my girl | ln4
pairing: lando norris x fem!reader (no y/n, bestfriends/roommates)
warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI, oral (fem receiving), p in v, first time, inexperienced reader, soft-ish sex??, praise, NOT PROOFREAD
wc: 5.2k
summary: “those guys,” he murmured, his hand sliding higher, his fingers splayed on your inner thigh. “...they’re missing out on something great.” his gaze locked on yours, daring you to look away.
a whimper escaped you. you squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could make it stop, make him stop.
ale's note: i had a couple of similar requests with best friend lando and i am a SLUT for friends to lovers sooo
from his sprawled position on the sofa, lando watched you. you were perched on a stool by the kitchen island, phone pressed to your ear, a soft, excited laugh bubbling out of you that twisted something hot and ugly in his gut.
another date. the fifth this month. each one a tiny incision into a part of him he refused to acknowledge. you were his person. and for the last few months, you’d been… looking. “just putting myself out there,” you’d said with a shrug that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “it gets lonely, you know?”
he knew. fuck, did he know. the loneliness had a new flavour now, though. it tasted like watching you leave.
“no, it’s not too much,” you were saying into the phone, your voice a blend of amusement and that specific, flirty lilt you used when talking to these men. “i like a man who plans.” you twirled a strand of hair around your finger, your other hand smoothing down the front of a dress that was going to give lando an actual aneurysm.
it was black. short. not obscenely so, but it ended high on your thighs, the fabric soft and hugging every curve you had, which, lando noted with a fresh wave of dizzying jealousy, was a lot of curves. it dipped in a neckline that framed your tits perfectly, pushing them up into a soft, tempting swell that made his mouth go dry. you’d done your makeup with more care than usual—smoky eyes, lips a shade of pink that was both innocent and kissable. you looked… fuck. you looked gorgeous. edible. like a fantasy he hadn’t even let himself fully acknowledge until this exact moment, watching you prepare to give yourself to some other guy.
he’d told himself it was brotherly protectiveness. that no one was good enough for you. that he was just being a possessive friend. monaco was full of sharks. he’d believed that lie for weeks, watching you return each time, heels in hand, in a rage about caviar and snobs. he felt a vicious spike of satisfaction each time you came back alone.
but he knew deep down he wasn’t pissed because he was possessive. he was pissed because he had a crush on you. a big, stupid, fucking crush. he suspected they’d been lurking in the shadows since you were both teenagers, maybe since you were both seventeen and he’d seen you kiss some dickhead at a party and felt a confusing, violent urge to shove the guy into a wall. he’d always managed to shove them back down, to laugh it off, to clap you on the shoulder and call you a slag in the most affectionate way possible. but now, living with you, seeing you like this… there was no shoving them down anymore. they were out, ugly and raw and demanding.
“ok… 8 o’clock. i’ll see you then,” you said, ending the call.
lando felt sick.
“alright, lands?” you asked, leaning over the back of the sofa. your perfume—something floral and warm—washed over him. from this angle, he could see right down the front of your dress.
he forced his jaw to unclench, his throat to work. “you look… great.” the words felt like gravel. great. what a pathetic, insufficient word for the atomic bomb of want that had just detonated in his gut.
“just great?” you teased. “he’s taking me to that new place on the port.”
“lucky him,” lando said, his voice tighter than he intended.
you beamed, missing the strain in his words. “im actually really excited about this one. he seems different. his name’s paul, he’s a marine biologist, can you believe it?”
i could learn about fish, lando thought, the pettiness of it shocking even him. i could tell you about the bloody migratory patterns of tuna if it meant you’d look at me like that. he let you eat that fucking sashimi he hated around him any way, it was basically the same thing.
“cool,” he managed. “have fun. don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
you laughed, a sound that normally filled him with warmth but now felt like shards of glass in his ears. “so basically have no fun at all? got it.”
you leaned down and pressed a quick, casual kiss to his cheek. your lips were soft. it burned. you straightened up, grabbed your little clutch, and with a final excited wiggle of your fingers, you were gone.
