after five races in a row, kimi antonelli feels like he’s on top of the world. at the end of the day, though, he might just be on top of you.
genre: short-short-shooort fic. romance.
warnings: suggestive. kimi antonelli is so hot omg. waist grab and… yeah.
word count: 646.
a/n: I KNOW I KNOW, KIMI AGAIN. i'm not normal about him, sorry. guys, to be totally honest, this doesn’t even count as a fic. i did to write something for kimi’s fifth victory because, seriously… it’s just delicious.
Down below the podium, you watch Kimi Antonelli take his fifth consecutive victory.
You're clapping, but honestly, the motion is completely absent-minded, because your attention is fixed on the boy who, just hours earlier, had tilted your chin up in the middle of a heated make-out session in the drivers' room and murmured against your lips, "I'm getting that win for you today.” Then he'd left you stranded on the couch, breathless and flushed, desperately in need of the coldest shower of your life.
Kimi was never someone who broke promises to you. Never.
At that moment, he's covered in a mix of sweat and champagne. His hands, your favorite hands, are around the base of the trophy while he looks completely in disbelief that it belongs to him. Yeah, pretty boy, you did it again. And amid all the chaos, his gaze finds yours.
You stop clapping.
He shoots you a wink before dragging his tongue across his lower lip... that damned tongue he seems utterly incapable of keeping inside his mouth.
The crowd around you keeps roaring, and the noise only swells when he raises the trophy high above his head. Deafening — and every second of it is for him.
Your Kimi Antonelli.
From the huge grin stretching from ear to ear across his face, you can tell he loves it. Loves the attention. Loves the feeling. Loves the power that comes with a crowd of people screaming his name because, yeah, he is just that good.
Slowly, people begin to disperse as the podium ceremony comes to an end. The cameras are already turning elsewhere around the paddock, and you make your way toward the podium steps, where Kimi is the last one to climb down after everyone else has left. You don't even have to try to get him to see you. In less than a second, Kimi is right in front of you, so close it should be a crime.
"There you are." He greets you, one hand finding your waist before you can even respond.
“You smell like cheap cocktail” you complain, wrinkling your nose.
He just laughs and slides his free hand to the other side of your waist, pulling you even closer.
“Is that any way to talk to Kimi Antonelli, Grand Slam winner and victor of five consecutive Grands Prix?”
You roll your eyes and rest your arms on his shoulders, lifting a finger to brush a damp strand of hair away from his cheek.
“All this winning is making you arrogant.”
He lets out a soft laugh, his hands tightening slightly around you.
“Oh, you have no idea just how arrogant I can be.”
“Yeah?” you ask, your eyes fluttering shut.
Kimi brushes his lips against your cheek, leaving a soft kiss there before moving higher, his mouth grazing your skin until it reaches your ear.
“I bet I can make you come five times as easily as I can win five races in a row,” he whispers. Your breath catches instantly. A shiver races down your spine, and your knees nearly give out beneath you. “What do you think?”
“I... I...” you stammer, swallowing hard as your gaze drops to the ground.
His grin only grows.
Another kiss lands on your cheek, quick and affectionate, because someone from the team is already calling for him from the other side of the paddock. He lifts his head, arches an eyebrow, and just like that, he transforms back into the victorious driver everyone expects him to be, jogging toward the engineers waiting to celebrate with him. Not before stealing one last kiss, though.
A quick peck that leaves your head spinning — not because of the contact itself, but because of the promise he'd just made. And because you know by the way your thighs press together, it's going to completely ruin the rest of your day…
Summary: Toto promised he would make it up to you later with champagne. You should have known he meant it. After the Monaco winner’s gala, he appears at your hotel room door in a tuxedo, bow tie slightly loosened, chilled bottle in hand, looking like a man about to ruin your sleep and possibly your heart.
Warnings: 18+ smut, boss/assistant dynamic, secret affair, Toto separated from Susie, tuxedo kink, champagne kink, body worship, nipple play, oral sex (f reciving), fingering, multiple orgasms, vaginal sex (doggy), praise, dirty talk, shower aftercare.
