Charles Leclerc x Reader
he doesn’t fuck like he races.
no control. no caution. no waiting for the right moment.
he kisses like he’s drowning.
whispers “ma belle” against your collarbone like it’s a prayer,
as his fingers slide under silk and lace,
dragging pleasure out of you like a confession.
“you’re shaking.”
“i’ve been shaking since you looked at me.”
.
Throttle materialist
