꩜
you should’ve known. at first, you’d felt a flutter of real hope. maybe this was it. maybe the endless, depressing parade of men who talked over you, who checked their reflections in the window, who subtly tried to figure out if you were friends with lando for access… maybe it was over.
paul was handsome, in a sharp, groomed way. his suit probably cost more than your car. he asked about your day, remembered details from your last chat.
that hope died a slow, painful death over three courses.
becayse when the food came (some delicate architectural arrangement of foam and microgreens that you were afraid to breathe on), he started to talk. and talk. and talk.
the initial spark you’d felt over your texts had fizzled and died. paul the marine biologist, it turned out, was only interesting when he was talking about himself. his work, his boat, his dive in the maldives, his opinions on sustainable fishing. you’d nodded, smiled, asked questions, trying to find the funny, normal guy from the texts.
by the time dessert arrived, some deconstructed berry thing that involved a lot of smears all over the plate, you were exhausted. the two glasses of overpriced sancerre you’d drunk to cope had left you feeling fuzzy and slow, a tipsy haze that did nothing to soften the edges of your disappointment. you’d been so excited. so sure this one was different. and now you were just sitting here, in a dress that felt suddenly too tight, too revealing, watching a man you already knew you never wanted to see again monologue about the time he chartered a private yacht.
you pushed the berry smears around your plate, your appetite long gone. the restaurant was too loud, the clatter of silverware and the hum of other people’s successful dates getting on your nerves.
“you know,” paul said, leaning forward, his voice dropping into what he probably thought was a conspiratorial tone. his watery eyws fixed on you with a new intensity. “i have a really nice place not far from here. incredible view.”
you felt a cold trickle of dread down your spine. “oh?” you said, noncommittal.
“yes. the balcony is… spacious.” he let the word hang, his gaze dipping to your cleavage for too many long, uncomfortable seconds. “i was thinking, after this, we could go back there.” he reached across the table, his fingers brushing the back of your hand. his skin was cool and slightly clammy. “i think you’d enjoy it. i know what women like.”
pure disgust washes over you. it’s so crass, so transactional, wrapped in that polite tone. the fantasy of a nice guy evaporates completely.
you put your spoon down with a precise click. “no,” you say, your voice surprisingly steady despite the wine. “it’s ok. i think the night ends here.”
“why do dinner if not to have fun?” paul smiled tightly, barking a laugh as if you were making some joke.
your mouth went dry. “sometimes people eat dinner because they’re hungry?”
his smile faltered, then hardened. “come now, darling. don’t be coy. we’re both adults. a woman who dresses like that…” his eyes raked over you again, and you felt dirty. “... has certain expectations.”
“my expectation was to have a nice dinner,” you said flatly. “i was mistaken.”
“oh, come on. don’t be like that. we’re having a good time.”
“you’re having a good time. i’m bored.”
paul’s mask slipped completely. annoyance flashed in his eyes, then something uglier. “i’ve just spent a small fortune on this dinner, you’ve led me on.” he hissed, leaning in.
“and i’ve just wasted an entire evening,” you shot back, standing up. your legs were a little wobbly. “thank you for the meal. goodbye.”
he stared at you, his face flushing. he tried a few more arguments—“you’re being unreasonable,” “you’ll regret this,”—but seeing the unyielding finality in your eyes, he finally gave up. the switch was chilling. the faux charm vanished, replaced by petulant anger. he signaled for the check, paid with a flourish of his card, and stood up without another word. he didn’t offer to walk you out. he didn’t even look at you again. he just turned and walked away, his expensive shoes clicking sharply on the marble, leaving you standing alone at the table.
the walk of shame out of the restaurant, past the pitying glances of the waitstaff, felt endless. outside, the monaco air was warm. you leaned against a cool stone wall feeling stupid. naive. so so lonely. tears threatened, hot and prickling behind your eyes, but you swallowed them down. you were not going to cry over marine biologist dickhead.
the heels that had made you feel sexy hours ago now dug into your heels, blistering. you thought about walking the whole way home, letting the night air clear your head, but the thought of the long, lonely trek up to the apartment felt overwhelming. you wanted your bed. your blankets. your best friend.
with a sigh you pulled out your phone. your thumb hovered over lando’s name. a pang of guilt hit you. he’d probably just gotten comfortable, was gaming or watching a movie. it felt so stupid to ask for help, even from him, but your chest felt raw, scraped out.
he answered on the second ring. “hey. you good?” his voice was calm, but you could hear the slight inflection of concern.
