ABOUT ME. kay celeste (she/her), 27, capricorn, intj/infj; american. main blog is @velvetsainz (likes, follows, + comments will come from there). this is my side blog dedicated to my writing + all the things that inspire it! for now, only f1-related content, but we'll see if that changes in the future. i only have a few works posted at the moment, but you can find them here. my recs are available here. frequently 18+, minors dni.
girl!lando/oscar | E | 3.8k | here on ao3 if you prefer
(yep, coming back to this universe is pretty much the only thing i can do to cope with how big the feelings are at this point. they're married, they're making it work, and those are the things we have to hold on to!!!!)
******
The atmosphere is frosty in the airport lounge.
Lando’s in one corner, leaning down with her head between her knees like she’s already practicing the brace position. In a circle around her are her Dad, Jon, her manager and her constantly worried looking bodyguard. Every so often she lifts her head up to snap something at them, and Oscar flinches every time.
He’s had that voice used on him before.
Mark slaps his knee with a rolled up magazine. Two rolled up magazines, actually, because Oscar knows full well he’s got an Entertainment Weekly shoved inside his American Motors. He’d watched him buy them in the Hudson News, spying on him whilst he pretended to deliberate over a bottle of Fiji and a Voss.
“Leave them to it, Osc,” Mark says, nodding over at the scene. “It’s not your fight.”
Except it is.
Lando’s frustrations are his frustrations, because they’re both getting disqualified tonight.
Lando’s anger is his anger, because this could be it - a mistake from the team could be the red mark that finally ends their title hopes, a big stamp DENIED on their paperwork.
And anyway, Lando’s pain is always his pain.
“Sort of is,” Oscar counters, turning his ring with his fingertips, feeling the soft skin underneath the metal that’s still not quite used to being covered. “Since she’s my wife.”
Mark rolls his eyes, sitting back and flipping to the page he was reading before he started using the magazine as a weapon.
“Bloody honeymoon phase,” he says, but not with any bite, a smile on his lips, always a romantic at heart. “You’ll be over it by this time next year, I reckon. Bit late, since your cars good now, but…”
Oscar blocks Mark out. He’s heard this story enough times this year. When he looks back over at Lando, she’s staring right at him. Adam follows her gaze and scoffs, throwing his hand up in the air in annoyance like he hadn’t been chattering away to Oscar as they stood at the urinal ten minutes ago, discussing whether he thinks partridge is too old fashioned for Christmas Dinner.
Oscar lifts his hand, the left one, and waves at her so his ring catches the light.
She does the same back, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Mark lets out a sigh that could probably knock another couple of millimetres off their planks, if he did it in the right direction.
“Or maybe you’ll just be like this forever,” he mutters under his breath. “Who knows.”
***
Oscar sees the announcement as he’s climbing the steps to the plane, grimacing at the headlines as they pop up on his phone, getting tagged in post after post.
It’s a relief, being able to switch his phone into flight safe mode. He disables the wifi too, rendering his phone a very expensive brick for the next sixteen hours.
Lando’s already boarded, a mess of curls in the seat at the far back, next to the toilets. The ones with nothing opposite them. Clever girl.
Oscar smiles at George as he passes her, and she ducks her head, like he’s got a disease, not just a worn plank.
“Come on,” Oscar says, pausing briefly to turn back. “Didn’t this happen to you before? Spa?”
“Yeah,” George agrees, tucking her hair behind her ear. She glances over his shoulder towards Lando. “But it didn’t matter this much.”
Oscar chews his lip, and decides not to remind her how much it did matter to her, actually. He remembers Lando sitting up with her in the middle of the night as she cried, swearing she was leaving Mercedes, claiming she’d never race again; she was just that embarrassed.
“Yeah,” Oscar says absentmindedly, turning to face the back of the plane again. Lando’s pulled her hood up, face turned to the window. “Suppose you’re right.”
On his way back to her, Oscar passes the seats the trainers have set up camp in. Artturi and Jon are both already zoned out, which isn’t a bad thing. He’s hoping the whole flight will be like that, no wild, convoluted games of Uno or chattering over food. They’d chosen to fly to Qatar separate from the team, just them, George and Alex, a very thankful Gabriel, and Liam - if she shows up. Oscar wouldn’t put it past her to bail after the move she pulled on him. Not even Mark is on this flight, booked in on the charter that leaves in an hour to give them space.
It’s their break. One long flight where they’d promised not to think about the championship, not to talk about the race.
No chance of that now.
“Is this one taken, or what?” Oscar says to announce his presence when he gets to Lando. She’s got her bag up on the seat next to her, and her feet on the one opposite. He shakes her bag a bit, rattling all her keychains together.
“Just making sure nobody else sat there,” she grumbles, turning her head to look up at him with bloodshot eyes as he hefts her bag onto the one free seat left in the group of four. He manages to wedge his in too before he flops down next to her. He knows she was waiting for him, because she’s already lifted the armrest between the two seats. “Didn’t know if George might want to chat.”
She says it like she’s accusing George of wanting to eat her own toenails or something, face screwed up in disgust.
“Wouldn’t worry about that,” he confirms, sitting up a bit to check that George really is in her seat already, and she is. Head bent to Alex’s, whispering and staring in Oscar’s direction. Alex has the good grace to look a bit sheepish, slapping George a bit to get her to sit back in her seat. “She’d barely look at me when we were getting on.”
“What’s she playing at? S’not like it’s catching,” Lando says quickly, and then groans. “Or maybe it is, you had all that bad luck and now...”
“Nope,” Oscar interrupts, leaning forward to get their travel pillows out of his bag. They’re the ones from the honeymoon, free from the resort, embroidered with Piastri-Norris in curly writing, and it’s immediate the way Lando softens when she sees them, leaning forward to take hers, squeezing Oscar’s hand for a second before she sits back. “Race talk is banned, remember? And definitely race talk where you’re going on about how shit I am.”
Lando mumbles something he doesn’t hear, burying her face into the arm of his hoodie. He can feel where her mouth is open, getting the fabric wet. He imagines she’s probably having a complain about how close he is again. It’s not lost on Oscar that as bad as this feels, it’s probably his last shot. The tiny sliver of hope he’s been looking for since he put his nose in the wall at Baku.
Twice.
“Besides,” he slips his hand under her hood, playing with the greasy curls she hasn’t washed after the race. “Think you were talking enough, weren’t you? In the lounge?”
Lando lifts her face so he can hear her. He leans forward so he’s practically in her hood with her, smiling at the way their mingled breath heats their faces up. He can sort of smell the chicken wrap he’d eaten before they boarded, garlicky and warm, but Lando doesn’t seem to mind.
“Dad’s acting like that’s it,” Lando says grumpily. “Mark too. Like there’s not two races left, like I don’t have a points lead, like...”
She rolls her eyes.
“Like I’ve already fucked it.”
