’ You could fell they didn’t quite believe it, was wary of you getting hurt again, but you didn’t listen, you never do. You are so sure that the rules had changed, it wasn’t just causal anymore. You were so stupid to believe otherwise.
You throw your phone across the sofa, and stare at your laptop screen, like maybe if sit still long enough, this would all go away. But not matter how far you throw your phone away from you, the photo is burned in your brain, her legs slung over his, his smirk, hand on her thigh.
You want to scream until there’s nothing left, rip off your skin for being the kind of girl that thought he’d change for. Instead you sit there frozen, and you realise. He’s done this every single time, that it’s probably the same girl that’s left marks over his body, that you would always ignore. You realise, that the last two month had meant nothing to him. And before you could accept it, ignore that he was with other people, that it didn’t mean anything, but you can’t accept it now, not with the way he’s been with you recently.
He has someone else, maybe others. And you don’t understand how he has the time to be with anyone else, not when he’s been showing up to you so much. But now your sitting here, staring at proof that it was never real, that he hasn’t even tried.
You let out a strangled hollowed sob, how could you be so stupid again, let him do this again. You press your palm to you chest, as if could you stop the pain, stop your heart from cracking in two. But it’s too late, you’re too hurt this time. And the worst part isn’t the picture, or that he was sleeping with someone else. It was that for the first time in months, you’d let yourself have hope. And now you feel as your bleeding for it.
The days after the photo are heavy, everything looks the same but feels different. You move through your apartment as you’re drifting underwater, trying so hard not to drown. The routine same as usual, but slower, you make your bed, fold clean clothes, answer emails. And there’s a constant ache in your chest, pressure behind your eyes that you refused to let go of. You’re not going to let yourself cry. You don’t want to cry anymore, just want to forget the damage that’s been done. Forgot everything, the way you thought he had changed, the way he started to hold you, how fucking soft he kissed you the last time he left your apartment.
You don’t block his number, don’t want to give him the satisfaction. But you don’t answer his texts or calls, no matter how many ping through to your phone, they are all ignored. ‘You home? You ignoring me now? Tell what I’ve done wrong’ you don’t owe him anything.
And when he knocks on your door, late Wednesday evening – just once, like he isn’t sure if he’s even allowed to. You don’t move, stay seated on the kitchen counter, back pressed to the cabinet and legs pulled up to your chest and your hold your breath like he would be able to hear it through the door if you didn’t. You’re not gong to give him what he wants, not this time.
Then the texts go quiet for a few days, and you’re kind of relieved, because you don’t have enough power in you to block him, but hated his name popping up on your screen with all of the messages. Although it wouldn’t make a difference, you can’t escape him, not really. Couldn’t scroll through instagram or TikTok without seeing a video or pictures of him, he was haunting you in every way he could.
Then message comes through at 11:54pm a few nights later. ‘Come over’ you stare at it for a while, debating whether to go or not. You decide you will, tell yourself that it will give you closure, give answer you might not want to hear and to remind yourself there’s nothing worth holding on to. That whatever version you made up of him in you head, isn’t real.
The moment he opens the door, he looks surprised, brows pulled together, like he’s unsure if you were going to turn up.
You step past him without a word, and brush against his shoulder just to make it sting. He closes the door behind you and runs his fingers through his hair. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head at him. “Seriously?”
He blinks, confused, as if he could have no clue at all why you’re pissed off. “What?”
You turn around slowly, and pull your phone from your bag, you shove it hard into his chest. The screen was lit up, with that photo. The one from the rooftop, her sitting on his lap, arms around him like she owned him. Like he didn’t spend the last months curling into you at night and whispering that he missed you.
The silence is deafening as he stares down at your phone. His mouth parts like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, not straight away. Just clenches his jaw and passes the phone back you you silently, like it burns.
“It’s not what it looks like,” he says, eventually.
You laugh again, sharper this time. “like I haven’t heard that before.”
“She showed up, alright? She sat on me. It was nothing –“
“Don’t fucking lie,” you hiss. “Elle was there, she saw everything. Overheard her telling someone that you two have been fucking for a while.”
Lando’s expression hardens. “So what? Now you believe everyone else but me?” and you can’t believe how he’s trying to multiple the situation.
“I believe what I see. And I see someone who fucked me like he cared, held me like he meant it and then turned around and gave someone else the same lies.”
Lando doesn’t like that, he takes a few strides forward. “We’re not together, we never have been. It’s not my fault that you caught feelings.”
His words hit you hard, but they don’t shock you. It’s so typical of him, too predictable.
“Then why did you come back?” you fire back at him. “Why tell me you miss me, sleep next to me, fuck me like I was the only person you wanted.”
He flinches, just slightly. And that was the only answer you need.
