Summary: After tonight’s major win, he just needs a second. Alone. With you. That’s the real prize.
Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x Black!Reader
WARNINGS: none
yes i went overboard who cares
The night of the Academy Awards didn’t feel real, but rather, like something suspended in time, the room sheathed in gold and velvet and light, the kind of night people spent their entire lives chasing.
The theater glowed, both in glitz and glam. Rows of stars draped in couture, the orchestra humming softly beneath the tension, cameras sweeping across faces that had mastered composure.
But at Michael’s seat, his composure had already started slipping. His hand hadn’t left yours since they announced the category. Your fingers were threaded together tightly in his lap, his thumb dragging slow, absentminded circles over your skin… not to comfort you, but to ground himself.
On his other side, his mom sat upright, eyes locked on the stage, lips pressed together in a thin line like she was holding everything in. Khalid leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Jamila had her hands clasped together beneath her chin.
Nobody dared to breathe, to blink.
“And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to…”
Then came unbearable, stretched-thin silence.
“…Michael B. Jordan.”
The room erupted into applause, a thunderous standing ovation that seemed to shake the entire theater. People were already on their feet, clapping, shouting, but at your row, time stuttered.
You gasped in shock. Michael didn’t move, and for a split second, he just stared at the stage like he hadn’t processed the words. “Baby,” you whispered, your voice shaking, gripping his hand tighter. “Baby, get up.”
His mom grabbed his arm. “Go,” she said, already crying. “Go!”
Michael turned to you, eyes already glassy.
“Go,” you repeated, pushing lightly at his shoulder. “Go.”
He leaned in without thinking, pressing a quick, trembling kiss to your lips, and then stood. The applause only grew louder as he made his way down the aisle. He looked… stunned. Like every step was happening before he could catch up to it.
People reached out to shake his hand, to clap him on the back, to pull him into quick hugs, and he accepted it all in a daze — smiling, nodding, blinking rapidly like he was trying not to lose it before he even made it to the stage.
But the moment he stepped up and that gold statue was placed in his hands, you could tell, then, that it finally hit him.
The shift from it being just an idea to finally being a reality manifested physically. His shoulders dropped slightly, his jaw tightened, and he looked down at the Oscar like it might disappear if he blinked too long.
The room quieted as he stepped up to the microphone.
He exhaled deeply, his breath coming out as a broken laugh, soft and breathless, that meant he was already overwhelmed. “Man…” he murmured, shaking his head, the audience laughed gently with him.
“I-” He paused, swallowing hard. “I had a whole speech. I really did. But I’m not even gonna pretend like I remember it right now.”
His voice cracked just slightly on the last word.
You pressed your hand to your mouth, feeling the lump forming in your throat.
He looked out over the audience, blinking quickly. “First off… thank you to the Academy.”
He nodded, trying to gather himself. “To my cast, the crew, Ryan, my director …y’all trusted me to be a part of something special. And I don’t take that lightly.”
His voice steadied a little as he continued, thanking his collaborators, mentors, the people who helped shape him into the actor standing on that stage.
He looked down at the Oscar again, and his composure slipped. “I grew up loving movies,” he said quietly. “Like… really loving them. Sitting in front of the TV, watching performances that made me feel like… maybe I could do this one day.” His voice wavered. “And to be standing here now…”
He stopped to gather himself, letting out a shaky breath. You could see the labored rise and fall of his chest, as if he were losing a battle between his composure and his emotions.
Then he nodded once, like he was pulling himself back together. “My family,” he said, voice softer now. “My parents, my siblings.”
The camera cut to them, his mother crying alongside you. “Thank you for everything. For believing in me before there was anything to believe in. For every sacrifice you made that I didn’t understand until I got older.”
Applause rippled through the room again.
He paused again, longer this time, his eyes scanning the audience until they found you. And everything about him softened: the tension left his shoulders, his nerves melted into something warmer and steady. “…I gotta take a second to appreciate my lady.”
The room exploded with cheers and whistles and roaring applause that doubled in volume.
Your face flushed instantly, your hands flying to your cheeks as the camera cut to you. You shook your head..
Michael just smiled in that quiet, knowing way. “Y’all,” he said, chuckling softly as the noise settled. “That woman right there…”
He looked at you again and suddenly, it didn’t feel like there were thousands of people watching. It felt like he was just talking to you.
“She’s been my anchor through all of this. She’s seen every version of me. The confident one, the frustrated one, the one that don’t know what the hell he’s doing half the time…But she never lets me sit in that doubt too long.”
He shook his head, smiling to himself. “She reminds me who I am when I forget. She reminds me what matters when everything starts moving too fast. And she loves me in a way that makes me want to be better every single day. And I don’t think I’d be standing here tonight without that.”
A collective awww moved through the audience. Michael laughed softly, rubbing his jaw. He lifted the Oscar slightly, eyes boring into yours. “This right here, baby?” he said. “This is ours.”
The room erupted again, in cheers, clapping, people standing.
The second Michael stepped off the stage, the noise swallowed him whole. Congratulations flying from every direction, hands clapping his shoulders, voices overlapping. Camera flashes popped, assistants moved quickly, and publicists hovered just close enough to redirect but not interrupt.
Through all of it, Michael smiled… nodded… thanked people. But there was a delay to him now, his brain processing half a second behind everything. Like his body was there, but his mind hadn’t caught up yet.
Ryan stayed glued to his side, a steady hand on his back, a quiet presence in the chaos. “I got him,” Ryan murmured more than once to people trying to pull Michael in different directions. “Just give him a second.”
Michael nodded absentmindedly at something someone said (truthfully, he didn’t even hear it), his grip tightening around the award in his hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored.
“Where is she?” he asked suddenly, ignoring the surrounding bombardment.
Ryan leaned in. “She’s coming around from the front. They’re bringing her back.”
Michael exhaled, but it didn’t really settle anything. He ran a hand over his face.
“You good?” Ryan asked, studying him carefully.
“Yeah.” Michael said automatically, his voice was thin.
Ryan didn’t argue; he just stayed close. “Just breathe, bro,” he said quietly, patting him on the shoulder. “We did it.”
Michael let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “I don’t-” He shook his head. “I don’t even feel like I’m here right now.”
“I know,” Ryan said. “I feel like that’s normal.”
It certainly didn’t feel normal. It felt like everything at once. It felt like pride, relief, and gratitude … combined with something heavier. Something that had been building for years finally letting go all at once.
“Hey—”
Michael turned at the sound of your voice. And there you were: moving toward him, eyes still glossy, dress catching against the backstage lighting as you closed the distance between you.
Everything else faded instantly.
“Hey,” you breathed again.
He didn’t even think. He just stepped into you, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other still holding his award, pulling you in like he needed to confirm you were real.
You wrapped your arms around him just as quickly. “You did it,” you whispered into his chest.
He exhaled shakily against your hair. “I did it.”
Ryan watched for a second, then gave a small nod to himself. “Aight,” he muttered. “He’s good.”