Oscar knows those conversations. Lando knows he does too, because she squeezes his arm reassuringly. He’s had three months now of everyone acting like he’s throwing something away.
Probably because he will have, if he does.
“Not over until the last lap,” he says reasonably, even though he knows that’s not true - even though if tonight hadn’t played out the way it did, the last lap might’ve come much sooner. “It’s what they want, isn’t it? What Max wants.”
“For us to give up?” Lando questions.
Oscar nods. Up front, there’s a flurry of activity. Liam finally boarding, apologising to the flight crew, trying to tame her hair as she sits in the last available seat opposite Gabriel, breathing deeply like she’s sprinted through the airport from somewhere.
Someone.
Oscar would ask her about it, if he didn’t want to kill her right now.
“Exactly,” Oscar finally responds. “And we’re not going to - are we?”
Lando shrugs, but she’s got half a smile on her face, so Oscar thinks that probably went about as well as it could. He knows what she’s like when there’s a disappointment like this. In an ideal world, they wouldn’t be on a flight right now, with the doors closing up front and the engines starting to whirr.
In an ideal world they’d be at home, in bed, duvet pulled up over their heads to block the world out.
In an ideal world they’d wake up tomorrow and go for a walk down by the marina, get lunch from a cafe, spend the afternoon with the curtains closed. He’d watch her game for hours if she needed him to, offering opinions about the relative worth of gloves and knives in the current Counter Strike economy, texting Max with his screen facing away from her to try and stop her spending all their money on things she can’t actually touch.
Instead they’ll wake up tomorrow in Qatar, with the weight of 0.007mm on their shoulders and no escape from the eyes of the entire sport, either willing them to succeed or fail.
For Oscar, the winter break can’t come soon enough.
He doesn’t want to see anyone for a month.
Minimum.
***
True to her word, Lando doesn’t want to chat for the first few hours of the flight.
For a while she pretends to sleep, her head on Oscar’s shoulder. He can tell she’s not though, can see her wide open eyes in the reflection of the window, and the shuffling she only does when she’s trying to get comfortable.
Oscar listens to some podcasts he’d downloaded, and plays a game on his phone. One that doesn’t need connection, a neverending puzzle game where every level is slightly different, but ultimately the same.
Eventually Lando gets up for the bathroom, crossing paths with Alex on the way back, who gives her the kind of bonecrushing hug Oscar realises too late he hasn’t given her himself yet.
When she sits back down, he fixes that, shifting over into the window seat so he can stretch out and pull her onto him, tucking her up in a blanket he’d packed from home as well. If he really sniffs, he can smell that scent that’s unmistakably Monaco - the sea, mixed with petrol and something sweet and a bit sour, like juice that’s been open too long.
“Hi,” Lando mumbles, as Oscar slips his arms around her and up her hoodie, soothing his fingers over her skin. “Missed you.”
“Been right here,” Oscar replies. As he trails his hand over her, he feels her tense up, hissing, and realises it’s because his ring has brushed against her stomach. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she smiles, pulling his hand out so she can kiss his knuckle, rubbing her thumb over the metal. “Still mad, isn’t it? That we’re, like, married and things?”
Oscar nods, because it is, even if they say so at least once a day. Sometimes he still feels too young for it, when he’s around Lando’s parents, or overhears a conversation between Tom and his wife on the phone - talking about the school run, his daughter’s piano lessons, remortgaging.
“Anyway,” she says, pushing his hands back up her top, except this time further, so his knuckles graze the underside of her boobs. “When I say I missed you, I mean...”
Lando shifts, her arse rubbing against the front of Oscar’s joggers, and he closes his eyes briefly, screwing his face up in concentration.
“I missed you.”
Oscar lets her writhe a bit before he stops her, holding her in place with his fingers digging in all over her ribs. He wants to slide them up again, cup the softness of her boobs, massage her nipple till it’s hard and she’s gasping, wet between the legs and begging for him to...
Oscar takes a deep, grounding breath.
“Baby,” he says softly. “It’s a race week.”
Lando rolls her eyes.
“Okay yeah, but strictly speaking, it’s like, not?” she reasons. “‘Cos it’s not actually race week until Monday, and we’re going to arrive on like, Sunday night? So it’s actually still Saturday, if you think about it.”
Oscar snorts, thinking her logic through.
“You’re not wrong...” he says, which is enough for her to grin, and shove one cold hand down the front of his joggers.
“Lands,” he hisses, trying to grab at her wrist. They’re right at the back, sure, and they’re being quiet. Just not that quiet. “Lands, no.”
Even as quick as he is to stop her, his dick is quicker yet at chubbing up.
The truth is, Oscar’s been gagging for it.
Making a pact not to fuck during race weeks is all well and good, until you’re a week into a triple header and staring down the barrel of another two weeks with not even your hand for company, because it turns out when Lando said no orgasms, she meant that from everyone, even himself.
“Stop,” he says softly, raising his eyebrows and jerking his head towards the rest of the plane. “Baby, it’s not polite.”
She rolls her eyes, but she at least takes her hand out of his pants, which helps a bit.
“They’re all sleeping anyway,” Lando says. “Alex told me.”
Oscar isn’t totally surprised they’re in cahoots. Lando and Alex have something different to what she has with the rest of their friends, something that makes George’s lips thin and mean when she spots it, a kind of easy camaraderie Oscar doesn’t think either of them have every really experienced in their life.
“Oh well, that’s alright then,” he says. “I’ll whip it out then, shall I?”
He’s joking, but he at least pulls her in for a kiss, slipping his tongue between her lips. It’s the sort of deep, snogging session they’ve started to favour when they’re not having sex, the kind that makes them both dizzy and somehow satiated, even if it leads nowhere.
Tonight though, it’s like Lando’s as worn thin as her plank. If it was satisfying her before just to kiss, it isn’t now.
“Lando,” he warns, when she reaches down and this time wraps her hand fully around him. “Stop.”
“Have you been to the bathroom?” she says casually, and that’s actually part of the reason he doesn’t massively agree with the touching thing right now. He could really do with a piss. “S’only it’s quite big. There’s a shower in there and everything.”
Oscar knocks his head back against the chair and looks up at the blue glow that illuminates the plane when it’s dark. Lando nudges her chin against his chest, and when he looks down, she’s so beautiful he almost chokes a bit.
“Come on then,” he whispers, ghosting a kiss over her lips as she smiles. “Better show me, hadn’t you?”
***
“Suprisingly spacious,” Oscar comments as he locks the door behind them. “I know this flight was a bit more expensive than usual, but I wasn’t expecting marble.”
He’s only seen a bathroom on a plane as nice as this one when they flew in one of the first class cabins on one of the middle eastern airlines, and that was on a brand deal. Oscar takes in the sink, opening a couple of the unmarked drawers to see what the jet company think someone could possibly need on a plane.
