fight or flight | mv3
pairing: pilot!max verstappen x flight attendant!fem Reader
summary: Max Verstappen has built his life on control—same aircraft, same crew, same rules. As a private pilot, discipline keeps people safe, and he doesn’t make room for complications. When his flight attendant of 8 years retires he meets his match in a sunshine-bright new flight attendant arrives: a bright, talkative flight attendant with an open heart, an endless curiosity, and a way of seeing the world Max stopped noticing years ago. He keeps his distance, convinced that ignoring her is the safest option—until he realizes the silence is costing her more than he ever intended.
What begins as guarded professionalism turns into something far more dangerous as late-night city walks, shared layovers, and unspoken trust blur the line between captain and crew. Forced to confront what he’s been denying, Max must decide whether control is worth the loneliness it costs—or whether some risks are worth taking, even at thirty thousand feet.
warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut, angst, porn with some plot, grumpy max, sunshine reader, he's her boss, max has control issues, poorly translated dutch, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p on v (wrap before you tap), fingering, creampie, belly bulge, some overstimulation, praise kink, swearing.
word count: 6.5k+
author's note: first max fit! hope you enjoy! x
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Max Verstappen had flown the same man, the same jet, and the same crew for nearly a decade.
That kind of longevity didn’t happen by accident. It happened because Max didn’t tolerate instability. He didn’t like surprises. He didn’t want to negotiate personalities at thirty thousand feet.
He had built his career—and his sanity—on routine. Routine was control.
Predictability meant control, and control meant nothing went wrong at thirty thousand feet.
Control kept people alive.
There were three things Max hated with a passion usually reserved for turbulence warnings and delayed takeoffs.
Change. Small talk. And people who treated his cockpit like a social lounge.
So when Linda—his flight attendant of eight years, the kind who anticipated his coffee order before he cleared the runway—announced her retirement, it felt like someone had loosened a bolt he couldn’t reach.
And when her replacement walked in smiling like the world had never disappointed her, Max knew—immediately—that something was about to go wrong.
She walked onto the tarmac two weeks later with a bright smile, a rolling suitcase plastered in stickers, and enough energy to power the plane. She was sunshine incarnate. Warm voice, quick laugh, eyes that took in everything like it was worth remembering. She talked while she worked, narrated her movements like she was afraid silence might swallow her whole.
“Good morning!” she chirped, stepping into the jet like it was a dream come true. “Wow. She’s beautiful.”
Max didn’t look up from his pre-flight checklist.
The silence stretched.
She cleared her throat. “I’m the new flight attendant.”
Still nothing.
The co-pilot gave Max a sideways glance that said be polite.
Max finished his line, set the clipboard down, and finally looked at her.
She was younger than Linda had been when she started—not inexperienced, but new enough that enthusiasm still clung to her like perfume. It was dangerous. Enthusiasm had a way of demanding attention.
“Captain Verstappen,” he said flatly.
Her grin widened. “Max, right? I’ve heard so much about you.”
Max responded by giving her nothing.
No encouragement. No conversation. Barely eye contact.
He told himself it was professionalism.
From that moment on, Max decided two things.
One: this wasn’t permanent. People like her never stayed long.
Two: he was not encouraging this.
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She noticed immediately.
The way the entire crew responded to her with polite distance. The way conversations stopped when she walked into the galley. The way Max never looked at her unless absolutely necessary.
She tried anyway.
She talked about her favorite airports. About how she loved the quiet thrill of takeoff. About how she’d always wanted to fly private—smaller crews, closer dynamics, seeing places instead of just passing through. She told stories while prepping the galley. Asked questions about routes, about the jet, about places he’d flown into a hundred times and never thought twice about.
Max answered in single words.
“Uh-huh.”
“Fine.”
“No.”
She filled the silence anyway.
At first, she told herself it didn’t matter. Some people were just reserved. Some crews took time.
But weeks passed.
And slowly—so slowly he almost missed it—she dimmed.
Her voice softened. Her chatter thinned. The sparkle dulled just enough to make something ache behind his ribs.
Max noticed the change before he understood what it meant.
It hit him somewhere over Chicago.
She stood at the galley window, watching the city pass beneath them, quiet. No commentary. No questions. No enthusiasm spilling out of her like it usually did.