“could you… could you come pick me up? please?”
there was a shift in his tone, immediate and serious. “where are you?”
you told him. “im outside,” you whispered, and hung up before your voice could crack.
he was there in less than ten minutes, the familiar headlights of his urus shining down the street. he pulled up to the curb, and you climbed in, the familiar scent of his car—leather and his cologne—enveloping you. you didn’t speak. you just buckled your seatbelt and stared out the window at the blur of lights.
“alright?” he said softly, tentative.
you just nodded, staring straight ahead.
lando waited for a moment, hoping you’d say something, but when you remained silent, he pulled back into the street. the silence stretched between you, thick and uncomfortable—a rare thing for two people who could usually talk for hours about nothing at all.
he glanced at you. in the passing streetlights, he could see your makeup was still perfect, but your eyes looked tired. and something else. disappointment, maybe. or disgust.
“so,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “how was the food at least? did they serve it on a slate? i bet they served it on a slate.”
a tiny smile touched your lips. “it was on a slab of heated salt.”
“fuck me, really?” lando exaggerated a shudder.
that got a genuine laugh out of you. a small, tired sound, but a laugh nonetheless. “he said that it enhanced the taste.”
“of course he did.” lando relaxed slightly. “was he one of those guys who orders for you, too?”
you didn’t answer, just turned to look out the window.
okay. so it was like that.
he didn’t push. but you could feel his glances, the concerned energy radiating from him. the rest of the drive passed in quieter conversation—lando telling you about his day, you making half-hearted responses. by the time they pulled into the underground garage of your building, some of the tension had eased.
“dickhead,” you muttered, feeling a fraction lighter.
“tosser,” he agreed easily. he shot you a quick grin. he was trying. he always tried for you.
“his view was probably of another building’s air conditioning unit,” you mumbled, leaning your head back against the seat.
lando chuckled, the sound warm and real. “there’s my girl.”
my girl. the words, so casually thrown, sent a weird, unexpected little shiver through you. you pushed it away, attributing it to the residual wine and the emotional whiplash of the evening.
back in the apartment, you kicked off your heels with a groan of relief. lando tossed his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and followed you into the living room. you’d curled up on one end of the large sectional, your feet tucked under you.
lando handed you a glass of water and settled on the opposite end of the couch. “wanna talk about it?”
you took a long sip, then sighed. “he just… turned into this entitled prick the second he realised he wasn’t getting laid.”
lando was quiet for a moment. when he spoke, his voice was strangely tight. “he touched you?”
“no. just my hand. it was sleazy.”
he made a low sound in his throat, almost a growl. his knuckles were white where he gripped his water bottle. “fuckin’ idiot,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
“yeah,” you sighed, leaning your head back against the cushions. “and i thought he was… i don’t know. different. nice. he thought because of my dress that…” you ran a hand over your face.
he was quiet for a minute, just breathing. “if he wasn’t so obsessed with himself, he’d probably have realized you’re not like that.”
you snorted. “like what?”
lando shrugged. “i dunno. easy? or—like, the kind of girl who’d go home with a guy she just met. i mean, you can if you want.”
you went very still. sex was a topic you’d carefully avoided with him. whenenver he’d made vague, jokey attempts to gauge your experience over the years, you’d shut him down with a quick, flustered change of subject. the truth—that you were still a virgin at your age—was mortifying. in your world, in his world, it seemed like everyone was swimming in sexual experience, and you were still paddling in the kiddie pool. you’d assumed he thought you were experienced, maybe even promiscuous, given how you’d dodged his questions. the idea of him knowing the truth made you want to crawl under the sofa and die.
“not really. i mean, i’ve never even—” you blurted out, the wine and frustration loosening your tongue, before common sense slammed into you. your mouth snapped shut, your cheeks flaming. panic seared through you. why had you even started to say that? it was a stupid secret, but you’d kept it, sure he’d tease her or, worse, act weird about it.
but he’d heard the aborted sentence. his eyebrows shot up. the jealousy that had been simmering in his gaze was momentarily eclipsed by curiosity. “never even what?” he asked, his voice dropping, becoming quieter, more focused.
“nothing,” you said quickly, sitting up straighter. “forget it.”
“didn’t sound like nothing.” lando leaned forward slightly, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the dim room. “c’mon. you can tell me. never even… what?”
you squirmed under his scrutiny. this is territory you’d carefully fenced off for years.