“What do you think they want us to use a dental mirror for? Do rich people do something different when they floss their teeth?”
Lando coughs from behind him. Oscar looks up to the mirror, and realises he might have been focusing on the wrong thing entirely.
She’s abandoned her hoodie, hooked on the back of the door, and her top too.
“D’you really give a fuck about your teeth right now, Osc?”
Oscar shakes his head, taking two steps forward till he can press his hands against the wall, and crowd around her, kissing down her chest until he can take one nipple between his teeth and suck. Suddenly, he doesn’t really care if they’re on a plane, or if their friends are sleeping 15ft away.
He just wants her.
Oscar loses his hoodie in no time at all, as Lando shimmies out of her joggers. He wasn’t sure how far they were going to go, but he gets the sense pretty sharpish that she’s hoping for a quickie, a real one, leaning up against the sink with her arse pressed out.
“Don’t you want me to...” he trails his hand around her front, pressing two fingers between the small tuft of hair she’s let get longer than usual, probably because they haven’t been fucking. “I’d be happy to, obviously, if you...”
“Oscar, baby,” Lando presses her hips back again, and Oscar slides the hand that had been playing with her up to grab it, his spare one hooking onto her chin so he can pull her face around to kiss him, muffling her voice as she says she knows he’d be happy to. “You’re like, obsessed.”
“It’s just how husbands are supposed to be,” he comments, watching the smile spread over Lando’s face, just like on their wedding day.
“Husband,” she grins, and he knows she never gets bored of saying it.
“Wife,” he whispers, kissing the tip of her nose, because he never gets bored of saying it either.
Lando leans forward and opens one of the drawers, and fishes out a condom.
“Less mess,” she says, at the same time as Oscar complains that she’d told him off for checking the drawers when she clearly had.
Not that he cares much, tearing the wrapper with shaky hands and wondering how many people have fucked in this bathroom that the attendants put condoms in here now.
Wondering if maybe it’s just because it was them chartering it, and Mark’s right about their reputation.
Oscar lines up behind Lando, nudging between her lips and both of them tense. It’s barely been a week, but Oscar feels like it’s been decades.
He’s slow at first, rocking shallowly inside her until he’s deep enough she starts to feel it, clenching around him to stop him from slipping out too soon. Oscar lets her dictate the pace a bit, like he seems to most of the time on and off track at the moment. He thrusts smoothly, or as smoothly as he can when they’re in a tin can in the sky. He only kicks the plastic casing that gives away the marble as fake a few times, which he counts as a win.
“It’s good,” Lando mumbles. “You feel so good, baby.”
Oscar manages to wedge her against the counter in a way that means he can keep up his pace at the same time as slipping his hand around her again, finding her clit and nudging two fingers against it, using the way her body moves as he thrusts to get her off, attaching his lips to hers to smother the moan she lets out when she shudders and comes underneath his fingers.
It’s over quickly, Oscar pumping into the condom with the tightness of her pulsing around him. He shudders as he holds her through it, feeling the tension finally shift from her shoulders.
Almost immediately, the bathroom feels cold, and he wraps his arms around her, covering her chest.
“I love you,” he mumbles into her hair, and she clutches at his arm, her rings shining brightly in the spotlights. “Whatever happens these next couple of races, I love you.”
He’s been repeating it for months, been begging people to believe he’s telling the truth.
But he’s never had to beg her.
When he meets her eyes in the mirror, she looks more serene than she has in weeks. Maybe this is what it takes, he thinks, he prays. Maybe this is the moment something is made, forged in the disappointment and the worry.
“I know,” she whispers. “‘Cos I love you too.”
***
Back in their seats, Oscar shoves the condom he’s wrapped in five layers of toilet paper and a bag for sanitary products into his backpack, swearing he’ll get rid of it at the first chance once they’re back on solid ground.
Lando arranges their seats for sleeping, pillows up against the window and just enough room for them to half spoon, as long as Oscar keeps hold of her.
They’re dozing off, when George’s face appears in front of then, looming and pink. Behind her, Alex is covering her mouth in laughter.
“Did you have sex in the bloody bathroom?” George hisses at Lando, who bats her away, yawning. “That’s disgusting, Lando. I should report you, I should...”
“Do what George?” Lando says sleepily, but not without venom. “I already got disqualified, didn’t I? Can’t think of much worse, unless you’re trying to get me chucked out of the sport instead or something like that.”
George and Lando stare at each other, and then something breaks, and George relents, rolling her eyes and saying obviously she’s not going to report them. Public sex isn’t under GPDA jurisdiction, even though she thinks sometimes it should be.
“What were the two of you going back there together for, anyway?” Lando says, clipping George’s arm. She goes pinker than she did in annoyance, especially when Alex just shrugs, smug. “Thought so.”
“Alright, fine,” George says. “But it’s easier for us...”
She looks at Oscar with a bit of disgust, like it’s his fault he produces sperm, like he asked for it.
“At least tell me you’ve not left a condom in there,” she says with the same tone Oscar’s Mum uses any time she talks about Oscar being married at 24, disappointment and judgement dripping through every word.
“Nah,” Lando answers, and Oscar tenses, whispers her name in warning right before she opens her mouth again. “Oscar’s got it in his backpack.”
George’s noise of disgust and Alex’s raucous laughter, mixed with Oscar’s stuttering protests, wakes half the plane. Jon’s looking over at them with interest, even Gabriel is turned in his chair. He’s one misplaced comment away from the whole grid knowing he carries condoms in his bag. Used condoms.
Oscar sits up, and does the only thing he can think of to save the situation.
pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader
summary: in which charles makes an offensive comment and you put him on a sex ban OR you and charles tease each other for an entire week and charles wants to fuckin’ ruin you for it
warnings: smut!, basically all smut, teasing, edging, horny horny charles, some fluff (I guess lol), language, p in v, idk what I'm missing, NOT PROOFREAD
word count: ~8.1k
author's note: hi this is in my queue and I suck at using it so not sure what time this will be posted at. just whenever the queue does it I guess (it has a mind of its own)... so I hope u enjoy!! I missed writing for Charles and he's such a cheeky horny fucker in this. hope y'all enjoy!! let me know what you think :))) love hearing from y'all! xoxo
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
It starts with a comment.
One of those offhand comments when his mind is somewhere else. And its not cruel or even intentional. It’s just….careless.
Charles is standing near the front door, one of his feet propped up against the wall, bent at the knee as he ties the laces of his sneaker. The hem of his faded Ferrari hoodie rides up a little. Giving you a quick look at his freshly tanned skin from summer break a few weeks ago, and black boxers peeking out above the waistband of his jeans.
Hair is still damp from the shower. Jaw sharp, freshly shaven. There’s a faint flush across his cheeks…like always when he’s in a rush.
You’re standing in the kitchen, mug in hand, kitchen drawer still open from where you were reaching for a spoon.
And then you hear it.
