Worship
Summary: You've never had a boyfriend that worshipped you
Song: The Color Violet · Tory Lanez
Author’s note: I wish I had a boyfriend like that🤭 Please like, reblog and share this!🫶
Word count: 2.2k
MASTERLIST - F1
"Tell me what you want." His voice was rough, urgent—the kind that made your stomach flip even after all this time.
"You know exactly what I want," you murmured, running your fingers down the side of his face, feeling the faint stubble beneath your fingertips.
The way his breath hitched when you touched him never got old—like he was still surprised every single time. Max leaned into your hand, his eyes darkening in that way that made your pulse jump.
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something sharper, hungrier.
"Say it." His fingers traced the curve of your hip, possessive even in that simple touch. "I want to hear you say it."
You could've teased him, could've dragged it out just to watch him unravel, but the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing in the world worth worshipping—made honesty spill out instead.
"You," you breathed. "Always you."
Max let out a rough laugh, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "Lucky me." And then he kissed you, deep and slow, like he had all the time in the world even though you both knew he didn’t—not with qualifying tomorrow, not with the relentless grind of the season looming.
But right now, none of that mattered. Right now, it was just his hands on you, the way he murmured your name against your skin like a prayer.
When he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, you could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips. "You’re killing me," he muttered, but there was no real complaint in it. Just awe. Always awe.
The moment hung between you like the charged silence before a storm—heavy with anticipation, thick with something neither of you dared name.
Max exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening imperceptibly on your waist before he suddenly lifted you onto the edge of the nearby counter like you weighed nothing.
Your surprised laugh caught in your throat as he crowded between your knees, his hands bracketing your hips while his mouth found the sensitive spot beneath your jaw.
"You’re ridiculous," you managed, tangling your fingers in his hair just to feel him shiver.
"And you’re mine," he growled against your skin—not a question, not a demand, just a fact he’d carved into his bones years ago.
You could feel the truth of it in the way his teeth grazed your collarbone, the way his palms slid possessively up your thighs.
A sudden buzz from his discarded phone shattered the moment. Max stiffened, his grip turning almost painful for a heartbeat before he deliberately relaxed his hands.
You didn’t need to look at the screen to know what it was—some relentless reminder from the team, the ever-present specter of his other life pressing in.
He rested his forehead against your shoulder with a muttered curse in Dutch, his breath hot through the thin fabric of your shirt.
Max didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he lingered there, his breath warm against your skin, as if he could carve out just a few more seconds of stillness before reality yanked him back.
You felt the tension coil in his shoulders—the same way it always did when the world outside this room tried to claim him again. His thumb absently traced circles on your hip, a silent apology before he finally straightened, his jaw tight.
“Ignore it,” you murmured, catching his wrist before he could turn toward the phone. His pulse jumped under your fingers, quick and alive.
For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze flickering between you and the buzzing phone like he was weighing the cost of each choice. Then, with a slow exhale, he hooked a finger under your chin, tilting your face up to his.
“You’re trouble,” he said, but his voice was fond, rough at the edges in a way that made your stomach flip.
You grinned, tugging him closer by the collar of his shirt. “You love it.” The fabric wrinkled under your fingers, the same way his composure did whenever you got your hands on him.
Max huffed a laugh—half exasperation, half surrender—before his mouth crashed into yours again, messy and desperate this time. His teeth scraped your lower lip, the sharp edge of pleasure-pain making you gasp, and he took full advantage, deepening the kiss until your head spun.
The phone buzzed again, insistent, but this time he didn’t even flinch.
His hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your ribs in a way that made you squirm. “Ticklish?” he murmured against your mouth, the smirk evident in his voice.
You pinched his side in retaliation, and he laughed—a rare, unfiltered sound that always caught you off guard. It was easy to forget, sometimes, how young he still was beneath all that intensity.
The realization hit you like it always did: this man, who the world saw as unshakable, who could bend physics to his will on track, melted under your touch like he’d never known anything else.
The phone finally fell silent, and Max used the momentary reprieve to nudge your legs wider, stepping impossibly closer until you could feel the heat of him through your clothes. His palm settled over your throat, not pressing, just resting there like a promise.
“Tell me,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your pulse point. “What do you want me to do to you?” The question was low, rough, but his eyes were soft in a way that made your chest ache.
You opened your mouth to answer—to tease, to provoke—but the shrill ringtone of his team manager sliced through the room again. Max stiffened, his jaw clenching so tight you could see the muscle flicker.
For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually throw the damn thing across the room. Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose and dropped his forehead to yours.
“Godverdomme,” he muttered, the Dutch curse warm against your lips.
You felt the exact moment he decided—his shoulders squaring, the way his fingers flexed against your skin before they reluctantly loosened. Max pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his frustration warring with something softer.
"Five minutes," he muttered, like he was negotiating with himself more than you. "Then I'm throwing that fucking phone out the window."
The laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, and he shot you a look—half glare, half helpless amusement. You smoothed your thumb over the furrow between his brows, watching as his expression eased under your touch.
"You won't," you teased, leaning in to nip at his lower lip. "You'd miss your precious data."