She smiled when he walked by—but it didn’t reach her eyes.
And something in his chest shifted uncomfortably.
He told himself it wasn’t his problem.
But when they landed in New York later that week, and the rest of the crew dispersed with their usual routines, Max found himself lingering.
She hovered near the door of the jet, clutching her coat.
“Have you ever… you know,” he said gruffly, surprising both of them, “seen the city?”
She blinked. “New York?”
“Yeah.”
She shook her head. “No. I mean, I’ve been here, but not here. I was actually really excited, but I’m kind of nervous. I don’t really know where I’m going.”
The honesty caught him off guard.
He exhaled. “I’ve been here a lot.”
Her eyes lit up cautiously. “Oh?”
“If you want,” he added, already regretting the words, “I could show you around.”
Her smile came back full force. “Will you?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”
Walking New York with her was like walking with a force of nature.
She talked nonstop, oblivious to traffic, crowds, the way people surged around her like a current she didn’t feel. Max hovered closer than necessary, his attention locked on every moving piece around them.
She talked. About everything. About nothing. About the bakery they passed, the street performers, the way the buildings felt like they were leaning in to listen.
She wasn’t watching where she was going.
Max was.
At the first intersection, a cyclist cut too close. Without thinking, Max stepped behind her and placed his palm gently on the top of her head, guiding her back with pressure that was firm but careful.
“Eyes up,” he muttered. “This city’ll eat you alive if you don’t pay attention.”
She barely paused. “Mm-hmm,” she said, continuing her story without missing a beat.
When he guided her with his hand on her head, it felt right in a way that unsettled him.
She fit under his palm perfectly.
Too perfectly.
She didn’t pull away. Didn’t comment. Just trusted him.
That trust settled deep in his bones.
His hand lingered longer than necessary.
From then on, it became routine—his favorite kind.
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Every city, every stop: Max watched. Max guided. Max made sure nothing touched her without going through him first.
A hand at the small of her back. Fingers brushing her sleeve to steer her from traffic. His palm resting on her head when crowds surged.
She never commented.
She trusted him completely.
He never said it aloud.
And Max realized—too late—that he liked it.
But everyone noticed.
Crew dinners where he always chose the seat beside her. Layovers where he somehow always ended up walking her back. Briefings where his eyes tracked her movements without conscious thought.
And she noticed too.
New York turned into Paris. Paris into Aspen. Aspen into places Max had been dozens of times and somehow never truly seen.
Because she saw everything.
And she wanted him there for it.
One night, after wandering unfamiliar streets, she leaned against a railing beside him, breath puffing white in the cold. She tilted her head and studied him.
“You’re not really much of a talker, are you?”
He shook his head. “Not much to say.”
“But you listen.”
He looked at her then. Really looked.
She was flushed from the cold, eyes bright, lips slightly parted like she was always on the edge of saying something else.
“I like listening,” he said.
What he didn’t say was that he loved the sound of her voice. That listening to her felt like coming in from the cold. That he’d started measuring his days by whether she smiled at him when he walked into the galley.
She smiled at that. Something slow and private.
And that smile haunted him for days.
The line blurred.
Traditions formed.
They walked cities together. Ate late dinners. Shared quiet moments that felt dangerously intimate for coworkers.
Max told himself it was harmless.
Until it wasn’t.
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By the time the ski trip rolled around, Max was operating on borrowed restraint.
It was supposed to be easy. One big cabin. One big paycheck. In and out.
The cabin was cramped. Intimate. Too many shared spaces. Too many moments where she brushed past him, her sleeve grazing his wrist, her laughter echoing off wood-paneled walls.
He was hyperaware of her in ways that felt dangerous.
The village bar was packed shoulder to shoulder, heat and noise rolling through the space like a living thing. Laughter bounced off timber walls, boots thudded against the floor, the air heavy with melted snow and alcohol.
She stood at the bar, bright as a match struck in the dark.
Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, hair loose around her shoulders, laughter spilling freely now that she’d settled into the crew. She looked relaxed. Happy. Open in a way that made Max’s chest tighten.
He watched her from his stool, drink untouched in his hand, ice melting slowly while something hotter coiled beneath his ribs.
“Bathroom,” he muttered, already standing.
He told himself it was nothing. Told himself he’d be gone a minute.
It took less than that.