He mutters it under his breath. Casual and dismissive. Like he thinks you won’t really hear him.
“You always have to make everything a big deal, don’t you?”
You pause. Hand still on the kitchen drawer handle. Slowly turning your head.
“Excuse me?”
He doesn’t even flinch. He’s so focused on his shoe, tugging the laces. “I just mean…” he huffs a laugh before standing upright. Tossing his phone into the pocket of his jeans. “It’s not that deep, yeah? I just forgot to text. It happens.”
He shrugs his shoulders while he turns toward the door. One hand on the door handle, jaw tilted casually at you like that’s the end of the conversation.
He doesn’t even realize what he’s done. That’s the funny part.
He’s all warm and beautiful. And stupidly smug. Voice still slightly raspy from sleep. And the soft pink flush across his cheeks that always appears whenever he’s in a rush is in full bloom.
You don’t yell. Or even move fast.
Just set your mug down with a soft clink. Walk toward him all soft and sweet.
He blinks when you get close, one brow lifting as he leans across the door as you place a hand on his chest. His heart beat steady beneath the palm of your hand.
And then you smile. Sweetly.
“No sex,” you say.
His expression falters.
“What?”
You tilt your head. “One week.”
He frowns. Confused. “Wait…mon amour…what are you…”
“Maybe then you’ll remember to think before you speak.”
His mouth parts open a bit. “Mon amour, c’mon. You’re not actually…”
You press a soft kiss to his cheek.
Step back.
“Have a good day, baby.”
And then walk back into the kitchen without another word. Behind you, you hear him huff a deep breath and then the front door click shut.
And you smile into your coffee mug with a soft laugh.
-
You don’t see him again until just after dinner time. When the sun has gone down, the sky still a dark mix of fading pinks.
The door creaks open a little slower than usual. His keys rattle as they fall into the dish on the entry way table. You’re standing at the kitchen counter, scrolling through your phone. A glass of wine half-full beside you.
You don’t look up right away. But you can feel his stare burning you as he stands in the arch way.
And when you do, you can see the slight tension in his bones. Like he’s unsure if this ban was serious. Or if maybe…he can charm his way out of it.
“So,” He says, easing up toward you as he pushes off the frame. “About this no sex thing…”
You drop your phone to the counter. Grab your glass of wine and sip it. “What about it?”
“I think it was just a heat of the moment decision, yeah?” He says. “I mean…you were emotional.”
You glance at him slowly, still holding the stem of your wine glass. “Emotional?”
He winces. “M’sorry…I didn’t mean it like that.”
You hum, a small smile curling on your lips. Set the glass down. “Right. Just like you didn’t mean to call me dramatic.”
Charles leans against the counter beside you, his hand slipping onto your lower back. Fingers brushing against the hem of your shirt like it’s innocent.
“I mean, you don’t really wanna do this…like we both know you’ll suffer too.” His voice dropping lower. Deeper.
And its not like you guys can’t live without sex. But you guys had a very healthy sex life…to say the least. Especially when he was home and not traveling for work.
You look at him.
And his face is so fuckin’ smug. Cocky. So overconfident like when he thinks he’s about to win something.
“Y’sure about that?” You raise one brow.
He flattens his palm against your spine now. Firmer. The heat of his palm pressing into you.
“Oh yeah…you’ll last, like what, a day?” He leans in, mouth at your ear. “Y’always get so needy at night, baby.”
You feel your breath hitch as his teeth nip your ear lobe, hand slipping underneath the hem of your shirt to feel your skin.
You smile. “Good thing I’ve got toys then, yeah?”
He freezes.
And you walk away.
-
You wake up rather slowly. With your eyes still closed and body tangled in the sheets, you roll to your side. Instinctively reaching out across the bed to find…nothing. The warmth of his body has faded, making you aware that he’s probably been up for a while.
And then the smell of coffee hits you. And something sweet? Like honey or warm butter.
You blink your eyes open. The room is still pretty dim with the curtains drawn. Your robe has fallen open in the duration of your sleep.
You yawn and stretch your limbs. Toes pressing into the cool floor when you finally lift yourself out of bed.
And then you hear him.
A quiet thud of a drawer closing. The clatter of a pan. And humming.
His voice. No particular song. Just something under his breath and soft.
You move down the hall slowly, still trying to wake up. And when you turn into the kitchen, you halt.
Because he’s there.
Charles. Shirtless. Standing at the stove with his back to you. His hair is a mess…but that wild morning look only makes him prettier.
And he’s wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers. Low on his hips, hugging his ass perfectly. Giving you a perfect view of the slope of his spine, the toned back muscles, and his tanned skin.
There’s a pot of coffee on the counter with two mugs. Toasted bread on a plate, gleaming just a bit…most likely honey butter melted onto them. Even a bowl of fruit. The pieces are cut unevenly but it looks like he tried to make it nice. Only to get impatient with it.
And he’s just humming. Like nothing’s wrong. Like he isn’t currently under a sex ban.
He turns when he hears your footsteps near. Looks over his shoulder and gives you that slow, stupid smile.
“Morning, baby,” he mutters. His voice sweet as he turns back toward the pan. “Hope you’re hungry, mon amour.”
You don’t answer. Just move to the coffee pot and pour yourself a mug. His eyes flick toward you for a moment. Quick. Tracking the way your hands wrap around the mug. The way the mug lifts to your lips.
“Made your favorite,” he says it lightly. “Put some honey butter on the toast too…figured you’d want somethin’ sweet today, yeah?”
You take a sip.
“Mmm. What tricks do you have up your sleeve?”
He shrugs. “Just wanted to take care of you.”
You eye him suspiciously. And that’s when you notice it.
The way his jaw is clenched a bit tighter today. How his fingers tap against the stove. The way his voice sounds like he’s trying so hard to swallow every filthy thought.
He wants you to forgive him.
But he’s horny. And he’s dying.
Because the thing is…Charles was always like this in the morning.
Not just sweet and domestic. But horny. Like ridiculously horny.
And mornings had always been your thing.
Half the time you both wouldn’t even make it out of bed. You’d feel him pull your body into his, his breath warm against your neck as he rutted himself between your thighs. Lazy, greedy grinds that made you wetter with every stroke. No prep or talking. Just the heat of his skin against yours. The push of his cock against your underwear.
Sometimes he didn’t even bother pulling them off. Would just push them to the side, while one hand gripped your hip and the other fisted the fabric of the pillow beside your head as he shoved himself into you. With a grunt and a fuck, you’re so tight in the morning.
Sometimes there were mornings when he’d drag you out of the bed, drop to his knees, and eat you out like a starved man. Tongue fucking you, fingers digging into your ass, as he moaned against your cunt. Always messy and loud.
Mornings when he’d flip you over onto your stomach and fuck you deep. His hand pressed into the nape of your neck as he leans forward and pants in your ear like look at this fuckin’ messy cunt. Pussy’s dripping all over.