Though he stepped back, giving you both space, he still stayed close enough to keep things moving. “You wanna do press now or—”
Michael pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were red, pupils dilated and dancing across your face. He wasn’t just emotional.
He was completely overwhelmed.
He glanced back at Ryan, then back at you. “Can we—” He swallowed. “Can we go somewhere private for a second?”
Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I got you.”
He turned immediately, flagging down Michael’s publicist, Paula, speaking low and quick. Within seconds, you and Michael were being guided down a quieter hallway away from the noise, away from the cameras, away from everything.
You were led to a small room. The door clicked shut behind you, and the second it did, Michael broke. Not loudly at first, but just a sharp inhale. A tremor in his shoulders.
Then he turned into you fully, like something in him finally gave out.
His arms wrapped around you tighter this time, the award pressed awkwardly between you for a second before he shifted it, dropping it gently onto a nearby table without even looking before he buried his face in your neck.
All six-foot-something of him folding into you like he’d been holding himself upright on sheer will alone. The first sob hit your shoulder.
Your heart dropped. “Hey—” you whispered immediately, one hand sliding up the back of his neck, the other pressing between his shoulder blades. “Hey, baby—”
He shook his head against you, trying to catch his breath, but it only made it worse. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into your skin, voice thick. “I don’t— I don’t know why—”
“Don’t apologize,” you said softly, holding him tighter. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
He exhaled, but it came out shaky. “I just—” His grip on you tightened. “I’ve been holding that in for so long.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t think—” He cut himself off, another breath hitching. “I didn’t know if it was ever gonna happen.”
Your chest ached, cradling the back of his head, fingernails scratching the nape of his neck, pressing a kiss to his temple. “But you did it,” you murmured. “You really did it.”
He nodded faintly against you. “I kept telling myself I was good,” he admitted quietly. “Like… if it didn’t happen, I was still good. I had everything I needed.”
“You do.”
“But I wanted it,” he said, voice cracking again. “I wanted this so bad.”
“I know you did,” you whispered.
He let out another shaky breath, his face still tucked into your neck, his body heavy against yours in a way that told you he wasn’t trying to hold himself up anymore.
You felt it all in him: the joy, the relief, the exhaustion. Years of pressure finally releasing all at once.
“You scared me,” you admitted softly after a moment, your hand still moving slowly, rubbing soothing circles along his back. “You don’t… you don’t cry like this.”
He let out a quiet, almost embarrassed huff against your skin. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
His eyes were glassy, lashes damp, cheeks flushed.
“Talk to me,” you said gently.
He searched your face for a second, like he needed to ground himself again.Then he leaned his forehead against yours. “I’m just—” He choked out. “I’m so happy.”
“And I’m so tired,” he added, voice softer now. “I didn’t realize how tired I was.”
Your expression softened instantly. “I bet you are.”
He let out a small, breathy laugh. “And I just needed you,” he admitted.
“Well, I’m right here.” You smiled softly, brushing your thumb under his eye. “I’m always gonna be right here.”
“I know.” He leaned back into you again, quieter this time. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, his face tucked back into your neck like that was the only place he wanted to be right now.
Your fingers moving gently, scratching his scalp, your cheek pressed against his temple. “You’re okay,” you whispered.
He nodded against you.
“I got you,” you added softly. “Y’know that, right?”
Another nod.
The room had gone quiet after that, the air feeling like a pause button had been pressed on the rest of the world, muffling the distant chaos backstage, dulling the noise of voices and footsteps beyond the door until it was nothing more than a faint hum.
Michael hadn’t let go of you right away. Even after his breathing started to even out, even after the tears slowed. He stayed close, arms wrapped around you, forehead tucked into your shoulder like he wasn’t ready to separate just yet.
You leaned back just enough to look at him.
The intensity in his eyes had softened, the sharp edge of it was replaced with something quieter.
“You ready to go back out there?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at you, then shook his head. “…Not yet.”
Your expression softened immediately. “Okay.”
Soon enough, you found yourselves seated on the floor, having guided him down with you until your back rested against the wall, the cool surface grounding against your shoulders. The fabric of your dress settled around you as you adjusted your legs.
He followed without resistance until he was stretched out beside you, turning just enough to rest his head in your lap like it was instinct, like that was exactly where he needed to be.
You let out a soft breath, your hand immediately finding his hair again, fingers continuing their slow, absentminded scratches.
He stared up at the ceiling, not moving, letting out a sniffle every now and then.
You watched the gears in his head turning. You chose not to interrupt it.
His phone had another agenda, buzzing suddenly in his pocket. Then again. And again. A constant vibration against his thigh.
Michael didn’t move, but let it keep going.
You glanced down, then reached gently into his pocket to pull the phone out. The screen lit up instantly with missed calls, texts stacking on top of each other, and notifications flooding in faster than they could be read. You pressed and held the side button, shutting it off.
Michael’s brow furrowed slightly as he glanced at you. “…What are you doing?” he asked, voice still a little rough.
You shrugged lightly, like it was obvious. “If they need you badly enough,” you said calmly, setting the phone beside you, “they’ll call me.”
Your hand returned to his hair without hesitation. “For now,” you added softly, “let’s just be here.”
He stared at you for a second, his expression melted. “…Okay,” he murmured. His gaze drifted back up.
You could see it on his face: the way his mind was still moving, still trying to catch up to everything that had just happened. You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “So… what now?” you nudged gently.
He huffed softly, a quiet, almost disbelieving breath. “…I have no idea.”
You smiled. “Well…” you said, lightly tracing your fingers along his hairline, grounding him again. “I think this calls for a celebration.”
He sniffed, turning his head slightly into your hand. His throat worked as he cleared the lingering tightness from earlier. “…Yeah,” he said, voice still a little thick. “Yeah, I like that idea.”
“Not just any celebration,” a small smile tugging at your lips. “Somewhere worth visiting.”
He glanced up at you — and there it was. The flicker of him coming back. “Where?” he asked.
“How about Tokyo?”
That did it. A real smile formed, soft at first, but unmistakable.
You watched it spread across his face as recognition settled in.
“…I like that idea,” he said quietly.
Of course he did. You knew he would.
“There’s a new restaurant out there I’ve been wanting to try,” he added, voice steadier now. “I think you’ll like it.”
You smiled down at him. “Yeah?”
He nodded slightly, eyes still on you. “You’d love it.” He shifted just a little closer, one hand coming to rest against your thigh, thumb brushing absentmindedly back and forth like he needed the contact.
You kept your hand in his hair, smoothing it back gently.
Michael’s breathing had finally evened out, his weight resting fully into your lap, one hand lazily draped over your leg while your fingers traced slow patterns.
Then your phone buzzed.
You glanced down.
Ryan.
You didn’t even have to say anything before Michael’s eyes flicked to the screen, then immediately back to you. “Don’t answer it,” he said, quick but not panicked.
You raised a brow. “Oh?”
“Tell him I went home,” he added, already settling back into your lap like he was doubling down on the decision. “Or… I don’t know. Tell him I’m taking a shit or something.”