Word count: 3.2k
a/n: here you go, final part of this smut trilogy 😉
The Monaco gala is elegant. Painfully elegant.
Everyone smells expensive, every glass is crystal, every smile means three different things, and every camera flash feels like proof that nobody here has ever had a normal problem in their life.
It is held in honor of the Monaco winner.
Kimi, who still looks slightly overwhelmed by the whole thing, stands beside Toto, the Prince and Princess of Monaco, smiling politely while photographers call for another picture.
You stand off to the side with the rest of the Mercedes group, tablet in one hand, champagne flute in the other, pretending to be useful.
You are not useful. You are staring. Because Toto is wearing a tuxedo.
Black jacket. White shirt. Black bow tie. Broad shoulders. Clean lines. It makes him look even taller, even more controlled, even more dangerous to your health.
He stands beside Kimi, one hand resting lightly at his front, smiling for the cameras with that calm, powerful ease he wears so well.
You stare at him and think, with deep exhaustion — he did it again. First white jeans. Then champagne-covered podium Toto. Now tuxedo Toto.
Honestly, the man is trying to kill you.
His marriage with Susie is already over in every way that matters, the separation quiet but known in the circles that count. She is not here tonight. There is no wife beside him.
Only you, standing a little too far away, pretending you are just his assistant. Which is hilarious, considering that only a few hours ago, you had been on your knees in his office with podium champagne on his chest and his cock in your mouth.
Very professional. Extremely Mercedes.
Toto catches your eye once across the room. One second. That is all.
His mouth barely curves. Your stomach flips. Bastard.
The rest of the gala passes slowly. Speeches. Applause. Kimi looking like he would rather be in sweatpants. Toto moving through the room like he belongs in every room ever built. And you, growing increasingly impatient because you know what he promised.
Champagne. Later.
You think about it too much. You think about it when Toto accepts congratulations. When he adjusts his bow tie. When he places one hand at the small of your back in passing, professional enough for everyone else, devastating enough for you.
When he leans close and murmurs, “Do not look at me like that.”
You smile politely at a sponsor. “Like what?”
“Like you are remembering my office.”
Your cheeks heat. “I am remembering your podium.”
His eyes darken for half a second. Then someone calls his name, and he walks away. Cruel man.
By the time you return to your hotel room, you are wound tight enough to snap. You kick off your heels. Remove your earrings. Unzip your dress halfway and then give up. You are standing near the window in your slip when someone knocks.
You know before opening. You know by the rhythm. Two firm knocks. A pause. One more.
Toto.
You open the door. And there he is. Still in the tuxedo. Bow tie slightly loosened. Hair a little less perfect now. Eyes dark. A chilled bottle of champagne in one hand.
Your mouth goes dry. He looks you over slowly.
Slip. Bare shoulders. Half-ruined lipstick. The expression on your face.
His mouth curves. “Still awake?”
You stare at the bottle. Then at him.
“You came prepared.”
“I promised.”
You step aside.
He enters, closes the door, and locks it. The sound goes straight through you.
You lean back against the wall. “Toto.”
He turns toward you, holding the bottle by the neck. “Yes?”
“You are in a tuxedo.”
“I know.”
“You brought champagne.”
“I know that too.”
“You are a menace.”
He steps closer. “Third time this weekend.”
“You keep earning it.”
His free hand slides to your waist, pulling you into him. The tuxedo fabric is smooth under your palms. He smells like cologne, champagne, warm skin, and Monaco night air.
Your whole body gives up immediately.
He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. “You were very patient tonight.”
“I was dying.”
“I noticed.”
“Of course you did.”
His lips touch your neck. “You kept staring.”
“You kept existing.”
His laugh is low. Then he kisses you. Slow at first. Much too slow. Like he has all night and wants to make sure you know it. His mouth moves over yours with that deep, confident patience that always makes you melt before you can fight back.
The champagne bottle is cold against your hip. You shiver. Toto notices. His eyes darken.
“There.”
You swallow. “You really meant it.”
“Yes.”
He walks you backward toward the bed and sets the bottle on the bedside table. Then he removes his jacket with slow, deliberate movements, like he knows exactly what it does to you. He does. Of course he does. His bow tie follows. Then his cufflinks.