And then there were desperate mornings. Like the ones when he got home late from a red-eye flight after a race weekend. And you’d barely even get to open your eyes before he was on you. Pulling your legs apart. Muttering things like need you so bad, baby and need this cunt around me right fuckin’ now.
And you’d let him every single time. Because he sounded absolutely wrecked every time. Soft whimpers pushing past his lips at the feel of you wrapped around him. And when he came? Fuck…he’d make a mess. All over your stomach. Your breasts. Your thighs. Sometimes your back.
So watching him stand at the stove, humming, like he’s not hard. Like he didn’t jack off in the shower just to take the edge off. And you almost feel bad. Key word: almost.
Especially because you know what that cock feels like inside you first thing in the morning. How desperate he gets for you. How desperate he gets when he can’t have it.
And now he’s trying to be cute. As if he didn’t spend the last three years fucking you before breakfast like it was the only way to start his day.
You take another sip of coffee.
And smile.
He’s still humming. Still standing there like his cock isn’t straining against his boxers. Like he didn’t look at your bare legs and have to press his hips into the counter for just a second longer for some relief.
He’s trying so hard to act unaffected. And completely failing.
“Can’t believe you’re up this early,” you mutter into your mug. Taking another small sip with a groan.
Charles glances over his shoulder. Smirks.
“Couldn’t sleep that well.”
You hum. Take another sip.
“You jerked off in the shower, hm?”
His shoulders tense immediately. And that’s how you know.
He huffs a small laugh. “Thought I was quiet.”
You shrug. “Mm not really. Heard it.”
He turns the stove off. Turns to look at you and leans his hands on the edge of the counter.
His eyes darker. Smile vanished.
“You’re mean, y’know that?”
You raise a single bow.
“Walkin around half-naked. Sitting there with those fuckin’ thighs out.” He tilts his head a bit. “And then asking me about jerking off like it’s not big deal.”
You take another sip. “Just makin’ conversation, baby.”
His tongue darts out to lick his lips. A slight twitch in his jaw before he’s moving across the room. Until he’s standing right in front of you. Between your knees.
And when he bends forward, he rests one hand on the stool. His face right near your ear.
“I came thinkin’ bout your cunt,” he whispers. “The way it clenches around me even when you’re half-asleep. So fuckin wet, mon ange. Always fuckin’ soaked.”
You feel your thighs squeeze together. And he smiles because he knows.
“Wanted to wake you up with my tongue,” he mutters. “Wanted to push those knees into your chest and lick you clean…but nope, you wanna play this stupid fuckin’ game.”
You swallow hard. “I told you…just one week.”
His hand drops to your thigh, slipping up toward the hem of your robe. His touch warm and enough to make you twice.
“I give it two more days…max.” He says. “Before you’re begging me to put my cock in you.”
You press a kiss to his cheek. Just like the first day. Sip your coffee and smile.
-
You hear the door open and shut.
Then a voice.
“Baby?”
You don’t answer. You’re just sinking into the couch cushions. Scrolling on your phone. But as soon as he takes one step into the living room, you glance. And instantly regret it.
Because he’s shirtless.
Chest flushed and glistening with swear. Hair pushed back, damp and messy. A small towel slung over his shoulder. A pair of black gym shorts low on his hips. Like really low. And the outline of his cock is absurd.
Your mouth goes dry.
Charles notices the way your thighs press together. The way your eyes drop once. But then quickly dart back up like you didn’t just stare at his cock.
He smirks.
“Miss me?”
You don’t answer. And you don’t really have to cause he’s already towering over you. Looking at you like he can’t decide whether he wants to fuck you or put his mouth on your cunt.
“Didn’t even shower…” His voice low. “Figured I’d come give you a little show first.”
He presses one hand to his cock. Palms himself.
A faint dark spot…wet spot…visible.
“Was hard the entire time,” he mumbles. “Had to run laps with my cock leakin’. Thinking about your little cunt.”
You don’t move an inch.
“Everyone at the gym was trying to talk to me…all I could think about was bendin’ you over on one of the benches and fucking you in front of the mirrors.”
“Charles…”
“Don’t even care if someone watched…just would let them,” he groans. “Let them watch me shove my cock into you while you sob.”
You let out a breath of air.
And he grins. Mean.
“Ohhh,” his eyes crinkle. “Got you now?”
“No.”
“Could make you come like this,” he whispers. “Rubbin on you. Bet you’d let me.”
“Nope.”
“You would.” He demands. Ruts a little harder against his palm. Groans. “Clenching your thighs like that. Can tell you’re dripping, yeah? Bet you woke up soaked…needing my cock like y’always take it in the morning.”
You inhale. Shaky.
And he’s right. Thats the fucked up part of it.
“M’gonna go shower,” He palms himself one more time. Calling over his shoulder as he says, “Feel free to join, baby.”
He turns. Walks away.
Grinning.
And you let your head fall back against the couch with an audible sigh.
-
Usually, when you and Charles go out to dinner, you don’t sit on the same side of the booth. But tonight, Charles insisted. Said he wanted to be close. Something about how romantic it was.
But really…he’s hunting.
The restaurant is dim and warm. Small tea-light candles flicker in the midst of every table. The clatter of silverware against plates, hushed by conversations.
Your skin is still warm and flushed a bit red from the bath you took earlier. And Charles?
Well….he’s a fucking nightmare. A beautiful, horny nightmare.
Dressed in a white dress shirt with he buttons half-undone at the collar. Just enough to show the flush skin of his neck. Sleeves rolled up his forearms.
He’s been quiet for most of the dinner. Not in a moody or sulking way. The kind of way that tells you he’s up to no good.
You’re wearing a black dress. Slit high. The fabric soft but short, causing your thighs to slightly stick to the leather booth. His hands rest behind you, knee slightly pushed into yours.
He starts out subtle.
A quick brush of his fingertips along your shoulder. Then your back. All while he nods attentively to whatever you’re saying.
But his hand just dips lower and lower with every second that passes. Eventually reaching the skin of your thigh.
And you shoot him a look. Which he just responds with a sly smile as if to say m’not doing anything.
The water comes by with a dessert menu. Charles lets you order claiming that you’ll just want to share anyways. So he doesn’t even bother to look at the menu.
And when he walks away, he lets his fingers graze higher up your thigh.
Your breath falters. Fingers gripping into the edge of the tablecloth.
“Charles.”
“You said no sex,” he mutters, not looking at you. “Didn’t say anything about touching.”
Your jaw clenches tight.
He hums. “Don’t make a scene now, mon ange.”
His fingers graze the skin right where your dress ends. Then slips beneath it. And you try to shift your thighs to trap his wrist, but he’s faster. Smarter.
“You’re wearing the red ones,” he groans into your ear. “The lace ones…my fuckin’ favorite.”
You don’t answer. Can’t answer.