You blinked at him, laughing. “Michael.”
“I’m serious,” he mumbled, eyes closing. “I just need—” he gestured vaguely with his hand, like the word moment was too much effort. “This.”
Your expression softened. But you answered anyway, quietly stepping just slightly into that middle ground between respecting him and not completely ignoring reality. “Hey,” you said softly.
Ryan didn’t waste time. “Yeah, hey,” he replied, voice low but urgent in that controlled way. “Michael good?”
You glanced down at him.
He was listening, one eye open.
“He’s good,” you said gently. “Just… decompressing.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Ryan said. “Listen — his family’s looking for him. And Paula lined up a couple interviews. I told everybody he needed a minute, so they not rushing him, but it’s strongly encouraged for him to … move swift.”
You hummed softly. “I’ll bring him out in a bit.”
“Aight,” Ryan said. “No pressure, just don’t disappear completely.”
“I got you.”
You hung up.
Michael was already looking at you. “…What he say?”
You tilted your head. “Your family’s looking for you. And Paula has interviews lined up.”
He groaned, then let out a long exhale, dragging a hand over his face.
You smiled, brushing your fingers lightly across his temple. “Just a few more minutes,” you murmured. “And then we’ll go, okay?”
He nodded. “…Yeah.”
Silence loomed again, but much lighter now.
“So… does this mean we’re moving?” you ask playfully after a moment.
His brows furrowed immediately. “…Huh?”
“You’re an Oscar winner now,” you said matter-of-factly. “Today’s price ain’t yesterday’s price. We'll need a bigger house.”
He blinked at you. “You serious right now?”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” you nodded. “We need space for all the other awards you’re gonna get.”
He snorted. “You’re dumb.”
“I’m not!” you insisted, trying not to smile, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re a hot commodity now. Even though I knew that already.”
He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “The house got seven bedrooms already,” he said. “You need more space?”
You shrugged lightly. “I don’t.”
You leaned down slightly, lowering your voice like you were letting him in on an important secret.
“But your other Oscars will.”
He laughed for real this time, full and warm, deep from his chest. The kind of laugh that told you he was finally coming back to himself.
You smiled down at him, soft and proud and completely in love, then bent forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
Then another. And another.
“…Also,” you added casually against his skin, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “Will the Oscar have a seat at the wedding?”
He paused, actually thinking about it. “…Yes.”
You smiled with a hum in agreement. “Agreed. I also think...” you shifted slightly, “...it’s time to go get hammered.”
He laughed again, shaking his head. He pushed himself up slowly, then reached for your hands, helping you to your feet.
The second you were upright, you didn’t let go. You pulled him back into you, peppering kisses across his cheeks.
“…I didn’t tell you how beautiful you looked tonight, did I?” he murmured as you kissed him.
You raised a brow. “You did,” you said. “Frequently. And loudly.”
He smiled, shaking his head. “Well, I’m sayin’ it again.”
His hands slid to your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “You do,” he said softly. “You look absolutely radiant.”
Your breath caught.
“Like…” he paused, eyes flicking between yours, something deeper settling there now. “Like my future wife.”
MEET ME AT THE MET (lewis hamilton one shot) • iamquaintrelle
# summary: she's the youngest contender ever for an EGOT - stunning, funny, yet lewis wants nothing more than to ruin the 'good girl' persona she constantly puts on as a front. she's cunning, can play the game like no one else, and lewis will always be down for the chase.
# pairings: lewis hamilton x black female singer reader
# warnings: cursing, drinking, adult themes, yearning!lewis, smut, age gap (reader is in her late 20s) - minors dni and if uncomfortable, do not read.
# tags: @lewismcqueen, @beauty-gurl, @issfaith, @palefacestudentlove, @kinggbl, @vintagesoul-01, @peyiswriting, @scorpiobleue, @purplelewlew, @rethasavedlives, @lovelymilaa, @butterpas2, @jessnotwiththemess, @muglermami, @pinkcatcus, @plan3tch1ld, @iamryanl, @weetjy, @camillak97, @snowseasonmademe, @differentmentalityduck, @knowinglewis, @itisiyourfemur, @determinednot2fall, @literallysza @totallynotluluu, @cannonindeez, @eriks-girl
# author's note: all photo credits are from pinterest.
Lewis stood on the Met Gala carpet in his custom Wales Bonner ivory suit, camera flashes going off like rapid-fire, and tried to focus on what the interviewer was asking him.
Something about his look—the cropped jacket, the high-waisted trousers with the tuxedo stripe, the embroidered sash with cowrie shells hanging from his waist. Something about being co-chair, about the theme "Superfine: Tailoring Black Style," about how much research went into this outfit.
He'd spent months on this look with his stylist Eric McNeal and Grace Wales Bonner. Every detail meant something—the ivory color denoting purity and status, the cowrie shells as ancestral protection, the baobab flower motifs, the garnet-colored diamonds in his brooches. His custom Stephen Jones beret sat perfectly on his head, Manolo Blaniks on his feet, rings heavy with meaning on his fingers.
This was important. This mattered. Using fashion to honor Black dandyism, to tell stories through clothing, to shine a light on the culture.
But right now? Fuck all of that.
Because she was three interviews down from him, and even with a hundred other people on this carpet, Lewis couldn't take his eyes off her.
The dress was incredible. Champagne-colored silk that moved like liquid gold, all 1920s Art Deco beading and fringe that caught every camera flash. The neckline plunged—not obscenely, but enough. Enough to make his mouth go dry. The waist was cinched tight, emphasizing those curves he'd been thinking about for weeks, and when she moved the fringe swayed, catching light like water.
Her hair was in finger waves, sleek and shining. Very Josephine Baker, very intentional. Diamond chandelier earrings swung when she laughed at something the interviewer said, and that laugh—that sound carried over all the noise straight to him.
Lewis felt it low in his stomach. In his chest. Everywhere.
"Lewis? Can you talk about the symbolism in your outfit?"
He blinked, brought his attention back. Smiled—that easy, practiced smile he'd perfected over years of interviews and press conferences. "Yeah, absolutely. Eric and I, we spent three months on research alone. Every detail has meaning—the cowrie shells, they're protective talismans in African culture. The garnets reference January birthstones. Even the cufflinks, they're shaped like African Daisies, which felt like a beautiful metaphor for growth and heritage, you know?"
The interviewer was nodding, eating it up. Good. He was saying the right things.
But she was turning now, showing the back of her dress to the photographers, and Christ—the back was even better than the front. Completely backless, dipping low, showing smooth brown skin that he wanted to put his hands on.
"—really hope people take the time to research and think deeply about what they're wearing tonight," he finished, and honestly he had no idea if that made sense in context with what they'd been talking about.
The interviewer seemed satisfied though, moved on to asking about Ferrari's season, his goals for the championship, the F1 movie with Brad. Lewis answered on autopilot—he'd been doing this long enough that he could talk about racing in his sleep.