“lando, drop it,” you pleaded, but it came out weak.
“never even been on a decent date?” he pressed, but his eyes said he knew it was more.
“no! i mean, yes, but… ugh.” you buried your face in your hands, feeling the blush spread down your neck.
his hand moved from the back of the couch. you felt his thumb brush against your bare thigh, just below the hem of that stupidly short dress. it was probably an accident. it had to be an accident.
you freezed.
he didn’t move it away.
your breath hitched, a tiny, traitorous sound in the quiet room. his thumb stroked upward, just an inch. like a test. you should’ve jerked away. you should’ve laughed it off. you should’ve done anything but sit there, paralysed, as a warm, heavy pulse began to beat between your legs.
“its ok, tell me.” his voice was gentle, but he wasn’t teasing anymore. he was asking. seriously asking. “you can tell me anything. you know that.”
you did know that. and maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the crushing disappointment of the night, maybe it was the way he was looking at you—like you were the only person in the world—but the words spilled out in a rushed, ashamed whisper. “i’ve never… been with a guy. okay? im—im a virgin.”
you heard him suck in a soft breath. when you dared a glance, his expression had transformed. the friendly concern was gone, replaced by a look that made your breath catch, something darker, hotter, that made your stomach do a flip. his eyes had darkened, pupils swallowing the irises.
“oh,” he breathed. you felt horribly exposed, raw under that look. “why?” the question was blunt, but his voice was soft.
you shrugged helplessly, shrinking back into the cushions under the weight of his gaze. you felt interrogated, but not in a bad way. in a way that made your skin feel too tight and hot. “i don’t know. it’s never felt right. with anyone. its… embarrassing.”
“it’s not,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. he was leaning closer now. the casual distance between you had evaporated. you could smell his cologne, see the faint stubble along his jaw. “do you… think you will soon? with the next guy?”
you squirmed, the movement involuntary, your thighs pressing together. the air in the room felt thicker, harder to breathe. “i… i don’t know. maybe. if it feels right.” the words came out breathy, uncertain.
his eyes tracked your movement, the way you shifted on the couch. a slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. it wasn’t his usual grin. this was something more knowing, more predatory. his thumb rubbed circles of your thigh, slipping under the hem of your dress.
you gasped, a tiny, choked sound, and your breath hitched. but you didn’t pull away. you couldn’t. you were frozen, pinned by his gaze and that single point of contact. heat was pooling low in your belly, your panties growing damp with an embarrassing, instantaneous rush of arousal at his closeness, the look on his face. a pathetic, instinctive response to your best friend’s touch.
he saw it. he saw the conflict in your eyes, the way your legs pressed together instinctively.
“what’s got you so squirmy, hmm?” his voice dropped, lost its playful edge. it was a voice you’d never heard from him before. a man’s voice, not your best friend’s.
you couldn’t speak. this was so wrong. so fucked up.
“those guys,” he murmured, his hand sliding higher, his fingers splayed on your inner thigh. “...they’re missing out on something great.” his gaze locked on yours, daring you to look away.
a whimper escaped you. you squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could make it stop, make him stop.
you heard him huff with purely concealed amusement. “tell me what you want.”
your mind was pure mush. you trembled slightly under his hand, which was inching closer and closer to the heat of your cunt. you made another small, wordless plea.
“use your big girl words,” he said. the condescension should have pissed you off. but instead the dam broke. the weeks of loneliness, the awful dates, the confusing, overwhelming sensation of his touch, his voice, his new, terrifying proximity—it all crashed together. the words tumbled out raw and stripped of all pride.
“you,” you breathed, your voice cracking. “please. you.”
the grin that spread across his face was wolfish, triumphant. he leaned in close, his body heat enveloping you. his lips brush the sensitive skin beneath your ear, and you shudder violently. “i’ll be so good to you, baby.”
you whined at the pet name—he’s never called you that—and the sound seemed to thrill him.