He keeps his eyes steady on the flickering candle on the table as his middle finger drags slowly up the center strip of your panties.
“Already wet,” he groans.
You reach for your wine glass with both hands. Needing something to hold onto. Take a long sip.
“Tell me to stop,” his lips brush against your ear. “C’mon, I dare you.”
He’s barely moving his fingers. Just softly tracing the outline of your cunt through the barely there fabric. Back and forth. Over and over. Occasionally pressing the pad of his finger right over your clit.
“M’god baby, can feel how hot you are.” He whispers.
You glance around the restaurant in a panic. Cheeks flushing red from his touch. But no one is paying attention. And the table and tablecloth cover everything.
“Y’know what I’d do if you just let me fuck you?” He breathes, mouth lingering near your jaw as he presses a single soft kiss. Quick. So quick you almost thought you imagined it.
You feel the air catch in your throat as your hands grip even tighter onto the wine glass.
“I’d drag you right into that bathroom, baby. Sit you in the edge of the sink. Rip these pathetic panties to the side and slide into you nice and slow. Deep. Sit there until your eyes roll back.”
“Charles,” you hiss through your teeth. Placing the wine glass down on the table.
But your thighs are shaking. And you don’t want him to stop either.
“I’d make you say my name. Over and over…” He presses his finger to your clit again, then drags his finger in a rubbing motion over.
You press your hand over his wrist, gripping it as tightly as you did with the wine glass.
And then he stops.
Smiling sweetly. Casually. Like he didn’t just rub your cunt in a fucking restaurant.
“Mmm, so how ‘bout dessert?”
You blink.
And he grins.
-
It’s late at night and Charles swears he’s about to lose is fucking mind.
The room is dark. Well, aside from the faint glow of the TV playing a random re-run of something neither of you are really bothering to watch.
You’re turned up on your side, facing the wall. Back to Charles. Breathing even and eyes shut. But you’re not asleep…and Charles knows it.
Behind you, you hear the faint movement of the sheets rustling. A shift of weight. One heavy, slow breath. And then…the sound.
That slow and slick sound of skin dragging over skin. The wet stroke of his fist wrapping around his cock. Up and down.
You stay still. Halt your breathing.
“Fuck,” Charles groans behind you. “Y’killing me.”
You say nothing but your body has gone rigid as you face away from him.
He grunts softly. The mattress dipping with each rock of his hips. And you can hear how wet he is. His precum loud and coated all over his cock. He’s been edging himself all fucking day.
And now this is what it’s come to.
Charles, flat on his back, fucking his cock under the covers like some desperate fucking animal.
“Y’not even gonna look at me?” He pants. A small whimper pushing past his lips in the middle of his sentence.
You don’t respond.
He strokes himself harder. “Layin’ here with my cock in my hand, leaking all over the place. Y’know how messy I get for you, baby.”
Your thighs clench under the sheets. But still, you remain silent.
“Pussy’s so fuckin’ good,” he groans, throwing his head back deeper into the pillow. “So fuckin’ tight. Always fits me so good…and I’d…I’d come the very second I slid in, y’know that?”
You swallow hard. And he hears it.
“Oh,” he huffs out a small laugh. It’s dark and mean. “Y’liked that one, yeah?”
You shift a fraction. But it’s more than enough to keep Charles talking.
“Can’t stop thinkin’ about it,” he mutters, his hand moving faster. Slowing down at the tip of his cock. “Wish you’d sit on my cock…wish I could just drag you over here and split you open on it.”
Your thighs clench.
“Wouldn’t even do it slow,” he adds. “Not after this fuckin’ shit you pulled. Would’ve bent you over, yanked your hair, and make you cry for it.”
His voice ends in a moan. The face of his hand faltering as he ruts his hips upward. He’s close.
You finally turn your head to catch a glimpse of him. The faint TV light outlining his figure.
He’s flushed. Hair a tousled mess. Brows furrowed in concentration but as if he’s in pain. Mouth cracked open and lips pink and slip.
His abs flex. Chest heaving as he jerks in sharp strokes.
But his eyes?
Already locked on you.
“Want you to sit on it,” he groans. “Wanna feel that cunt stretch open around me…fuck, baby…just lemme feel it, yeah? Let me feel you..just this once.”
You shift again. A small whimper pushing past your lips that you didn’t mean to let out.
And that’s all it takes.
“Fuck…fuck,” he hisses as his hips lift off the bed. “Fuck..fuck, I’m coming.”
And he does. Hard.
Like body convulsing, throat tight with a moan, as he spills across his stomach. And its so much that it coats his hand, bits of hit reaching up to his chest. A messy release that drags on for what feels like forever. He groans again, dragging his hand slowly over himself, milking it.
And it’s so fucking hot.
That you can’t move. Or even speak.
You just keep watching with your thighs clenched. Nipples hard.
And when Charles finally looks back at you, “You’re fucked, mon amour.”
You blink. Eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “Me?”
His voice is hoarse. “Oh yeah, you. M’gonna fucking ruin you for this.”
-
The sun is violent. Bright and beaming, beating down on the tiles around the pool. The pool water shimmers in its reflection. Skin glistening.
Everything seems totally calm and normal. Just two people, a loving couple, sunbathing and enjoying a relaxing pool day.
But if you look closer…it’s unbearable.
You’re lounging on your back, a pair of black sunglasses you stole from Charles perched on the bridge of your nose. And the tiniest bikini across your skin. The one he bought you while in Mallorca one year. The one that always made him nearly foam at the mouth.
And Charles hasn’t moved in nearly ten minutes.
He’s just sitting on the edge of the lounger, elbows pressed into his knees, face buried into the palms of his hands. Every few moments, the only motion he does is dragging his fingers into the roots of his hair. Like it will reset his brain or something.
You glance over at him.
His bathing suit hangs low on his hips. Like dangerously low. The muscles in his back twitching every time you so much as shift in your seat. And when you stretch…back arching, tits straining against the tiny triangles of the suit…he actually groans.
“Baby…you’re killing me,” he says. His voice rough.
He shifts slightly. Adjusting the obvious bulge forming in his shorts while exhaling a laugh that sounds more like he’s in pain than anything.
“I love you,” he says. “Y’know that right?”
Your heart clenches, cheeks burn at the words of endearment. “Yes?”
“No…like I fucking love you. I’d die for you.” He looks at you as if he’s unraveling. “But if you keep lying there like that…tits barely covered, arching…knowing that I can’t touch you…”
He drags a palm over his face. “M’trying to be good, I swear…” Dropping his head back between his shoulders.
The corners of your lips curl upward, amused. “Are you really?”
He snaps his head back up to look at you. And his eyes are dark. Feral almost.
“I could go weeks without sex, easy. I don’t need it like that.” His voice softens. “I love you for you.”
But then his voice drops lower. Deeper. More desperate and needy. “But this? Tellin me that I can’t have you? While walkin’ around like that?”