All while tracking her movement down the carpet with his peripheral vision.
Focus, Hamilton. For fuck's sake.
He'd been chasing this woman for weeks. Actual weeks. And she was playing him—giving him just enough to keep him interested but never enough to actually get anywhere.
It was maddening. Honestly? He fucking loved it.
Three Months Earlier
Lewis had been lying in bed at 2 AM, scrolling through TikTok like a bored man in his early forties that he was, when her video came up on his For You Page.
It was from some late-night talk show appearance. She was telling a story about accidentally texting the wrong person some wildly inappropriate message meant for her best friend, and the way she told it—animated, self-deprecating, with perfect comedic timing—had him laughing out loud in his empty bedroom.
Then the camera cut to a close-up, and Lewis's laughter died in his throat.
She was stunning. Not in that conventional, safe way that Hollywood usually promoted. She was striking. Deep brown skin that glowed under the studio lights, natural hair styled in soft curls that framed her face, deep dimples that appeared when she smiled—and God, that smile. Wide and genuine and a little mischievous, like she knew secrets you wanted to learn.
And her body. The dress she wore was modest by industry standards but couldn't hide the curves underneath. Thin waist, wide hips, the kind of proportions that made a man's brain short-circuit.
Lewis sat up in bed, immediately clicked on her profile, and fell down a rabbit hole.
She was an actress, singer, and dancer—triple threat didn't even begin to cover it. At twenty-eight, she was the youngest person ever to be one award away from an EGOT. She had an Emmy for a limited series, a Grammy for a soundtrack album, and a Tony for a Broadway revival. All she needed was the Oscar, and people were already predicting she'd get nominated for the film she'd just wrapped.
Her interviews were gold. Funny, quick-witted, charming without being fake. She talked about her craft with genuine passion, made interviewers laugh, had this way of being completely herself that felt rare in an industry of carefully managed personas.
And every single video had comments from men losing their minds over her. Celebrities, athletes, regular guys—everyone was in love with her. Some rapper had written a whole song about wanting to wife her up. An NBA player had publicly said she was his dream woman. Even some British actor had mentioned her in an interview as his celebrity crush.
Lewis understood the hype completely.
He'd watched video after video—talk show appearances, red carpet interviews, behind-the-scenes footage from her projects. There was one clip of her dancing at some industry party, really dancing, and Lewis had watched it maybe fifteen times before he realized how obsessed he was acting.
"Fuck it," he'd muttered, and texted Spinz.
Lewis: Need you to do something for me.
Spinz: It's 2 AM, bro.
Lewis: I know what time it is. I need you to reach out to someone's talent agent. Get them to the Australian Grand Prix.
Spinz: Who?
Lewis sent her name, a link to her Instagram.
There was a long pause before Spinz responded.
Spinz: THE [her name]??? Bro, she's literally the most sought-after woman in entertainment right now. Every man with a pulse wants her.
Lewis: Good thing I'm not just any man with a pulse.
Spinz: You're serious about this?
Lewis: Dead serious. Reach out. Offer whatever we need to offer.
Spinz: Alright, man. I'll try. But don't get your hopes up. She's known for turning down these kinds of invitations.
Lewis didn't respond. He didn't do "don't get your hopes up." He'd built a career on manifesting what he wanted, on believing things into existence when everyone said they were impossible.
He wanted her. Simple as that.
Spinz reached out. Offered everything—VIP paddock access, travel arrangements, accommodations, the full Ferrari experience.
She declined. Prior commitments. Schedule conflicts. Maybe another time.
"Maybe another time" in celebrity-speak meant never.
But Lewis didn't give up easy. He'd gotten her number from a mutual friend in music, crafted a text that was casual but clear.
Lewis: Heard you turned down my GP invite. Can't say I'm not disappointed. Would've been good to meet you properly.
Two days of radio silence.
When she finally responded: Sorry, been swamped. Maybe next time you're in LA?
Maybe. Next time. As noncommittal as it gets.
Lewis grinned at his phone anyway. It was something.
Lewis: I'm in LA next week actually. Thursday work?
Another day: Thursday's tough. Maybe the week after?
He showed up the next week regardless. Made sure their mutual friend mentioned it. She texted with a coffee shop and a time.
He arrived early. Ordered her favorite—he'd done his homework. Waited.
She showed up twenty minutes late in an oversized hoodie and leggings that somehow still made her look incredible.
"Traffic," she said, sliding into the seat across from him. Not apologetic at all.
"You live ten minutes from here." He'd maybe looked that up.
She smiled. Those dimples. "Okay, fine. I was hoping you'd get bored and leave."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because most men do when you make them wait."
"I'm not most men."
"So I'm learning." She studied him, took the coffee he'd ordered without asking how he knew. "You know every man in Hollywood wants to date me, right?"
"I'm aware."
"And you think you're different because...?"
"Because I want to know you," Lewis said, leaning forward slightly. Not crowding her space but making his interest clear. "Not just date you. Not just sleep with you—though I absolutely want that too, let's be honest. But I want the real you. The one behind what you show cameras."
She blinked. Clearly hadn't expected that level of directness. "That's smooth."
"It's honest."
Two hours they talked. She was smarter than her bubbly persona suggested, more guarded than her openness in interviews implied. Passionate about creating opportunities for other artists of color. Funny in ways that surprised him. Sharp enough to keep him on his toes.
When they finally left, Lewis walked her to her car—a practical SUV, not the flashy sports car he'd expected—leaned against the driver's door.
"When can I see you again?"
"I don't know. I'm busy."
"Make time."
"You're confident."
"I know what I want." He let his eyes drop to her mouth. Back up. "And I want you."
She looked up at him. For just a second her guard dropped. He saw interest. Heat. Real attraction.
Then she smiled, patted his chest, slid past him into her car.
"We'll see," she said, and drove away.
Six weeks ago.
Since then it had been a game. He'd text, she'd respond eventually. He'd call, she'd let half of them go to voicemail. He'd send flowers—expensive, excessive arrangements—and her assistant would post them but she wouldn't mention them to him directly.
He sent gifts. First editions of her favorite books. Custom jewelry from a Black designer she'd talked about wanting to work with.
Each gift carefully chosen. Showing he paid attention.
She'd send polite thank you texts. Nothing more.
It was frustrating as hell. Made him want her even more.
Lewis been around beautiful women who'd been happy to fit his schedule, make things easy. He'd never been anti-relationship exactly—just never actively looking for one. Liked keeping things simple. Fun. Uncomplicated.
This woman was destroying all of that with her complete refusal to make anything easy.
And somehow that made it better.
Back on the Met Gala Carpet
Lewis finished his interviews and made his way inside, nodding at people, stopping for photos, playing his role.
But he was tracking her through the venue like a heat-seeking missile.
She was near the cocktail area, surrounded by people. Other celebrities, designers, photographers. She was magnetic, drawing people in with that laugh, those dimples, the way she made everyone feel seen.