“Don’t act like I’ve made the last two months up in my head.” It comes out as a whisper, eyes glassy. “You’ve made it confusing on purpose.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “ I told you what this was from the start, you didn’t want to listen.”
“Yeah,” you say, nodding slowly. “And that’s one me. For believing for even one second that there was a version of you that could care about anyone but yourself.”
He doesn’t say anything, and then suddenly he’s crossing the room, closing the space between you. Lando grabs onto your waist, hard and kisses you. It’s desperate, he pulls your hard by the waist, right against him. Like he’s trying to erase everything, you’d just said. You let him, just for a second, just to feel it, just to know. It still hurts, still feels good. And that makes it worse. But you push him off of you, palms flat against his chest. He stumbles back half a step, breath heavy, lips parted.
“No,” you say, pointing between you and him “No more of this.”
“You can go be with her,” you whisper, swallowing down the pain. “Go back to whatever the fuck that is. But leave me out of it.
He stares at you, doesn’t speak, like maybe he’s realising that he might actually lose you this time.
“I’m done,” you spit. “For real.”
It takes everything in you to turn and walk away from him. He doesn’t follow you.
Two days since you walked out of his apartment, two weeks since you stood at his door way, shaking with rage and heartbreak, told him you were done and meant it. You blocked his number, muted his instagram stories. Not that it stopped you from hovering over the unblock button most nights, when it’s late and your lonely. He hasn’t show up, hasn’t even tried with you, and you think that should make it easier, but it doesn’t.
You sit at your kitchen table now, halfway through a bottle of wine, and you think back to when you first met him, how it all started and how you wish it never did.
It was a little over a year ago, you were at bar, with a bunch of your friends, barley paying attention to the conversation going on around you. You were tired, heels killing you, you were five cocktails down, hoping it might offer something more interesting. And then he walked in, you noticed him straight away, you knew exactly who he was, you noted that he looked even better in person. His eyes met yours across the rooftop, and he walked over towards you confidently. “You look like you don’t want to be here.”
You tilted your head and said, “You’re right.”
He smirked, you rolled your eyes. And somewhere an hour later, you were sitting in a quiet corner, your knees brushing his, laughing at almost everything he says. You hadn’t felt that kind of spark with anyone in a while, it was fun. And you liked they way he looked at you, like you were trouble he wanted to get into. You slept with him that night, no expectation, no awkwardness in the morning. You smiled to yourself, after he left that morning. It didn’t feel heavy, didn’t feel like anything.
Then it happened again a week later, and again and again. Always late, always causal. And if first, if really was just sex. You didn’t think about him when he wasn’t around, didn’t miss him, didn’t need him. When you told him that you didn’t want anything more than sex, you meant it.
You wonder now if that version of you still exists, somewhere deep down, somewhere untouched. You wished you could go back and un do it all.
So you start going on a couple of dates with someone who’s polite, holds the door open for you, texts when he says he will and compliments you without making you feel like a prize. It’s good good. He’s good. But the whole time, your mind is only half there. You smile when makes a joke, but it’s not his laugh you’re thinking about. You let him hold your hand and walk you home, but you they don’t make you skin feel like electric, not the way Landos did. You haven’t told anyone, not your friends, not even yourself. But the truth is, you miss him. You miss the good and the bad parts. You miss the way he would lean in close and say something filthy under his breath, that would make your stomach flip. You miss they way his voice would drop when he called you ‘trouble’ or how in the last month his hand word find yours under the sheets, when he thought you were sleeping. You miss him, even though he made you feel used, even though he hurt you.
It’s that time of night again, where you’re staring at his name in your blocked contacts, you stop yourself from pressing it. Instead you place your phone on the arm of your sofa and make your way to bed, like the distance might help. You crawl into bed and bury yourself deep between you your sheets, and try to picture anyone instead of him. Try picture someone safe, someone who won’t leave marks on your skin, or holes in your chest. You still dream of him, his hands, his voice, the sex, the softer moments.
Another month goes by and you start to feel like yourself again, you’ve got your glow back. You start laughing more, get dressed up for someone who isn’t him. And for the first time in months, you had your dignity in one piece. Or at least you thought you did. Until tonight.
You see him as soon as he walks into the club, you watch as his stands by the bar, drink in hand and that stupid white T-shirt clinging to him, In all the ways you’ve tired to forget. She’s there with him, perched beside him, like she’s always belonged there. Her hand sits on his shoulder, fingers circling the back of his neck and she’s laughing at something he said. But his eyes are on you. You can feel your heart nearly stop, you don’t look for long. Just long enough for him to know that you’ve spotted him. You turn back to your friends, downed your drink and smile, like you aren’t about to crumble.
He doesn’t come over, and you don’t go over to him. The night passes slowly, full of stolen glances, too much tension for anyone to handle and a shit load of shots. You go home drunk, the image of him burns in your mind. And you when you touch yourself, when you come, moaning into your pillow. You’re only thinking of him.