Max groaned, his forehead dropping back to your shoulder with a thud. "You're evil," he grumbled, but his hands were already sliding down to your waist, lifting you off the counter with effortless strength.
You wrapped your legs around him instinctively, laughing as he carried you the few steps to the couch, his mouth finding yours again before he even let you touch the cushions.
The phone rang again, louder this time. Max tensed, his fingers digging into your hips for a second before he exhaled sharply and pulled away.
"This is cruel and unusual punishment," he muttered, pressing one last, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth before he finally reached for the damn device.
The word "worship" had never felt so tangible until Max. It wasn’t just in the way his hands moved over you—reverent, deliberate—or how his mouth traced every curve like he was memorizing you anew each time.
No, it was in the quiet moments too: the way he’d pause mid-sentence just to stare, the way his fingers lingered on your wrist after handing you a coffee, as if even that fleeting contact was something sacred.
You saw it now as he stood across the room, phone pressed to his ear, jaw tight with the frustration of being pulled away. His free hand flexed at his side like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for you again.
The team manager’s voice crackled through the speaker, sharp with urgency, but Max’s eyes never left yours—dark and hungry, even as he gritted out clipped Dutch responses.
You arched a brow, deliberately slow, and watched his throat work as he swallowed hard.
He ended the call with a muttered curse and tossed the phone onto the couch like it had offended him. “Liefje,” he sighed, already closing the distance between you, his hands framing your face before you could tease him.
His thumbs brushed your cheekbones, his gaze dropping to your mouth. “Tell me I didn’t ruin the mood.”
You laughed, nipping at his thumb when it grazed your lip. “You? Ruin anything? Never.” The sarcasm was thick, but the way his breath hitched when you bit down softened the edge.
Max exhaled through his nose, his grip shifting to cradle the back of your head as he leaned in, stopping just shy of your lips.
Worship wasn’t a grand gesture with Max—it was the way his fingers trembled just slightly when he unbuttoned your shirt, like he was handling something precious.
It was the hitch in his breath when you arched into his touch, the way his eyes darkened like he’d never get enough.
Right now, with his forehead pressed to yours and his hands cradling your face like you might vanish, it was the way he whispered your name like a prayer before his mouth found yours again—slow, deep, as if he had all the time in the world even though you both knew he didn’t.
He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips, his thumbs brushing your cheeks in rhythm with the languid slide of his tongue against yours.
When he finally pulled back, his breath ragged, he didn’t go far—just far enough to let his gaze rake over your face, lingering on the flush he’d put there.
“Mooi,” he murmured, the Dutch endearment rough with want. Beautiful. Like he couldn’t help but say it, like the word had been clawing its way out of his chest.
You grinned, dragging your nails lightly down his chest just to watch him shiver. “Distracted already?”
Max caught your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm that made your stomach flip. “Always.” His teeth grazed your pulse point, and you felt the smirk against your skin before he added, “Especially when you do that.”
Max’s mouth crashed into yours again, not with the practiced precision of a man who won races by thousandths of a second, but with the messy desperation of someone who’d been starved.
His teeth caught your lower lip, tugging just enough to make you gasp, and he swallowed the sound greedily, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs like he needed the anchor.
You tasted the coffee he’d drunk earlier—bitter and familiar—and the faintest hint of the spearmint gum he chewed before interviews.
The couch creaked under your combined weight as he pushed you back into the cushions, his body slotting between yours with the same effortless precision he used to carve through corners on track.
One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, while the other traced the hem of your shirt, dipping beneath just enough to tease. His touch was electric, even through the fabric—warm and rough and achingly familiar.
You arched into him, biting down on his lower lip just to hear him groan. Max retaliated by dragging his teeth along your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured something in Dutch too low and rough to translate.
You didn’t need to understand the words to know what they meant—not when his hands were speaking their own language, mapping your body like he was committing every curve to memory all over again.
The phone buzzed again on the couch beside you, vibrating against your hip. Max didn’t even pause—just hooked an arm under your knee and hauled your leg higher around his waist, pressing closer until you could feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat through his shirt.
His mouth found yours again, swallowing your laugh as you tangled your fingers in the collar of his shirt, wrinkling the fabric beyond repair.
“Someone’s impatient,” you murmured against his lips, rocking your hips up just to watch his breath catch. His grip tightened on your thigh, his thumb pressing into the soft skin there in a way that made heat coil low in your stomach.
Max pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his pupils blown wide. “You have no idea,” he muttered, his voice rough enough to send a shiver down your spine.
Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that made your head spin. You could feel the tension in his shoulders—the way he was holding back, like he was afraid he might break something if he let go completely.
Worship wasn’t something Max ever talked about—not in words, at least. It was in the way his hands lingered on your waist when he thought you weren’t paying attention, fingers pressing into your skin like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.
It was in the way his breath hitched when you touched him, as if even after all this time, he still couldn’t believe you were real.
And it was in moments like this, when the world outside this room ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the way your body fit against his, the way your name sounded in his mouth—rough and reverent, like a prayer he’d never tire of repeating. . . .