When he came back, there was a man in his place.
Too close. Leaning in. Smiling like he’d already decided she was his to charm.
Max stopped short.
Something ugly and immediate surged through him—hot, irrational, instinctive.
He didn’t move right away. He didn’t interrupt.
He watched.
He watched the way the man angled his body toward her, crowding her space like it was an invitation. Watched the way she laughed—polite, warm, unguarded. Watched her tuck her hair behind her ear, the small, unconscious gesture hitting him like a strike to the ribs.
Something ugly flared in Max’s chest.
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest, jaw locking as he forced himself to stay still. Every muscle in his body was wound tight, like if he moved too soon, something would snap.
The man said something else. Her hand brushed his arm.
That was it.
Max pushed off the wall and crossed the room in three long strides, every step deliberate. He didn’t acknowledge the man. Didn’t break his stare from her as he reached her.
His palm came down on the top of her head.
Not gentle.
Firm. Familiar. Claiming in a way he didn’t bother disguising.
It was possessive.
She looked up instantly, breath hitching—not startled, not confused. Just… aware. Like that touch made sense. Like it belonged there.
“We’re leaving,” Max said.
She blinked up at him. “What? Why?”
“Early flight,” he said, voice flat, clipped. “Just got the call.”
The lie slid out clean and easy.
“Oh.” She nodded without hesitation, already shifting closer to him. “Okay. Sure.”
The man frowned, clearly thrown. “Everything okay?”
Max didn’t look at him. Didn’t spare him a glance. His hand stayed where it was, steady and unmistakable.
“Yeah,” Max said.
It was dismissal, not reassurance.
She didn’t question it. Didn’t linger. She let Max guide her away from the bar, trusting him completely, her shoulder brushing his chest as she moved.
That trust hit harder than the jealousy.
It nearly broke him.
They left the bar without another word.
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The cold hit hard the moment they stepped outside, sharp enough to sting exposed skin, but it did nothing to cool the heat simmering beneath Max's ribs.
He walked half a step ahead of her, jaw locked, hands shoved into his pockets before he did something reckless.
The drive back to the cabin was worse.
Silence filled the car—not awkward, but heavy. The engine hummed beneath them while streetlights flashed across the windshield. She shifted once in the passenger seat before settling again, as though she'd learned not to disturb whatever storm was building beside her.
Max kept his eyes on the road.
Every time her reflection appeared in the glass, he saw her laughing with that man.
By the time they reached the cabin, the silence had become unbearable.
Inside, the hallway felt impossibly narrow. Warm wooden walls closed around them, trapping every word neither of them wanted to say.
He stopped outside her door.
She nearly walked into him.
"Did I do something?" she asked carefully.
"No." The answer came too quickly.
She frowned. "You seem angry."
“I’m not angry at you.”
“Then who are you angry at?”
Max dragged a hand down his face, jaw tight. “That guy.”
She blinked, confusion knitting her brow. “What guy?”
“The one at the bar.”
Understanding flickered in her expression. “Oh.”
“He was flirting with you.”
She tilted her head slightly, almost curious. “I didn’t notice.”
“I did.”
“And?” she asked, the word light—the word landed like a challenge,, like she already knew the answer and wanted him to say it anyway.
Max let out a short laugh, no humor in it at all.
“And I hated it.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Why?”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze held hers, steady and unblinking, like he was weighing whether the truth was worth saying out loud.
“Because I stood there watching someone else make you laugh,” he said finally.
His voice had dropped, roughened at the edges. “And you weren’t looking at me.”
The hallway seemed to narrow around them, the noise of the world fading into something distant and irrelevant.
He moved before he seemed to decide to—closing the space between them. One hand hit the wall beside her shoulder, then the other, not quite caging her in, but cutting off every easy escape route.
“I didn’t like it,” he admitted, jaw tightening, “watching someone else think they had your attention.”
His breath was uneven now, like he’d lost more control than he meant to show.
“I didn’t like wondering if you’d smile at him the way you smile at me.”
For a moment, he just looked at her—like he was waiting for her to either deny it or ruin him.
She searched his face, as if she might find the answer written somewhere in the tension he refused to let go of.
Softly, she asked, “What does that mean?”
Max closed his eyes for a brief moment—just long enough to look like he was steadying himself, or giving up on it entirely. When he opened them again, there was no point in pretending anymore.