Lewis had watched her do it in interviews. She had this gift of making people feel important, valued. It was part of why everyone loved her.
But he knew better. He'd seen glimpses of who she really was—sharper, more calculating, playing a game most people didn't realize was happening.
She wasn't the "good girl" the media painted her as. She was smart, strategic, in complete control.
And God, it was attractive.
He watched her touch some actor's arm, lean in to whisper something that made him laugh. Watched her adjust her posture slightly when she noticed cameras, tilting her chin to catch the light.
She was good. Really good.
Lewis waited until she was between conversations, then made his move.
"That dress is incredible," he said, appearing at her elbow, offering champagne from a passing waiter.
She turned, and for just a second something flickered in her eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by that practiced smile.
"Lewis. Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself."
His outfit had subtle details that only revealed themselves up close. He'd spent time on this look because he knew he'd see her tonight.
"Law outdid himself," Lewis said, gesturing to her dress. "Very Josephine Baker. I heard you talking about the inspiration."
"You were listening to my interview?"
"I always listen when you talk."
"That's a dangerous admission."
"Why dangerous?"
"Because now I know you're paying attention." She sipped her champagne, eyes never leaving his. "And I'll have to be more careful."
Christ, she was good at this.
"I've been paying attention for weeks," Lewis said, lowering his voice, stepping closer. "You know that."
"Have I?" Playing innocent.
"You're lying." He smiled. "You notice everything."
"Maybe." She looked up at him through her lashes. "Or maybe I'm just good at ignoring things that aren't important."
"And I'm not important?"
"I didn't say that."
"You're implying it."
"I'm implying that you're persistent. And I'm wondering if it's because you actually want me, or because I'm the first woman in a while who hasn't immediately said yes."
Lewis laughed, genuinely amused. "Can't it be both?"
"I suppose." She glanced around, nodded at someone, looked back. "But I'm not interested in being a conquest, Lewis. I'm not trying to be another woman who said yes to you just so you can move on."
"I don't want that either."
"Since when? You've never exactly been relationship material."
"Things change."
"Do they?" She was challenging him now, those eyes sharp. "Or did you just get bored with easy?"
"Maybe I realized easy isn't what I want anymore." He held her gaze. "Maybe I saw your video at 11 PM and realized I wanted something real for the first time in years."
That got her. He saw it—the way her expression shifted, guard dropping slightly.
"That's a pretty speech," she said softly.
"Not a speech. Truth."
"Dinner's starting soon." She broke eye contact first. "We should head in."
"We're sitting together."
"Are we?"
"I'm co-chair. I can make it happen."
She laughed, shook her head. "You're something else."
"So I've been told."
Lewis did make it happen. A quiet word with organizers, some seat adjustments, and suddenly she was next to him at dinner.
She raised an eyebrow at the place cards but didn't protest.
Dinner was elaborate—multiple courses, artistic presentations, servers explaining each dish. Lewis barely tasted any of it.
They talked through the meal. Easy on the surface, but underneath was constant tension. Every time her hand brushed his. Every time she laughed and her leg pressed against his under the table. Every time she looked at him with those eyes that saw right through him.
"Tell me something real," she said during the fourth course. "Something you don't tell everybody."
"Like what?"
"Like... what do you actually want? Not from racing. From life."
Most people asked about championships, records, goals. No one asked what he wanted from life.
"I want to build something that lasts," Lewis said after a moment. "Beyond racing. I want to create opportunities for people who look like me, who come from where I came from. I want to be remembered for more than just driving fast." He paused. "And I want someone to build that with. Someone real."
She nodded slowly. "I get that. Sometimes I feel like I'm performing so much—for auditions, for interviews, for cameras—that I forget which version is actually me."
"They're all you," Lewis said. "Just different parts. But I think the real you is sitting here right now, not this good girl persona thing....nah."
Her eyes flashed. "Who says I'm not a good girl?"
"Everything about you. The way you move, talk, look at me right now like you're deciding whether to let me in or shut me out." He leaned closer. "You're not a good girl. You know exactly what you want and how to get it. And right now, you want to make me work for it."
"Maybe I just want you to prove you're worth my time."
"Haven't I?"
"Not yet." But she was smiling, real this time. "But you're getting closer."
"What do I have to do?"
"I don't know yet." She took a sip of wine. "Surprise me. Show me something I haven't seen. Stop trying so hard and just... be yourself."
It was the most honest thing she'd said, and it hit him harder than expected.
"Alright," he said. "I can do that."
After dinner came dancing. The Met transformed into something between nightclub and art installation, music heavy, famous people letting loose in million-dollar outfits.
Lewis found her at the edge of the dance floor.
"Dance with me."
She looked at him, tilted her head. "Why?"
"Why not?"
"Because I don't need people talking about me being another one of Lewis Hamilton's girls."
"What if you're not?" He kept his hand extended. "What if we just have a good time tonight?"
She studied him for a long moment, like she was weighing whether he was worth the potential headache.
Finally, she took his hand. "One dance. You step on these Louboutins, I'm leaving."
"Deal."
The song was slow, heavy bass that you felt in your chest. Lewis pulled her close—one hand settling on her waist where fabric gave way to bare skin, the other holding hers. She fit against him like she was meant to be there.
They moved together easily. She followed his lead but also challenged it, made it a back-and-forth instead of just him leading.
"You're a good dancer," she murmured, close enough that he felt her breath on his neck.
"So are you. But I already knew that."
"From stalking my Instagram?"
"From doing my research." He grinned. "I'm thorough."
"That's one word for it." But she was smiling, those dimples appearing. "Most people would call it obsessive."
"Most people don't know what they want badly enough to go after it."
She pulled back slightly to look at him. In the low lighting, she looked different than she did in interviews—less performed, more real. "And what do you want, Lewis?"
"Tonight?" He let his eyes drop to her mouth, back up. "You. Just you."
"For what? A good time?"
"For whatever you'll give me." His hand splayed across her bare back, thumb brushing her skin. "I'm not picky."
She laughed, throaty and real. "You're trouble."
"So I've been told."
"I don't do trouble."
"Liar." He pulled her closer as the song shifted to something with more bass, more rhythm. "You love trouble. You just like being in control of it."
"You think you have me figured out?"
"Not even close. But I want to."
The song changed again—something more upbeat now, something that had people moving differently on the dance floor. She turned in his arms, her back to his front, and started moving in a way that made his breath catch.
"You good with this?" she asked over her shoulder, grinding against him to the beat.
Lewis's hands found her hips, fingers gripping that thin waist. "More than good."
She moved like she did in that video he'd watched too many times—confident, sensual, completely in control. Her ass pressed back against him, her body rolling with the music, and Lewis had to focus on keeping his breathing even.
"You're a bad, bad girl," he said in her ear, his mouth close enough to her neck that he could smell her perfume.
"And you like it."
"Never said I didn't."
She turned back to face him, hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders. "What's your endgame here, Hamilton?"
"Right now? Convincing you to come back to my place in SoHo."