“you gonna let me make you feel good?” he whispered against your neck, his breath hot.
you were beyond words. you just nodded desperately, head falling back against the couch, offering him your throat. a silent plea. you felt your legs fall open, a wanton, instinctive movement.
he made a low, approving sound. “that’s my girl.”
then his hands were on you, but not the frantic, clumsy groping from the few drunken snogs you’d endured. his touch was reverent. he traced the straps of your dress, his fingers skimming your collarbones, before he gently, so gently, pushed the silky material off you.
he stared, his breath catching. “fuck,” he whispered, the word filled with awe. “look at you.”
his hands came up to cup your tits through the lace of your bra, his thumbs sweeping over your nipples, which were already pebbled tight and aching. you gasped, arching into his touch.
“so pretty,” he cooed, his voice thick. “so fucking perfect.” he unhooked your bra with ease, tossing it aside. the cool air hit your skin, followed immediately by the heat of his gaze. he palmed your tits, weighing them, his thumbs circling your nipples before them lightly. sharp, sweet pleasure-pain lanced through you, making you cry out.
“so sensitive,” he murmured, leaning down to take one peak into his mouth. he suckled gently, then with more pressure, his tongue swirling around the tip. you cried out, your fingers tangling in his soft, curly hair. he moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention, his hand kneading the soft flesh. you were panting, writhing under his mouth.
after what felt like an eternity of blissful torture, he began to inch his way down your body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire on your skin. he kissed over your stomach and hips, nuzzling the soft skin of your inner thighs. the intention became clear, and a bolt of pure mortified panic shot through you.
“lan, wait–” you protested, trying to sit up, to close your legs. the idea of him… there… it was too much, too intimate. too embarrassing.
he shushed you, his hands firm on your thighs, holding you open. “hey, look at me,” he said, his voice coaxing and sweet. you met his eyes, wide with anxiety. “it’s just me. i want to taste you. wanna make you feel good. let me, yeah? for me.”
the for me did you in. you bit your lip, a fresh wave of heat flooding you, and after a moment’s hesitation, you let your body relax back into the cushions.
he smiled soft and genuine, and it made your chest tight. “good girl.”
he gently positioned you, sliding down your body until he was settled between your spread legs. you could feel his warm breath through the damp fabric of your panties. the intimacy of it was staggering. you were trembling.
he pressed a soft kiss to the lace covering your cunt, and you jerked. “shh,” he soothed.
in a moment of desperate instinct, you reached down, your fingers fumbling. you found the soaked fabric of your own arousal, and hooked your thumbs into the sides of your panties, pulling them off, giving him completely unfettered access.
he made a choked, guttural sound against you and pulled back for a second. when you looked down, his eyes were locked on your cunt, blown black with lust. he looked utterly depraved. the sight sent a fresh flood of heat through you.
“fuck,” he rasped. “so greedy. couldn’t wait, could you?
you felt him part your folds with his thumbs, and then his mouth was on you. not tentative, not questioning, but sure and hungry. he licked a broad, flat stripe through your dripping cunt and you cried out, hips bucking off the couch. he groaned against you, the vibration making you see stars. his tongue flattened against your clit, then circled it, then sucked it into his mouth. you could feel the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin, could hear the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on your cunt.
“oh god,” you sobbed, your hands fisting in his hair. “oh fuck, lando.”
the embarrassment melted away, burned up by the sheer overwhelming pleasure. you were panting and writhing, a continuous stream of incoherent sounds falling from your lips.
“lando… shit… please…” you begged, not even knowing what you were begging for.
he increased the pressure, sucking your clit hard, and you shattered. your back arched off the couch, and a raw cry tore from your throat as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. he gentled his mouth as you rode out the aftershocks, lapping softly until you were whimpering from oversensitivity. he pulled back then, rising up on his knees between your splayed legs. his own breathing was ragged as he looked down at you—a flushed, trembling mess on his couch. he inched the waistband of his sweats down his hips, his cock obscenely bulging before you. your eyes widened. his cock sprang free as he pushed his sweats and boxers down completely.
fuck. it was… huge. thick and long and already leaking at the tip. your heart pounded against your ribs like a trapped bird. he wrapped a hand around himself, stroking slowly as he watched your face. this is wrong he’s your friend he ate you so fucking well he’s your friend he’s your friend—but all you could see was his cock in his fist and remember what that mouth had just done to you.
“you can tell me to fuck off,” he said hoarsely, his gaze locked on yours with shocking sincerity. “right now. and i will.” he swallowed hard. “
the honesty in his voice undid you. you shook your head frantically before you could think better of it. “please,” was all you could manage.
he let out a shuddering breath, his composure cracking. “are you…?”