“It means I’ve been lying to myself for months.”
He stepped closer. There was barely any space left between them now, the air itself feeling too small to share.
“I’m your captain.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
“I’m supposed to keep this professional.”
“I know.”
“I’m supposed to know better.”
Her expression softened into something almost unbearably sad, like she’d been carrying the same truth for longer than either of them had admitted.
“I know.”
His breath hitched—then he gave a short, broken laugh, more exhaustion than humor.
“I don’t.”
The words landed between them and stayed there, heavy and unclaimed, changing everything without asking permission.
"So go inside," he said quietly.
She didn't move.
"Lock the door."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't..." He swallowed, the words catching like they cost him something. "...I'm going to come in."
She studied him for a long moment, unblinking, searching. Then she asked the question that undid him.
"What if I don't lock it?"
Max shut his eyes. Every instinct he’d spent years sharpening screamed at him to turn away, to end it cleanly, to choose distance over this unbearable edge of wanting.
“I don’t think I’ll leave,” he said.
Silence stretched between them—heavy, alive.
Finally, she gave a small nod.
"Goodnight, Max."
She brushed past him and slipped inside.
The door clicked shut.
He stayed where he was, listening.
One second.
Five.
Ten.
No lock.
His breath broke on the exhale. His jaw flexed hard as he fought the pull of it—the choice she’d left hanging there in the dark.
“Fuck it.”
His hand found the handle before he could stop himself.
The door swung open.
She was still standing there.
Waiting. Eyes steady, voice barely above a whisper.
“I didn’t lock it.”
He didn’t give himself time to think. He crossed the room like he was running out of time.
Max caught her face between his hands, grip firm enough to feel grounding, like if he didn’t hold on to something solid he might come apart entirely. The kiss landed hard—no warning, no softness—just weeks of restraint detonating all at once.
The kiss wasn't careful. It wasn't planned. It was months of restraint collapsing all at once.
Jealousy.
Want.
Relief.
She gasped into the kiss, a sharp, startled sound that went straight through him. Her hands came up instinctively, fingers fisting in his jacket like she needed the anchor as badly as he did.
Max broke the kiss only because his lungs burned. His forehead dropped to hers, breath ragged, pulse roaring in his ears. His breathing was rough, uneven, like he was barely holding the reins on something violent and alive inside him. He could feel himself slipping—control shredding, instincts rising fast and feral beneath years of discipline.
“This is a terrible idea,” he said, voice rough.
She nodded, breath shaking. “Probably.”
“We work together,” he said, each word clipped, like he was trying to talk himself back from the edge. “I’m responsible for you. I’m supposed to protect you. I’m supposed to be in control.”
“I know.”
“I should leave,” he sighed against her lips.
“You won’t.”
A small, defeated smile touched his mouth. “No.”
Max kissed her again, slower—but no less consuming. This wasn’t desperation anymore. This was intent. Purpose. His mouth moved like he’d already accepted the consequences and decided they were worth it, like he was claiming something he’d already decided he wasn’t giving back.
When he pulled away, his hands slid down to her waist, gripping just enough to remind himself she was real. Warm. Solid. Standing right there with him instead of living in the space between flights and silences.
“Look at me,” he said, low and commanding.
She did.
The moment stretched—silent, electric, devastating. Want tangled with trust. Heat pressed tight against the last shreds of restraint. He could feel himself balancing on the edge of something irreversible.
“If I do this, I don’t do halfway,” he said hoarsely against her mouth.
“I know,” she breathed, holding his gaze.. “I wasn’t asking for halfway.”
Max braced his hands on either side of her hips, trapping himself as much as her, forehead pressing to hers as he fought for breath.
“If we keep going,” he said, every word scraped raw from his chest, “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
She didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t look away.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I’m supposed to be in control.”
Her hands slid up his chest, slow and deliberate, palms pressing flat over his heart like she could feel how violently it was trying to escape his ribs.
“You don’t have to be,” she whispered. “Not right now. Not with me.”
That was the moment everything tipped. That admission hit him harder than the jealousy ever had.
Max’s hands moved up her back, fingers spreading wide, memorizing her like he was afraid she’d disappear if he didn’t. She made a soft, broken sound into his mouth—uncontrolled, unguarded—and it snapped something deep in his chest. It wrecked what little control he had left.