She raised an eyebrow, still moving against him. "Does that usually work? That line?"
Lewis made a face—slight grimace, sheepish almost—that silently admitted yes, it usually did.
"Thought so." She laughed, shaking her head. "I'm not some ho you can sweet talk into bed."
"Never called you that." His voice was serious now. "Never even thought it."
"Then why you trying to get me to your place?"
"Is it so bad to say I want you all to myself?" He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching hers. "No crowds, no performance, just you and me?"
She studied him, those sharp eyes looking for the lie.
"Plus," he added, grin returning, "my view is incredible. Can see all of Manhattan lit up at night. It's something else."
"Using your expensive view to lure women home now?"
"Is it working?"
"Maybe." She bit her lip, still moving with him. "But first, Colman's throwing an afterparty. You coming?"
Colman Domingo's afterparty was everything the Met Gala wasn't—looser, wilder, people actually letting go instead of performing for cameras. The music was loud, the drinks were flowing, and Lewis found himself in a corner with her, their bodies close in the packed space.
"I love this song," she said when something with a dirty bassline came on.
"Yeah?"
"Mm-hmm." She turned around again, pressing back against him, her hips moving in a slow grind that had his hands tightening on her waist. "You gonna keep up again?"
"Always."
For the second time that night, she moved on him like she was trying to drive him crazy—slow rolls of her hips, her ass pressing back against him, her head tilting back against his shoulder. Lewis's hands roamed—her waist, her hips, splaying across her stomach to pull her closer.
"You're really bad," he said in her ear.
"You already said that."
"Worth repeating."
She turned her head, lips close to his jaw. "You're not so innocent yourself. I can feel exactly what this is doing to you."
"Not trying to hide it."
"Good." She ground back against him harder, deliberate. "Don't start now."
The song shifted, something with more tempo, and she spun to face him. Her hands were on his chest, his neck, in his hair—touching him like she had every right to, like she'd been doing it for years instead of hours.
"What are you doing to me?" Lewis asked, his hands on her hips, pulling her flush against him.
"What you've been doing to me for weeks." She smiled, wicked. "Driving you crazy."
"It's working."
"I know."
"So come home with me."
"You don't give up, do you?"
"No, I don't."
She looked up at him, her expression shifting—something softer underneath all that bravado. "Don't waste my time, Lewis. I'm not interested in games."
"Neither am I."
"No?" She challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, you're very good at playing them."
"I told you that I know what I want." His thumb brushed her hip bone through the dress.
She was quiet for a moment, swaying with him even though the song had changed to something slower. Around them, people were dancing, drinking, laughing. But it felt like they were in their own world.
"Okay," she said finally.
"Okay?"
"Your place. But I'm not making any promises about what happens when we get there."
Lewis grinned, pulled her closer. "I'll take my chances."
************************************************
The elevator ride up was charged—Lewis backed against one wall, her against the other, the air between them crackling with want and anticipation.
"You're staring," she said.
"Can't help it."
"You've been staring at me all night."
"All six weeks, actually."
She smiled, shook her head. "You're persistent."
"Just a little bit."
The elevator dinged, doors opening to his penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed Manhattan lit up like a photograph, the city sprawling out in all directions.
"Okay," she admitted, walking toward the windows. "The view is pretty incredible."
"Told you." Lewis came up behind her, close but not touching. "You want something to drink?"
"Water's fine."
He went to the kitchen—sleek, modern, barely used since he was always traveling—grabbed two bottles of water. When he came back, she was still at the window, the city lights reflecting in her eyes.
"It's beautiful up here," she said softly. "Quiet."
"My favorite thing about it." He handed her the water, their fingers brushing. "Being up above all the noise."
She took a sip, then turned to face him. "So now what?"
"Now?" He set his water down, stepped closer. "Now we stop pretending we don't want this."
"Who says I'm pretending?"
"You are." His hand came up to her face, thumb brushing her cheek. "You've been playing hard to get since the coffee shop."
"And you've been eating it up."
"Never said I didn't like the chase." He stepped closer, his other hand finding her waist. "But I think we're done chasing now."
"Are we?"
"Unless you want to keep playing games."
She set her water down, both hands coming to his chest. "I don't play games, Lewis. I just don't give myself away easily."
"Good. I wouldn't want you to."
"No?" She tilted her head up, their faces close now. "What do you want then?"
"Right now?" His thumb traced her bottom lip. "To kiss you. To see if you taste as good as I've been imagining."
"And what have you been imagining?"
"A lot of things." His voice dropped lower. "Want me to show you?"
She studied him for a long moment—those sharp, intelligent eyes looking for any sign this was a game, a performance, anything but real.
Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because she smiled—small, genuine—and said, "Show me."
Lewis didn't need to be told twice.
He kissed her like he'd been thinking about for weeks—deep, thorough, taking his time. She tasted like champagne and mint, her lips soft and responsive. When she opened for him, when her tongue met his, Lewis felt it everywhere.
Her hands were in his hair, messing up the careful styling. His hands were on her waist, her back, pulling her closer until there was no space between them. The kiss went from exploratory to desperate fast—six weeks of want pouring into it.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Lewis rested his forehead against hers.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Yeah." Her hands were still in his hair, her chest rising and falling against his.
"Worth the wait?"
"Maybe." But she was smiling, dimples out. "Kiss me again and I'll let you know."
So he did.
And again.
And somewhere between the third kiss and the fourth, between her laugh when he lifted her slightly off her feet and his groan when she bit his bottom lip, Lewis knew he was absolutely fucked.
Her fingers tugged at his shirt, pulling it free from his pants, while his hands roamed up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the fabric of her long dress. The dress was a nightmare—layers of buttons down the back, zipper snaking along the seam, all designed to tease and torment. He wanted her skin, bare and hot under his palms, but every time he fumbled with a button, it slipped or stuck, frustrating him more.
She laughed into his mouth, low and breathy, as his fingers worked at the top button near her collar. "Patience," she murmured, nipping at his jaw. "This dress isn't made for quick undressing."
"Fuck patience," he growled, his lips trailing down her neck, sucking at the pulse point that made her gasp. His hands slid lower, gripping her hips and pressing her against the edge of the couch. She arched into him, her body molding to his, and he could feel the heat of her through the layers. One hand slipped under the hem of her dress, fingers tracing up her thigh, finding the lace edge of her panties. She moaned softly when he cupped her ass, squeezing firmly.
Her hands weren't idle. She yanked his shirt open, buttons popping free and scattering across the floor. Her nails raked down his chest, over his abs and tattoos, making him hiss. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall, and captured her mouth again, tongues tangling in a wet, messy kiss. His dick strained against his pants, throbbing as she ground against him, her thigh slipping between his legs to rub just right.
He tried the zipper at her side next, tugging it down an inch, but it caught on the fabric.
"This thing," he muttered against her lips, "is going to be the death of me."
His other hand moved from her ass, fingers dipping under her panties to stroke her slick folds. She was wet already, her pussy clenching around his probing finger as he slid it inside her.