He leans back on his lounger, hand palming his cock. Shameless. Doesn’t even try to hide it.
“Bet you want me to fuck you against this chair…drag you over my cock ’til you’re crying.” He lets out a groan.
“Charles…”
He hums. “Still not giving in?”
You exhale shakily. You want to so bad. “Y’know the rules.”
He lets out a soft laugh. Closes his eyes for a few moments. His hands pressing down harder on his cock.
“Do you know how fucking hard it is not to make love to you right now?”
Your body stills. Pulse thrumming.
“You’re everything to me,” he says. “Not just the sex. Not just your body. You.” His voice cracks a bit. Fingers still teasing the base of his cock through the fabric of his suit.
“I’d wait forever if I had to.”
He turns to look at you. Eyes locking with yours. “But if you don’t let me fuck you soon, m’gonna come in my hand thinking about how tight your cunt squeezes me.”
You bite your lip. Thighs pressing together. Nipples aching.
His smile widens.
“Thought so.”
And then Charles gets up, fists his towel over his shoulder, and heads inside.
-
You’ve barely made it thirty minutes outside of Monaco before Charles starts being a menace.
And the Ferrari is too sleek, too fast, and too tiny for the kind of restraint he’s pretending to have.
It starts with his hand.
Resting casually on the gear shift before innocently slipping to your thigh. You don’t look at him. Just take a small sip from your water bottle like you barely know he’s there.
The heat of his palm slipping through the thin fabric of your sundress.
His hand trails a little higher.
You glance at him. Eyes narrowed. “Really?”
His lips twitch, but his eyes stay focused on the road ahead. “What?”
“Your hand.”
“Oh.” He squeezes your thigh. “This one?”
You shake your head, pushing his hand playfully off your leg.
He laughs, moves his hand to lower the air conditioning, then places it back on your thigh like you didn’t just shove him off. “Just lovin’ on you, baby.”
“More like manipulating me.”
“Can’t a man touch his girlfriend?”
“Not one that can’t keep it in his pants.”
He hums. Pretending to think. “Technically, I’ve kept it in my pants for…” His eyes shift to look at the clock. Doing math in his head. “Four and a half days.”
You snort. “Want a trophy?”
“No,” his lips curl. “Just your cunt.”
You choke, turning your head abruptly to him. “Charles!”
“Mon amour,” he groans, tossing his head back against the seat. “You’ve no idea how hard this is.”
“I do,” you cross your legs.
“Oh, don’t fuckin’ do that,” he nearly whines. “Don’t squeeze your thighs like you’re the one in pain.”
“Keep your hands to yourself” You look back at the road.
“I’ve kept my cock to myself…doesn’t that get me a reward?”
“You jerked off twice yesterday.”
His eyes widen slightly. Cheeks redden. “Because you wore that little fuckin’ robe all around the house. Teasing me. M’gonna burn it after this week, I swear.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“Me?” He scoffs. “You’re the one who said no sex for a week because I forgot to text back.”
“You called me dramatic.”
“I called you beautiful,” he argues. “And then I called you dramatic. Which you then proved by banning sex for a week. So honestly, I was right.”
You groan.
He smiles.
There’s a pause of silence. Just the low rumble of the car engine. The low music humming.
“Are you wet right now?”
You feel your back stiffen.
“Charles.”
“I just wanna know,” His eyes still on the road. Fingers dragging slowly up and down your leg. “I mean..you’re wearin’ this little dress. It’s warm out. And you’ve barely touched me in four days.”
“You’re acting like its been a year.”
He smirks. “Just tell me.”
He inches his fingers a little higher, fingers toying with the hem of your dress.
You clench your jaw. Turn to look out the window.
He hums.
“That’s what I thought.”
-
You’re lying back against the pillows with your robe loosely tied. Legs parted just enough to let him between them as he hovers over you. One knee between your thighs and the other digging into the mattress near your hip. His skin is warm. Like it usually is, but it’s also flushed a light shade of red from his recent shower. And he smells like the mint toothpaste and your vanilla scented shampoo that he always loves to steal whenever you buy it
And his lips are already on you.
It’s gentle. Just the slow sweep of his mouth on yours. Sweet. But then he sighs into it. A deep, frustrated, and needy sound..and then he’s deepening it.
His lips parting yours. Not rushed or anything but full. His tongue slipping in with a kind of insatiable hunger he always has.
You let him in deeper, lips parting for him, and his tongue slides against yours. Slow and smooth. Until you let out a soft whimper, and then it gets dirtier.
Sloppier.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans into your lips. “Don’t make that sound.”
You whimper again anyways. His hips pressing down to meet yours. Cock heavy and hard beneath the grey sweatpants. And you feel the thick outline of it against your core through the thin fabric of your panties.
Not thrusting. Just a slow, grinding drag of his cock against you.
Your breath catches. And he groans at the feeling.
“Y’feel that?” He pants against you. “Fuckin’ aching. Have been for days, mon amour…thought you’d break by now.”
You open your mouth to respond but he cuts you off with another kiss. And his hand slips beneath your robe, gliding over your skin before settling on the space beneath your breast. Not grabbing or groping. Just holding you.
“I love you,” he mutters into your mouth. “So much…like so much it’s make me fuckin’ stupid.”
Your head tips back and he kisses down your neck. A few slow, wet drags of his mouth over his throat while he drags his hips against your core again.
You whimper. And he grunts.
“You’re not helping,” his voice cracks. Hoarse. “You sound like you want it.”
And you do. Fucking god you want it. But you won’t say it. Not yet. Instead, you keep your fingers woven into his hair, tugging gently, with your mouth parted as he grinds against you again.
Another kiss. Deep and desperate. Tongue licking yours like he needs it to breathe. And he groans when he feels you arch up into him.
“Mon amour…” He pants, dragging his lips back toward your neck. Peppering kisses to the skin right beneath your jaw. “Fuck…you’re killing me.”
And then you feel something shift in him. You feel it in the way his hips slow. In the way his hold tightens. Like he’s trying to pull himself back from the edge with everything he has left in him.
You open your mouth to ask why did you stop. But he shakes his head before you can get any words out.
“Can’t do this,” his voice is soft. “Not yet…”
You furrow your brows.
“I want to,” he breathes, eyes flicking shut for a moment. “You’ve got no idea how fuckin’ much I want to.”
His mouth is close enough to kiss. But he doesn’t move.
“I thought you’d break by now,” he whispers, a soft smile near your cheek.
You smile. A little breathless.
“I’ve never seen you this worked up,” you drag your hand to cradle his jaw. Brushing your thumb along his cheek.
And he laughs under his breath. More of a frustrated sigh. “Yeah…well, I’ve never been told I couldn’t fuck you. It’s messing with my head.”
He presses a kiss to your cheek. Then your forehead.