He guided her backward without breaking the kiss until her back hit the edge of the table in the center of the room. She stumbled, and his grip tightened instantly, reflexive, protective even now.
“I’ve got you,” he muttered, the words torn from him before he could stop them.
“Max,” she breathed, like she was discovering how his name fit in her mouth, like it belonged to this version of him—the one he kept buried.
He answered by lowering his mouth to her throat, just beneath her jaw, where her pulse was racing wildly. He lingered there, lips brushing skin, breathing her in like he needed proof she was real—proof she wasn’t something he’d imagined into existence.
“This stays here,” he said against her skin, voice rough and absolute. “Between these walls.. Outside this room…”
“I’m your flight attendant.”
“And I’m your captain.”
Her fingers tightened in his shirt, knuckles pressing hard. “And in here?”
His eyes opened. His expression softened in a way she’d never seen before.. “In here…,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You’re the woman I’ve been trying not to fall in love with.”
The words landed heavy—possessive, honest, loaded.
Silence.
Then her hands slid up around his neck, pulling him closer. “Then stop trying.”
He looked at her for a long moment. That was it. The last restraint gave way.
Whatever line he’d been clinging to dissolved completely. And for the first time in years…
Max Verstappen let go of control.
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It could be heard in his chest, something deep and guttural and longing all pulled together into a groan he couldn't hold back. The way he smashed his lips into hers would be forever imprinted in her mind. She could only imagine how long he’d waited to have this. To have her.
The kiss was all-consuming—breath, heat, and the sharp edge of teeth and tongue colliding in something that felt less like restraint and more like surrender. Max nipped lightly at her bottom lip, and the sound she made in response drew a low, unexpected chuckle from him—amused, pleased, almost disbelieving, like he hadn’t expected her to match him so easily.
His mouth moved with purpose, unhurried but certain, as though he were learning her in real time. She met him just as fiercely, refusing to give him anything less.
When he finally broke away, it was only to drag in a ragged breath, his forehead hovering close to hers. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured.
She didn’t answer with words—just a look that said she understood far more than she was willing to admit. Then she pulled him back in. His hands slid to her hips, firm and possessive, and in one fluid motion he lifted her onto the wooden table as though she weighed nothing at all.
His hand slipped beneath the hem of her tank top, fingers deftly finding the clasp of her bra and undoing it with practiced ease. He eased the lace from her body and let it fall carelessly to the floor before tugging the tank top down beneath her breasts.
She shivered under the weight of his gaze, the way it lingered like he was memorising her rather than simply looking. Feeling every ounce of his quiet hunger, before his palm finally cupped her, kneading her soft flesh with the reverence of someone indulging a long-held fantasy
The kiss dissolved into a helpless moan as her head fell back, every slow roll of his fingers sending another shiver through her. "Fuck," she gasped, her hands scrambling for the edge of the table to steady herself.
She barely had time to react before Max tore her top from her body, the sound of fabric giving way punctuated by her startled gasp.
"Max!" she scolded, equal parts exasperated and breathless, but he didn't so much as glance up.
"I'll buy you another one," he murmured, utterly unapologetic. His attention never wavered as he bent to her, his mouth lavishing the affection he'd denied her moments before while his free hand continued its slow, deliberate caress.
The feel of his hot, wet mouth and tongue across her nipple was enough to have her arching off the table and further into his touch. The pleasure was so overwhelming she was convinced she could come from this alone.
He pulled back just enough to look up at her, his pupils blown wide with want. There was something almost feral in his expression—hungry, intent, as though every ounce of restraint had finally given way. His deft fingers made quick work of the button on her jeans, hooking into the waistband before easing them down her legs. Dropping to his knees, he gently parted her thighs, his gaze lingering for a heartbeat on the delicate lace that clung to her wet cunt..
"Is this because of me, schat?" Max murmured, his voice rough with want as he drank in the sight before him, his gaze lingering as though he couldn't look away.
She whimpered and nodded, her breath catching. "Y-yes," she whispered, her thoughts dissolving into a haze as his fingers caught the delicate waistband of her panties and eased them down.