You stare. “Toto.”
“Hm?”
“If you start undressing like that, we will not make it to the champagne.”
His mouth curves.
“Then I should keep some of it on.”
Your stomach flips. He opens the bottle. The soft pop sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room. He pours a small amount into a glass.
Then looks at you. “Dress off.”
You inhale.
His voice is calm. Warm. Commanding.
You obey. You let the slip slide down your body until you are naked in front of him, your skin prickling in the cool hotel air. Toto’s gaze moves over you slowly, from your face to your breasts, your stomach, your thighs, then back up.
The hunger in his eyes makes your knees weak.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
He dips two fingers into the champagne. Cold drops fall onto your collarbone.
You gasp. The chill hits first. Then his mouth. Warm. Slow. He licks it from your skin, tongue following the line of champagne down your throat. The contrast makes your whole body shiver.
“Toto—”
He hums against your skin. “Good?”
You nod.
His mouth curves. He pours a little more onto your chest. Cold champagne spills over your breast, sliding toward your nipple. You gasp sharply, back arching.
Toto watches the way your nipple tightens.
His eyes darken fully. “Oh,” he murmurs. “That is pretty.”
Then his mouth closes over you. Warm tongue. Cold champagne. Sharp sensitivity.
Your hand flies into his hair.
He sucks your nipple slowly, licking the champagne from your skin, then teasing the hardened peak with his tongue until your knees start to tremble. The sound you make is embarrassing.
Toto loves it. You know because his hand tightens at your waist.
He moves to the other breast, pouring a thin stream of champagne over it before catching it with his mouth. Drops slide down your ribs, and he follows them with his tongue, unhurried, worshipful, filthy.
Your head falls back.
He keeps going. Long, slow nipple play until your breasts ache beautifully, until both nipples are wet, swollen, and too sensitive, until you are pressing your thighs together and breathing like you have already come.
Toto pulls back slightly. His mouth is wet with champagne. His eyes are dark.
“You are shaking.”
“You are licking champagne off my nipples.”
“Yes.”
“You say that like it explains nothing.”
“It explains everything.”
He kisses the underside of your breast, then your stomach.
More champagne. Cold over your skin. His warm tongue follows. You whimper when he gets lower.
He kneels. In front of you. In the tuxedo trousers. White shirt still on, sleeves rolled now, bow tie gone, hair messy from your fingers.
You nearly lose your mind from the view alone.
He looks up at you. “On the bed.”
You sit on the edge, then lie back because your body already knows where this is going. Toto spreads your thighs slowly, stepping between them, then kneeling again.
He pours champagne over your lower stomach. It trickles down. Between your hips. Toward where you are already wet.
Your breath catches. “Toto.”
His eyes lift. “Yes?”
“Please.”
His mouth curves. “There she is.”
He lowers his head. The first touch of his tongue between your thighs makes you gasp so loudly you slap one hand over your mouth.
Toto’s hand immediately wraps around your wrist and pulls it away. “No.”
“But—”
“I want to hear you.”
“You will get complaints.”
“Then I will apologize.”
His mouth returns to you. Cold champagne. Warm tongue.
Your body arches off the bed.
The combination is obscene. The champagne makes you sharper, more sensitive, and then his mouth soothes and destroys at the same time. He licks through your wetness slowly, tasting you and the champagne together, groaning softly like he has been waiting for this since the podium.
His fingers slide inside you. Two. Slow and deep.
Your hips lift. “Toto—”
His mouth closes over your clit.
You break quickly. Too quickly. The first orgasm hits hard, your thighs shaking around his shoulders, your hand gripping the sheets as his fingers curl inside you and his tongue keeps working through every wave.
He does not stop. You expected that. You still curse. “Toto— fuck—”
He lifts his head just enough to say, “Again.”
Then he pours another small stream of champagne over your inner thigh and licks it slowly from your skin.
Your whole body trembles.
He is patient. Cruelly patient. Mouth on your thighs. Your hips. Your clit. Fingers inside you. Thumb circling when his tongue moves lower.