“m’on the pill,” you blurted. you’d never been so glad for your fucking cramps in your life, couldn’t bear to see lando walk away for a condom, even only for a minute.
he groaned, a sound of pure relief and desire. “thank fuck.” he leaned over you, bracing one hand on the couch by your head, his cock nudging against your soaked entrance. he rubbed the head through your slick folds, coating himself, the sensation making you whimper. “just the tip,” he promised, like he thought you’d rather do this with someone else.
he pushed forward, just an inch, breaching you slightly. you gasped at the unfamiliar stretch.
“easy,” he murmured, leaning over you to pinch a nipple between his fingers while his other thumb found your clit again. but it wasnt enough. his promise felt like a taunt now.
“lando… please,” you begged, your hips lifting tentatively.
“please what?”
“don’t… don’t just… please, lando, fuck me. i need… i need you to fuck me.”
a ragged groan tore from his throat. he looked wrecked, his control snapping. “you sure?” he ground out, his forehead damp with sweat.
“yes! please, yes!”
he was so into it, you could tell. he made a pained sound and his eyes rolled back for a second before he locked onto yours with fierce intensity.
“okay,” he breathed. “okay, baby. i’ve got you.”
he pushed further, and there was a sharp pinch of pain that made you flinch and suck in a breath through your nose.
“shhh,” he soothed again, his forehead dropping to yours. his hand found yours on the couch cushion and laced your fingers together, squeezing tightly. “breathe for me. you’re doing so good.”
the intimacy of it was devastating, the careful way he was taking you apart while holding you together. “such a good fucking girl,” he rasped as he bottomed out. “taking me so well.”
you felt so full, so stretched to capacity, but simultaneously so cherished that the discomfort melted into something else. “oh god,” you whispered, awed by the feeling. you were joined. with lando. your best friend. and it felt more right than anything ever had.
he didn’t move for a long moment, letting you adjust. “okay?” he whispered, his thumb stroking the back of your hand.
you nodded, unable to speak.
“can i move?” he asked, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“yeah,” you breathed. “please.”
he pulled back, almost all the way out, then sank back in with the same slow, deep pace. the ache slowly transformed into a deep, building pleasure. he set a rhythm that was deep and gentle, each thrust brushing a spot inside you that made your toes curl.
“you feel…” he started, then lost the words, dropping his head to your shoulder. “fuck, baby. gripping me so well.”
his thrusts began to gain a little speed, a little force. the sound of skin on skin, of his grunts and your high whimpers, filled the room. one of his hands left yours to grip your hip, holding you steady as he drove into you. the other stayed tangled with yours.
you met his thrusts, your legs locking around his waist, pulling him deeper. the pleasure built, higher and higher, a pressure coiling tight within you. he shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot inside you that made you see white. you screamed, your nails digging into his back.
“there?” he grunted, his pace becoming less controlled, more frantic. “you like that?”
all you could do was nod, sobbing with pleasure. he pounded into you almost deliriously, over and over, his own breath coming in ragged gasps.
“i’m gonna… lando, i’m gonna–”
“cum for me, baby,” his voice was fucking wrecked. “cum on my cock.”
your second orgasm of the night was even more powerful than the first. your mind blanked with ecstasy and your cunt clenched around him, milking his cock. your cries were muffled against his shoulder as you shook uncontrollably.
the feel of you pulsing around him was his undoing. with a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came with a shout, his body shuddering violently above you.
for a long moment, neither of you moved. the only sounds were your tiny pants and the distant hum of monaco outside. silence stretched between you, heavy and loaded. lando reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. the gesture was so familiar, so him, that it made your throat tighten.
what happened now? what did you say after you’d just had sex with your best friend? after he’d taken your virginity on a couch in your shared living room?
lando seemed to be wondering the same thing. he turned his head to look at you, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
he squeezed your hand and closed his eyes, resting his chin on your shoulder. his breathing gradually slowed to match yours. “my girl, yeah?” he whispers. “mine.”
you could feel his cum slowly drip out of your cunt messily, and you could only nod, fucked out and breathless. you never believed him more.
kinda hate the ending sorry 😔 also off limits pt5 is coming next weeekkk
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