He lingered for a heartbeat, transfixed as the lace peeled away from her, reluctant to let go. His breath caught, followed by a low, appreciative groan as he took in the sight before him, his gaze drinking her in with undisguised hunger. With a careless flick of his wrist, he sent the panties to the floor beside her bra, then eased himself between her thighs, his touch slow and reverent as he drew closer.
His tongue circled her clit with slow, devastating precision before drifting lower to meet her entrance. Every deliberate stroke of his tongue stole another breath from her lungs, pleasure unfurling through her in relentless waves.
"Max!" she gasped, her head falling back as her fingers buried themselves in his dirty-blond hair, clinging to him as though he were the only thing keeping her grounded. "Fuck—"
The broken sound that escaped her was somewhere between a laugh and a moan, drawn from her by the quiet certainty of his attention. There was nothing tentative about him. Every movement was purposeful, every touch filled with an aching hunger that spoke of restraint finally giving way. He looked like a man who'd gone too long without her—and now that he had her, he intended to savour every second.
Heat rushed to her cheeks at the thought of how effortlessly he unraveled her, how easily he stripped away every coherent thought until nothing existed beyond him and the pleasure he drew from her.
Max let out a low, satisfied hum against her core, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through her clit as he began to suck. His mouth lingered with deliberate attention, coaxing soft, helpless sounds from her as she trembled beneath his touch. She was already teetering on the edge, every nerve alive and oversensitive, but he showed no sign of stopping. If anything, his patience only made it worse—he seemed determined to draw every last shiver, every broken breath, from her.
He traced her entrance with the tip of his finger, teasing her with the barest hint of pressure before withdrawing again. When he finally slipped two fingers inside her, the movement was slow and assured, curling with practiced precision until a soft moan spilled from her lips. She tightened around him instinctively, his name catching in her throat as pleasure rippled through her. Caught between the relentless attention of his mouth and the deliberate rhythm of his fingers, she could already feel herself teetering on the edge.
That familiar coil low in her stomach drew tighter with every passing second, the pressure mounting until it bordered on unbearable. Max felt it in the way her body responded beneath his touch. A low hum of approval vibrated against her as his fingers curled with practiced precision.
"Come on, schat," he coaxed softly. "Cum for me. Let me have it all..."
The deep, velvet rasp of his voice wrapped around her like a caress. The quiet plea in his words was all it took to push her to the edge, her resolve crumbling the moment he begged for her like that.
Her body arched forward as his name broke from her lips, fingers tightening in his hair as sensation overwhelmed her. She felt like she was slipping out of herself, every nerve lit and unsteady.
He still didn’t stop.
“M-Max,” she whimpered, her voice breaking as she neared her limit. “Max, please…” She was pleading with a man who sounded far too pleased with himself to listen, entirely consumed by her reaction—like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
“One more for me… I know you can give me one more.” he whispered, warm breath ghosting across her core before he dove back in and began sucking her clit again.
She could feel tears burning the edges of her vision, and she wasn’t even sure if her first orgasm had ended before the second began. She could feel her body begin to clench around his fingers like her cunt was trying to keep him there. She let out something between a moan and a sob, grip faltering on his hair as her body collapsed back against the shockingly cold wood.
“So, so good for me, schat,” she heard him praise as she slowly came around. He slowly pulled his fingers out, her dripping cunt fluttering around nothing in the absence of him. He gladly lapped at the slick release on his fingers as he got on his feet, earning a very fucked-out groan from her.
As he rose, she could see just how hard he was against the stiff denim of his jeans, and that only filled her with a new wave of want.
A smirk tugged at the edges of his lips when he noticed she was staring. He hooked a finger under her chin and gently brought her lips up to his as he kissed her with the taste of her release still on his lips. The taste of them combined was intoxicating, a drug that she only wanted more of.
As he pulled away she chased his lips, pouting when he put distance between them momentarily. “Patience, schat,” he teased as he wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled her off the table. She silently snaked her arms around his neck as he carried her across the room. He laid her gently down on the bed, like he was afraid she would break.
He released her only long enough to step back and strip down, unhurried but without ceremony. There was no performance in it, no attempt to be seen—yet she couldn’t look away.
Each layer of clothing fell away with quiet certainty, revealing what she had only ever tried to imagine in stolen glances and passing moments. The work shirts he usually wore already hinted at more than enough—broad shoulders, the solid weight of him—but this was something else entirely.