"Oh God," she whimpered, her head falling back. Her hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging in as he pumped his finger slowly, thumb circling her clit. He added a second finger, curling them to hit that spot that made her buck against him.
But he wanted more. Needed her naked, spread out, taking him deep. Impatience surged through him like fire. With a frustrated grunt, he hooked his arms under her thighs and lifted her fully, her legs wrapping around his waist. She yelped in surprise, laughing as he carried her toward the living room rug, the soft expanse of it calling to him more than the bed right now.
He lowered her onto the rug, following her down, his body covering hers. The dress bunched up around her waist, buttons half-undone from his earlier efforts, but still in the way. He kissed her fiercely, one hand shoving the fabric aside to expose her breasts. No bra—thank fuck for that. He palmed one, thumb flicking her nipple until it hardened, then leaned down to suck it into his mouth, tongue swirling.
She arched beneath him, fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. "Lewis…"
He switched to the other breast, biting gently, while his free hand yanked at the zipper again, finally getting it to give way partway. The dress parted like a reluctant flower, revealing more skin. But it wasn't enough. Growling, he sat back on his heels, grabbing the front placket and ripping the remaining buttons open with a sharp tug. They pinged across the room, forgotten.
Her eyes widened, a playful spark in them. "Impatient much?"
"You have no idea."
He shoved the dress off her shoulders, down her arms, exposing her completely from the waist up. Her brown nipples pebbled in the cool air. He leaned over her again, kissing her deep, his bare chest pressing against hers. His hands explored everywhere—squeezing her tits, tracing her ribs, dipping back between her legs to finger her pussy harder, faster.
She writhed under him, her own hands working at his belt, unbuckling it with frantic tugs. The zipper of his pants came down, and she palmed his dick through his boxers, stroking the hard length. He thrust into her hand, groaning into her mouth.
But then she pushed at his chest lightly, feigning a gasp of disapproval as he settled more firmly between her thighs, the rug soft under her back. "You're fucking me on the rug? I'm not good enough for the bed?"
Lewis grinned down at her, his eyes dark with lust, dick nudging against her through the thin barrier of fabric. "I fuck you all over this penthouse."
She arched a brow, her fingers tightening around him, squeezing just enough to make him hiss. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
He leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear. "You wanna bet?"
Her laugh turned into a moan as he ground against her, the friction of his dick against her soaked panties sending sparks up her spine. Lewis's patience snapped like a taut wire. He pulled his boxers down then shoved her panties aside, not bothering to remove them, his fingers slick from her arousal as he positioned himself at her entrance. Her pussy lips parted eagerly, glistening and swollen, begging for him. He didn't think about protection—didn't want to. He craved the raw slide of her heat gripping him bare, nothing between them but sweat and need.
With a low grunt, he thrust forward, burying his dick deep in one smooth stroke. She was tight, so fucking tight, her walls clenching around him like a velvet fist, hot and wet, sucking him in deeper. Every inch stretched her, her pussy fluttering as it adjusted to his thickness, juices coating him until he was slick with her.
"Fuck, baby," he rasped, pulling back slowly before slamming in again, bottoming out against her cervix. "Your pussy's gripping me so good, like it never wants to let go. So wet for me, dripping all over my dick."
She cried out, a sharp whimper that melted into a moan, her body arching off the rug. Her nails dug into his shoulders, then slid down to brace against his pelvis as he started a brutal rhythm, hips snapping forward with deadly precision. Each thrust punched the air from her lungs, her pussy squelching around him, the obscene sound mixing with her gasps.
"Lewis—oh god, slow down," she whimpered, her hand pressing firm against his abs, trying to temper the force of his strokes. Her thighs trembled, inner muscles spasming as he hit that deep spot over and over.
He grabbed her wrist, pinning it to the rug above her head, his other hand hooking under her knee to lift her leg high. "No, take this dick, baby girl," he said, voice rough with lust. He draped her leg over his shoulder, opening her wider, the angle letting him drive even deeper. Her pussy stretched impossibly around him, walls rippling in protest and pleasure.
She moaned louder, head thrashing, her free hand clutching the rug fibers. "It's too much—fuck, you're so deep," she panted, but her hips bucked up to meet him, betraying her words.
Lewis leaned in, his mouth finding the delicate skin of her ankle, kissing it hot and open-mouthed before trailing licks down to her calf. He sucked at the muscle there, teeth grazing as he pounded into her relentlessly. His thumb found her clit, swollen and slick, rubbing tight circles that made her jolt.
"Feel that? Your little clit throbbing under my fingers," he murmured against her skin, nipping her calf.
Her whimpers turned to broken sobs of pleasure, body shaking as the pressure built. "Yes—oh fuck, yes, don't stop," she gasped. The rug burned against her skin, but she didn't care, lost in the raw stretch and rub of him inside her, his thumb relentless on her clit, his lips branding her leg.
Lewis kept his rhythm punishing, hips driving forward as her pussy clenched around his bare dick, her juices slicking every plunge. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a nasty kiss, tongues tangling wildly, saliva spilling between their lips. He sucked on her tongue, devouring her like he owned her, spit trailing from the corner of her mouth as she kissed back just as fiercely, moaning into him.
He broke away, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, to her exposed chest. Her breasts heaved with each breath, nipples hard and begging. He latched onto one, sucking hard, teeth nipping the peak until she arched with a gasp. Switching to the other, he bit down lightly, rolling the bud between his lips, tugging until it throbbed red and sensitive.
"Fuck, these tits," he muttered against her skin, giving one a final sharp suck before pulling back. But he wasn't done. His thrusts slowed to a halt, dick still buried deep as he slid down her body, hooking her legs over his shoulders. He pulled out with a wet pop, her pussy gaping slightly, pink and glistening.
She whimpered at the loss, but he dove in, mouth covering her folds, tongue plunging into her heat. He lapped at her entrance, tasting their mixed arousal, sucking her clit between his lips with firm pulls. Her hips bucked, thighs clamping around his head, heels digging into his back as she writhed beneath him.
She definitely tasted better than he imagined, and he was becoming a fein for her already.
"Oh shit, Lewis—you're such a munch," she gasped out, half-laughing through a moan, her fingers twisting in his hair.
He chuckled against her, the vibration making her jolt. "Damn right I am. Gonna eat this pussy till you break."
His tongue flicked faster over her clit, two fingers curling inside her, stroking that spongy spot relentlessly. She thrashed, legs squeezing tighter, body coiling like a spring.
Her orgasm hit like a storm, pussy convulsing as she screamed, a raw, guttural cry echoing off the penthouse walls. Clear fluid gushed from her, squirting in hot spurts over his chin and tongue. He drank her down, licking every drop, prolonging the waves until she shuddered bonelessly.
Only then did he lift his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark with hunger. He stood briefly, shoving his pants and boxers down his thighs, kicking them aside. His dick stood rigid, veined and slick with her essence, balls heavy.