Then tongue on your clit when his fingers go deeper. He builds the second orgasm slowly, dragging you there until you are whining, shaking, clutching at his hair.
“Toto, please—”
He looks up. “Come for me.”
You do. Harder than the first.
Your voice breaks, your thighs clamp around him, and he groans against you like your pleasure is undoing him too. When it fades, you are already boneless.
Toto stands slowly.
You watch him through half-closed eyes. He is still half-dressed. Still in tuxedo trousers and white shirt. Still looking like he walked out of a royal gala and into your worst best fantasy.
He opens his trousers. Your breath catches.
He smiles. “Still looking?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He pulls you up gently, kisses you, lets you taste champagne and yourself on his mouth. Then he turns you over.
Your knees sink into the mattress. Your chest lowers to the bed. Your ass lifts instinctively.
Toto’s hand smooths over your spine. “Beautiful.”
Your fingers grip the sheets. He positions himself behind you. You feel the head of his cock press against you. Your body clenches.
“Toto…”
“I know.”
He pushes in slowly. So slowly you feel every inch. Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes at first. He is deep in this angle, impossibly deep, and he knows it. He always knows what the angle does to you.
His hands grip your hips. Firm. Steady. Pulling you back onto him until he is fully inside.
You moan into the pillow.
“There,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
He does not move fast. That is the cruelty of it. After all the champagne, all the orgasms, all the teasing, he gives you slow. Deep and measured.
Every thrust deliberate. Every withdrawal almost complete. Every push back in heavy enough to make your fingers curl into the sheets.
You push your hips back.
He holds you. “Impatient?”
“Yes.”
His hand slides over your ass, gripping, guiding you. “You know what happens when I take my time.”
Your stomach flips. Yes. You know. The longer he builds you, the worse it gets. The deeper the pleasure settles. The stronger the orgasm when it finally breaks.
He knows that too. So he takes his time. Bastard.
His hips move in slow, deep strokes, his hands holding your waist, then your hips, then sliding up your back. He bends over you, chest pressing to your back, mouth near your ear.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs. “So wet. So sensitive from my mouth.”
You moan into the pillow.
“Louder.”
You shake your head, face buried.
His hand slides into your hair, tugging gently until your head turns enough for him to hear you. “No hiding.”
“Toto—”
“There. Let me hear you.”
He thrusts deeper.
Your moan breaks out of you. His groan follows immediately.
The sound of you affects him. You can feel it in the way his grip tightens, the way his breathing roughens, the way his pace almost changes before he forces himself back into that slow, devastating rhythm.
He wants to go harder. He does not, not yet. He keeps it slow because he knows exactly what it does to you.
Your body starts shaking again. Every deep thrust hits the same place. The one that makes your vision blur. The one that makes you forget words. The one that makes your hips press back desperately because you want more even when it is already too much.
“Toto,” you gasp. “I’m close.”
“I know.”
“Please.”
His hand slides between your legs from behind, fingers finding your clit. You nearly collapse.
He holds you up. “Not yet.”
You make a desperate sound into the pillow.
He kisses your shoulder. “Almost.”
He keeps you there. Right on the edge. Slow thrusts. Deep pressure. Fingers on your clit. His mouth at your neck. His shirt brushing your bare back. The scent of champagne still on your skin.
You are shaking, open, helpless under him, and he knows it. He holds you through it, drawing it out until your whole body is trembling.
Then his voice drops. “Now.”
You come so hard your arms give out.
Toto catches your hips, holding you up as the orgasm tears through you in long, pulsing waves. Your face presses into the pillow, your cry muffled but still loud, body clenching around him again and again.
He groans low and broken behind you. “Fuck. That’s it. So good.”
He keeps moving. Slowly and deeply. Dragging every last tremor out until you are shaking and breathless beneath him.
Then his rhythm breaks. Finally. His control slips, hips driving deeper, faster for only a few thrusts before he stills buried inside you with a rough groan. You feel him come deep, his hands gripping your hips, his body folding over yours as he fills you.
For a while, neither of you moves.
He stays inside you. His chest against your back. His breath against your neck. The room smells like champagne, sex, expensive cologne, and disaster.
You laugh weakly into the pillow.