Seeing him like this, unguarded and real, was more than her mind had been willing to construct. It left her momentarily still, caught between anticipation and disbelief at how effortlessly he filled the space she’d only ever filled with guesses.
“You’re staring again,” he murmured, lowering himself over her until his forearms bracketed her in, caging her beneath the weight of his presence.
Heat flared across her cheeks. She slid her hands up, resting them against his biceps as if to steady herself. “I’m just admiring what you’ve been keeping from me,” she whispered back, her voice softer than she intended.
“Well,” he said, his tone slow, almost teasing, as he dipped closer—close enough that their lips nearly brushed—“it’s not polite to stare, Schat.”
“It’s not polite to keep a girl waiting,” she shot back, though her breath caught betraying her. His bare chest pressed against her so intimately that thinking straight became optional.
A quiet laugh slipped from him. “See? You’re learning.” His mouth hovered at her throat before he finally gave in, trailing kisses along the sensitive line of her neck, unhurried and deliberate. “Good girl,” he murmured against her skin.
She arched into his feather-light touch, her breath catching as his lips traced a slow path from the line of her neck to her collarbone and lower, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.
When he finally pulled back and settled on his knees, she took her time looking at him—openly, unashamedly—letting her gaze linger with deliberate appreciation, admiring his cock, impossibly hard and gorgeously flushed.
He opened his mouth as if to speak.
“Yeah, yeah,” she cut in before he could start, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I know. I’m staring again. I get it, Verstappen. Just let me enjoy the view.”
That earned her a quiet laugh from him—soft, genuine, and entirely unguarded.
Reaching his hand down, he gripped himself at the base and started to stroke his arching length. “What’s going through your head?” he breathed, angling his hips a little so his cock dragged along the inside of her thighs.
She nodded, more than eager. “I want to feel it inside me… please,” she pleaded, practically drooling as she watched him rub the head of his cock though her slick folds. “Please…”
“Mmm… Please who?” he asked, gaze flicking up to her face as he saw the desperation in her eyes.
It took her a split second to catch on to what he was asking. Then it clicked, and a small, breathless laugh slipped out before she could stop it. “Your’re a dirty man, Verstappen,” she murmured, more teasing than scolding—until his hand came up and caught her at the throat.
“I asked you a question,” he growled, and the rumble of his voice went straight to her cunt as her walls fluttered around nothing.
“Yes, Captain,” she replied, unflinching, tilting her chin up into his hold with a challenging little smirk.
Max groaned, the thought flashing through his mind that she was going to be the end of him. His hand lingered at her throat for a beat longer than necessary before he braced it beside her head instead, caging her in.
“That’s right, schat,” he murmured low, voice rough with restraint. Her breath caught, her eyes rolling backwards as the space between them vanished as she felt him begin to push inside her—slowly, deliberately.
The stretch burned, but the way he so perfectly filled and dominated every inch of space was immaculate. She could feel every pulsing vein and soft ridge brushing along her walls as he eased in inch by inch. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if giving her every chance to adjust, yet there was nothing hesitant about him. Nothing uncertain. Just control tempered by restraint.
Halfway in, he stopped.
“Doing okay there, liefje?” he asked softly, concern breaking through the intensity. His hand rose to her face, cupping her cheek with surprising gentleness.
His thumb traced along her cheekbone in a slow, steady pass—an anchor in the midst of everything unraveling between them. The contrast of him like this, so careful, so tender, only made her heart stutter harder in her chest.
She nodded, looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes and damp lashes. “More than okay,” she managed with a breathless laugh, still slightly dazed by how completely he affected her. How good he felt buried so deep inside her.
Max exhaled shakily as he held her close, clearly struggling to steady himself. “Fuck, schat,” he murmured, his forehead resting against her shoulder. His voice had dropped low and rough, thick with need. “You feel… incredible. So fucking tight.”
His grip tightened slightly, like he was trying to anchor himself there, as if letting go wasn’t an option.
He pulled back just enough to make her breath catch—just enough to leave her wanting—and then pushed himself back in in a single, unrelenting motion. The sound that broke from her came unrestrained, involuntary, before she could even think to hold it back. The noise echoed in the room, unchecked, making her cheeks burn as she realized how completely she was giving herself away.