"Come 'ere," he rasped, reaching for her. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her up into his embrace. She melted against him, their mouths crashing together in a deep kiss, tongues sliding slowly and thoroughly, sharing the taste of her release.
As they kissed, his dick nudged her entrance, slipping right back in with ease, her walls welcoming him home. He sank to his haunches on the rug, settling her in his lap, her legs straddling his hips. No hesitation this time—she took every inch without a plea to slow, rocking down to meet him like she was built for this, for him.
Lewis gripped her ass, guiding her as he thrust up hard, really fucking her now. Her pussy gripped him like a vice, milking his length with every withdraw and slam, inner walls fluttering in perfect rhythm. Each plunge felt better than the last, her heat pulling him deeper, refusing to let go. He never wanted to leave this—her body molded to his, taking his dick like it was hers to claim.
Bhat. Bhat. Bhat. Bhat. The wet slaps of their bodies colliding filled the room, her pussy so juicy it soaked his thighs, the sounds obscene and rhythmic. Grunts escaped him with every drive, matched by her deep groans, nails raking his shoulders as she rode the intensity.
Pressure built low in his balls, coiling tight. He managed two more brutal thrusts, then a third, burying himself to the hilt as he came. Ropes of cum flooded her, thick and hot, filling her pussy until it overflowed, trickling warm down his thighs and onto the rug.
He yanked her close by the back of her neck, crashing their lips together in a messy kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding tight, both of them breathing raggedly, chests heaving. The kiss slowed, turning languid, tongues brushing softly as aftershocks rippled through them.
They broke apart, foreheads resting together, and she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. A sly smile curved her lips, that teasing glint returning. "So.... are you gonna keep that promise or not? All over this penthouse, was it?"
Lewis felt heat shoot through him despite the fact that they'd just—
"You're insatiable," he said, but he was already pulling her closer.
"You complaining?"
"Never."
She kissed him, deep and slow. "What are we doing then?"
Lewis grinned against her mouth. "You're getting that tour, sweetheart."
***********************************************
Lewis woke slowly, awareness returning in pieces. Sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. His body sore in the best way. Sheets tangled around his legs. The scent of her perfume on his pillows.
And memories. God, the memories.
Her on the living room rug, Manhattan glittering behind her. Her on the kitchen counter, his name falling from her lips. Her in the shower, water cascading over both of them. Finally, to the bedroom where they'd finally collapsed, exhausted and satisfied and—
Lewis reached out, expecting warmth, expecting her.
The bed was empty.
He sat up, fully awake now, his heart starting to race. The bedroom was a disaster—sheets half on the floor, pillows everywhere, his Wales Bonner jacket draped over the chair, her dress in a puddle near the door. Evidence of last night everywhere.
Except her.
"No," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "No, no, no."
Had she just—had she fucked him and left? Just bounced without a word?
He leaned over to grab his phone off the nightstand, ready to call her, to text her, to figure out what the hell happened—
The toilet flushed.
Lewis froze.
Water ran in the bathroom. The sink. Someone washing their hands.
Then the door opened, and she came padding out wearing one of his t-shirts—the old Mercedes one he'd worn yesterday before changing for the Gala. It hung to mid-thigh on her, making her look smaller, softer. Her hair was an absolute disaster—the finger waves completely destroyed, sticking up in every direction, a proper bird's nest.
She looked perfect.
She caught him staring, paused. "What?"
"Thought I was gonna have to send out a missing persons report," Lewis said, relief flooding through him so intense it made him lightheaded.
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she climbed back into bed. "Dramatic much? I had to pee."
"You scared me."
"Good." She settled in next to him, curling into his side like she belonged there. "Keep you on your toes."
Lewis leaned over, cupped her face, and kissed her. Sweet this time, gentle, morning soft.
"Good morning, baby girl," he murmured against her lips.
She smiled—a real smile, those dimples appearing, her eyes soft in the morning light. "Morning."
They lay there for a moment, just breathing together, the city waking up outside the windows. Lewis traced lazy patterns on her shoulder, down her arm, not wanting to break the quiet peace of the moment.
"So," she said eventually, her voice still sleep-rough. "Last night was..."
"Incredible?" Lewis supplied. "Mind-blowing? The best night of my life?"
"Cocky." But she was grinning. "I was gonna say 'a lot.'"
"A lot good or a lot bad?"
"Definitely good." She pressed a kiss to his chest. "Very good. Though I don't know if I can walk properly today."
"That's the goal." He was absolutely not sorry.
She laughed, swatted his arm. "You're ridiculous."
"You like it though."
"Maybe." She propped herself up on her elbow to look at him properly. "So what happens now?"
"Now?" Lewis tucked a piece of her disaster hair behind her ear. "Now I make you breakfast. And then maybe we spend the day in bed. And then—"
"I meant with us, Lewis." Her voice was softer now, vulnerable in a way he hadn't heard before. "What is this? What are we doing?"
Lewis looked at her—really looked at her. This woman who'd made him chase her for weeks, who'd driven him crazy, who was now in his bed wearing his shirt looking at him like she was scared of the answer.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I know I don't want this to be just one night. I know I've been thinking about you for weeks and now that I've had you, I want you again. And again." He cupped her face. "I want to see where this goes. For real."
"No promises though, right? No expectations?"
"Just us figuring it out as we go." He kissed her softly. "That work for you?"
She studied him for a long moment, those sharp eyes looking for any sign he was playing her. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her because she nodded.
"Yeah. That works." She bit her lip, that teasing look returning. "So... about that Grand Prix invitation. Is that still on the table? Or was that just part of your game?"
Lewis felt his face break into a huge smile, so wide it almost hurt. "You want to come to a race?"
"Maybe. If the offer still stands."
"Baby girl, the offer always stood." He was already planning it in his head—getting her paddock access, making sure she had everything she needed, showing her his world. "When can you come? We've got Monaco in a few weeks, then Barcelona—"
"Monaco sounds good." She was smiling now too, those dimples out in full force. "I can probably clear my schedule."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She kissed him, slow and sweet. "Besides, I need to see what all the fuss is about. See if you're as good on the track as you are in bed."
"I'm better on the track."
"Impossible," she said, and the way she looked at him made Lewis's chest tight.
"Come to Monaco," he said. "Let me show you around."
"Okay." She settled back against his chest, her hand over his heart. "But you're explaining to Spinz why I'm suddenly accepting his invitations."
Lewis laughed, wrapping his arms around her. "Deal."
They lay there as the morning sun climbed higher, Manhattan coming alive outside the windows, and Lewis thought about how six weeks ago he'd seen her on a video and decided he wanted to know her.
Now she was here, in his arms, in his shirt, with his marks on her skin and her laugh in his ears and the promise of more tomorrows.
He'd chased her. He'd caught her.
And somehow, impossibly, it was even better than he'd imagined.
"Hey," she said softly, tilting her head to look at him.
"Yeah?"
"For what it's worth?" Her dimples appeared. "You were worth the wait too."
Lewis kissed her again, deep and slow, taking his time.
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