Toto kisses your shoulder. “What?”
“I am sticky.”
His chest shakes with a quiet laugh. “You are covered in champagne.”
“And you.”
“Yes.”
“Very elegant gala afterparty.”
“Royal standard.”
You laugh harder, and it turns into a little whimper when he is still inside you.
His hands immediately soften. “Sensitive?”
“Yes.”
He kisses your neck. “I’ve got you.”
He eases out slowly, and you make a small sound at the loss. He strokes your hip, then helps you turn onto your back. His eyes move over you — flushed, damp, sticky with champagne, hair ruined, lips swollen.
His expression goes soft in a way that steals your breath more than the sex did.
“What?” you whisper.
He shakes his head slightly. “Nothing.”
But it is not nothing. You see it. Something sitting right behind his eyes, heavy and warm.
He reaches for the champagne bottle and then pauses.
“No more,” you warn.
His mouth curves. “No more.”
“Good.”
He looks at your sticky skin. “Shower.”
“Yes, please.”
You both laugh when you try to stand and almost fail. Toto catches you immediately. “Careful.”
“You did that.”
“I did.”
“You sound proud.”
“I am.”
The shower is warm and slow. Just Toto behind you, sleeves gone now, tuxedo abandoned, hands gentle as he washes champagne from your breasts, your stomach, your thighs. He takes his time in a different way now. Tender. Quiet.
His fingers massage shampoo into your hair. His mouth presses soft kisses to your wet shoulder.
You lean back against him, exhausted and floaty. “You really committed to the champagne idea,” you mumble.
“I keep my promises.”
“You are dangerous with promises.”
“Yes.”
He rinses your hair carefully. Then wraps you in a towel like you are something precious and carries you back toward the bed despite your weak protest.
“I can walk.”
“I know.”
“You are carrying me anyway.”
“Yes.”
You smile into his neck. “Menace.”
“Your menace.”
The bed feels heavenly. Clean sheets. Cool pillows. Your body warm from the shower and still trembling faintly from everything he gave you.
Toto climbs in beside you and pulls you into his arms. It's just him. Warm skin. Steady heartbeat. His hand moving slowly over your back.
For a long time, you do not speak.
Then he does. Quietly. So quietly you almost think you imagined it. “I love you.”
Your whole body goes still. The room changes. The world changes.
You lift your head. Toto is looking at you with no armor at all. No smugness. No tease. No escape route. Just the truth, finally said out loud.
“Toto…”
His hand lifts to your face, thumb brushing your cheek.
“I love you,” he says again, steadier this time. “I should have said it before.”
Your eyes sting instantly. “You—”
“I know this started complicated.” His voice is low, careful. “I know my life is not simple. I know what people would say. But I love you.”
Your heart feels too big for your chest. All the champagne, the heat, the teasing, the danger of the weekend — it all fades behind those words.
You touch his face. “I love you too.”
His eyes soften. Completely.
You smile through the sudden tears. “I think I have for a while.”
His mouth curves gently. “I know.”
You blink. Then laugh wetly. “You know?”
“Yes.”
“You arrogant man.”
“Accurate.”
You shove his chest weakly. He catches your hand and kisses your fingers. Then your palm. Then your wrist.
“I hoped,” he corrects softly.
That ruins you a little. You tuck yourself closer, face against his chest, and he holds you like he has no intention of letting go.
Outside, Monaco is still awake. The harbor glitters. Somewhere, people are still celebrating Kimi’s win. But inside your room, the world narrows to Toto’s arms around you and the echo of the words you both finally said.
After a while, you mumble, “So champagne makes you confess feelings?”
His laugh is soft in your hair. “No.”
“Winning Monaco?”
“No.”
“Me being sticky?”
“That may have contributed.”
You snort.
He kisses the top of your head. “You make me brave,” he says quietly.
Your smile fades into something tender.
You hold him tighter. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I plan to be a problem for a long time.”
His arms tighten around you. “My favorite problem.”
You close your eyes, smiling against his chest. And for the first time since this whole impossible, messy, hidden thing began, you fall asleep knowing the truth is no longer only in the way he touches you.