Again and again, he set a rhythm that didn’t waver, each return deliberate, measured, as if he knew exactly how to undo her. She couldn’t hold back the reactions he pulled from her, couldn’t quiet them no matter how she tried.
“You like that, schat?” he murmured, voice low and edged with satisfaction. “When I bury my cock so deep you feel it here?” he drawled, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips as his hand pressed down against a small bulge in her lower abdomen.
His hand settled at her waist, firm and possessive, grounding her as much as it reminded her who was in control. There was an unsettling calm in the way he moved—careful, precise, like he was holding something far more dangerous than he was letting slip.
And that was what unraveled her most: not the loss of control, but the sense that he was still holding himself back.
She wanted to see what would happen if he stopped.
It felt as though there was no clear line between where she ended and he began - heat, closeness, and motion blurring everything until thought itself grew slippery. He lifted her legs with ease, up over his shoulders and she found herself with nails raking down his back as her ankles were pushed back damn near close to the sides of her head. Her voice broke on his name, soft and unsteady, while his own breath came uneven against her skin—her name spoken like something he couldn’t quite let go of.
“Good girl, taking me so well,” he breathed out, his praises sending sparks of red-hot pleasure straight to her cunt. “Not going to be able to stop, schat… Going to fill you up… Make you mine…”
She whimpered at his words, nails digging crescents into the tops of his shoulders as she clung on for dear life. “M-Max…” she moaned out weakly, head fuzzy as her mind was actively being fucked stupid.
“Say my name again,” he murmured against her, voice low and rough with it. Not a request—something closer to possession.
She did, broken and breathless, and it seemed to unravel him further rather than satisfy him.
“That’s it,” he said quietly. “You’re not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not after this.”
Her mind went soft around the edges at the sound of it, at the certainty in his voice—the way he spoke like she was already his, like the decision had been made long before she’d ever realized it.
“Max…” she managed, barely steady, fingers curling tighter into him as if she could disappear into his hold completely. “Don’t stop. “Please… lose control…” she begged, pulling at him and trying to encourage him to go faster. Harder.
“Are you sure, liefje?”
“If you don't fuck me into this goddamn mattress-”
He cut her off with a sharp snap of his hips. Then another. She could feel the head of his cock hitting that spot inside her and she cried out. Whatever teasing edge had lingered vanished in an instant, replaced by something far more urgent. Her head hitting the pillow as pleasure began to take over her body, her eyes fighting to stay open.
Max groaned softly, the last thread of restraint slipping away as he felt her pull him closer. “It’s like you were made for me, schat,” he murmured, his voice rough with need. “I can feel you… don’t hold back on me, liefje. Let go.”
She felt the tension in her lower body coil tighter and tighter, every breath pulling her closer to the edge until it finally broke—spilling through her in a sudden, overwhelming wave.
“Look at me when you cum… I need to see you,” he groaned, one hand firm beneath her jaw, guiding her to meet his gaze.
Her eyes flew open at the command, locking onto his as the intensity of her orgasm crashed over her, leaving her breathless and unmoored..
“M-Max! F-Fuck!” Her voice broke apart into a breathless gasp as her back arched off the mattress, her body trembling under the force of sensation. He groaned her name, voice rough with strain, as her cunt clenched down around him. His movements faltered as he began to throb and pulse ropes of white, hot cum inside her.
“Shit,” he groaned, going still as he collapsed partially against her, chest rising and falling in heavy breaths, skin warm with sweat..
Her mind felt hazy, pleasantly adrift. She let her hands rest against his chest as she slowly came back to herself. “Mm… Max?” she murmured, still trying to steady her breathing.
“Yeah?” he answered softly.
“Are you glad I didn’t lock my door?”
A quiet laugh escaped him as he turned his head, pressing gentle kisses along her cheek. “Yeah, schat. I am.”
He eased away just enough to lie beside her, the sudden space between them almost startling after how close they’d been. She instinctively shifted into him, and he welcomed her immediately, arms circling her and drawing her back in.
“You’re never locking your door again,” he teased, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
She let out a quiet giggle. “Maybe I’ll just start sleeping in your room,” she murmured against his skin, lazily winding her legs around his. “I’m yours anyway.”
Max huffed a soft laugh, arms tightening around her as if the answer was obvious. “That’s right, liefje,” he said, quieter now, almost satisfied. “All mine.”