Now, three days later, you’re standing in front of your tall mirror, black dress hugging your body in all of the right places, ready to go on your date.
You grab you bag, making sure you’ve for everything you need before you leave. And just as you open you door, he’s stood there. Lando. Leaning against the door frame casually.
“You looked good the other night,” he says, without even so much as a hello, eyes trailing down your body. “You look even better now.”
You don’t move. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He steps, ignoring what you just said.. He glances at your heels by the door, then back to your body, slow and deliberate. “You going somewhere?”
“Yes,” you say, pulling your clutch from the hallway table. “A date.”
That makes him pause. You watch his jaw flex, that tell tale tick, when he’s trying to pretend he’s not angry.
“You’re gonna do out dressed like that for someone else?” he raises a brow.
You narrow your eyes at him and laugh. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He doesn’t answer, but further into your apartment. And leans against your kitchen counter, like he belongs in your space.
“Why didn’t you come talk me that night?”
You cross your arms, starting to feel annoyed that he’s still here in your flat. “Because you weren’t there alone.”
“ I wasn’t with her,” Lando mutters.
“So?” He says, shrugging his shoulders at you, as if what he’s saying isn’t utter rubbish.
You laugh again, cold and bitter. “You know lando, you have a real talent for acting like nothing’s ever your fault.”
He pushes of the counter, and walks toward you. “You didn’t look away all night.”
“No, but I didn’t exactly come running either.”
Now he’s close, too close. And it’s the closest you’ve been to him for a while, you’re burning under the weight of his stare.
His voice drops low. “You still want me.”
You can’t deny it, you know and he knows it. Your hands know it by the way you touched yourself that night after the club, his face imprinted in your head.
Before you can stop him, his hands are on your waist, pulling you in like a magnet. You don’t have time to think, before his mouth is crashing into yours. And you melt into it so easily, it’s too familiar. He lifts you onto the kitchen counter and spreads your legs around his hips. You moan into him, as he drags your dress up, bunching the fabric around your hips.
“You wore this for him?” He growls into your neck.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” you shoot back, breathless.
Then he’s dropping to his knees, and you gasp softly as he presses kisses along your inner thighs. He pushes your underwear to the side, and you can feel his breath hot again you. Lando teases with his tongue, making sure to take his time, like he wants to punish and worship you at the same time. You bit down on your lip and grip the edge of the counter, head thrown back.
“You taste so fucking good,” he groans, rough fingers digging into your thighs.
His fingers push inside of you, curling just right, that makes your whole body jolt. “Bet you think about me, while he fucks you”
You roll your hips shamelessly against his hand. “Yes.”
“God… fuck… don’t stop.” You gasp, as he sucks on your clit, fingers still buried deep in you.
You come moaning his name, like it hurts. A breathy cry of pleasure and legs trembling against his shoulders.
Lando not done yet. He pulls you down from the counter and flips you around, your stomach presses uncomfortably into the counter, but you don’t care. Not when he’s stood behind you, dragging the tip of his cock through your wetness. You plant you hands flat on the counter and scream his name as he slams into you, hard.
“This what you’ve been waiting for baby? Waiting for my cock to split you open.” Lando grunts, one hand tangled in your hair, he yanks your hair back and his mouth instantly finds your neck.
His hips snap against yours brutally, with no real rhythm, just raw need.
“You don’t just get to show up and fuck me like this.” You gaps.
“You love it,” he pants into you ear. “You love when I lose my mind over you.”
“Lando,” his name spills from your lips, like a prayer and curse all at once.
Your body jerks with every thrust, and he reaches under you and rubs your clit, while slamming into you from behind. When you tighten around him, crying out, he curses loud.
“Fuck, gonna come for you.” He growls like an animal, thrusting deeper and harder, until he comes with a loud, broken sound. His back is flush against yours, and your both panting, sweaty and ruined.
Lando flips you around to face him now, he kisses your shoulder softly and then finds your lips. It’s slow and deep, you feel dizzy from it, from him. But your force your self to pull back. You push your dress down past your thighs and smooth you hair over with your hands.
“I have to go,” you say, voice shaky but sure.
Lando frowns. “You’re still going on a date?”
You nod, and he walk past him into the hallway and he follows behind you.
“But,” he pauses, looking confused. You kind of like it. “We just, I just fucked you against your kitchen counter?”
“You’ve done it plenty of times,” you say quietly. “You shouldn’t be that shocked.”
Before he can say another word, your open the door walk out leaving him stood there in your apartment. Your heels click as you walk down the hall and your chest burns, but you walk with confidence, walk like he didn’t just have his way with you.
Because if you do, you’ll never leave.