“I love you,” he says again. Slower. Quieter. “More than I want to fuck you. Which is saying a lot.”
You laugh, and he grins.
Then he’s pulling back completely. Settling beside you on the pillows, one hand still on your thigh.
“And when you do give in…” His voice lowers. “You won’t be able to walk the next day.”
-
The water is hot. Clinging to your skin as the steam fogs up the mirror and waves around the bathroom. A slight scent wafting in the air from the bubbles that used to be in there, but have gone down after sitting in there for some time. The candle on the table beside the tub has burned low.
It’s peaceful. But your body just is not.
You’ve been on edge for days. Muscles aching with tension that no amount of sleep or stretching can remove. You’ve spent every night tangled in the sheets with your thighs pressed tight, occasionally grinding into nothing. You’ve been waking up with slick between your legs. The echo of Charles’s voice in your head whispering the things he’d do if you just caved.
Charles leans agains the frame of the bathroom, arms crossed over his bare chest. Eyes trailing down the curve of your wet body. Just watching.
He’s in those sweats again. Low on his hips, a little damp from where they clung to his freshly showered skin. And yet again, the outline of his cock is very apparent.
“Pretty girl,” he mutters. “Hiding from me again?”
You blink at him, slipping a little deeper in to the water. “M’not hiding.”
“No?” He pushes off the frame and steps closer toward the tub. Slow. “Then why do I keep finding you in here, touching yourself like I’m not here?”
You scoff. Cheeks reddening. “I was not!”
He hums. A small smirk on his lips. “Liar.”
He kneels beside the tub. And the movement of him bending down makes the waistband of his sweats dip just a little bit lower to show the sharp toned lines leading beneath it. The same lines you’ve kissed thousands of times. The ones you’ve bitten before he’s had your face pressed into the mattress.
He dips his fingers into the water. Reaching for your thigh. “Y’gonna tell me how wet you are?”
“Charles.”
“Beg me to stop teasing you?” His eyes darken. “Or beg for more?”
You exhale deeply. Your chest rising and falling. Charles eyes trailing to where your nipples peak through the soapy water. “I said no sex.”
He shrugs. “We went over this, mon ange. Doesn’t mean I cant touch…”
Your cunt clenches around nothing. Thighs slightly twitching as he leans over the edge of the tub, his lips ghosting the skin of your neck.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t kiss you.” He presses a kiss. “Doesn’t mean I can’t talk like this.” Another kiss, closer to your jaw. “Doesn’t mean I can’t make you wet.”
You suck in a sharp breath. Head falling further back against the tub. “You’re awful.”
“I’m in love with you,” he whispers. Nose pressing into your jaw. “And I want to fuck you so bad that it’s killing me.”
Your body erupts in goosebumps regardless of the steaming water.
“Charles…”
“Let me in,” he says. Voice rough and low. “Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be slow. Whatever you want…just…please,” He closes his eyes for a quick second. “Need to feel you again. I cant do this anymore.”
You hesitate.
Nod.
His sweats hit the tiled floor so fast that it makes your stomach clench with need. He’s in the tub not even a breath later. The water of the tub sloshing around, some of it spilling over the edge in the process. Until he slips in behind you, settling as he drags your back into his chest.
His cock thick and hot as it rests between your butt under the water.
You barely register how quickly he settled in the tub, before he’s gripping your thighs, pressing an open mouth kiss to your neck.
You instinctively grind against him once.
And his entire body jolts.
“You’re gonna kill me…gonna fuckin’ kill me.” He mutters.
And then he’s pulling you up into him. Until the fat head of his cock is nudging against your core.
“Say you want it,” he breathes. Nipping at your ear lobe. “Say you want me to fuck you.”
You whimper. And his grip on you tightens.
“Say it,” Charles practically begs. Cock twitching against you. “Say you want me.”
His mouth finds your neck again. Kissing like a starved man. Sucking until your skin burns and his teeth scrape against you. One of his hand slips down, his palm splayed against the skin of your belly. While the other hooks behind your thigh, spreading you open.
And then you say it. Broken. Soft. Like you can barely even breathe. Want you…want you to fuck me…ple..
You don’t even finish your sentence before Charles is groaning. Lifting you a tiny bit to guide the thick head of his cock into you. And he doesn’t slam or rush into you. He just pushes in slow, like he wants to feel the slow stretch of each inch pushing into you.
“Fuckin’ Christ,” he pants at the same time you moan a loud Oh my God…
And then he’s gone.
There’s no rhythm or patience. Just frantic, deep thrusts. The harsh sound of skin on skin barely muffled by the splashing water.
His hands gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t. And he’s so deep that it almost burns. Hitting that spot deep in your belly just right every single time.
“Fuck…fuck fuck f-fuck, baby….can’t hold it,” he grunts. Forehead pressed into your shoulder. Mouth pressing sloppy kisses down your neck.
You whimper. The heat building in your tummy too fast. Your thighs tightening and cunt clenching.
“Charles…oh my god…”
And then you’re coming.
Cunt clenching so hard that he chokes. A moan ripping from his throat as his cock twitches once…twice…
And then he’s done for.
Burying himself so deep into you that he shudders as he spills inside. Hips grinding helplessly. Cursing your name over and over.
When its over, he slumps against the tub. You leaning into him.
Breathless. Content.
“Consider that a gift,” he mumbles into your skin. “Cause I’m not going easy on you now.”
-
Charles doesn’t let go of you.
Not even after he’s spilled inside you. Not after your cunt clenched around him so hard that it sent some of the water over the bath edge. His chest is still rising and falling. Arms wrapped tightly around you.
But eventually he moves.
Your thighs tremble as you try to shift around, but then he’s grabbing under your knees and arms in one quick motion. Lifting you straight out of the tub.
The bathroom air is cool, but his skin is hot and flushed against yours. Cock still hard against you, like he didn’t just come. Like he didn’t even take the edge off.
He lowers you onto the mattress slowly. Carefully. Like you’re something he worships (he does). Something he owns. But the second your back digs into the mattress, the illusion is gone.
“Y’think that little fuck in the bath was enough?” His voice low and sharp. “Think I’m satisfied?” He’s already climbing over you, one knee between your thighs. His cock dragging against your stomach.
You try to reach around him, but he grabs both your wrists and pins them above your head with a single hand. His eyes burning.
“Don’t touch me like you’re all fuckin’ sweet or something,” he snaps, brushing his nose against yours. “You’ve been cruel all week.”
His other hand trails down your body. Slow. So slow that goosebumps follow. Stopping right near your cunt. Fingers skimming so close, but never landing where you want them the most.
You whimper beneath him, legs twitching a bit. But it only causes him to spread them wider.
He leans in close to your ear. And you can feel his breath against your skin. “I should edge you ’til you cry. Over and over. Want you sobbing.”
His grip on your wrist tightens as he slips his cock between your folds. Not pushing in. Just dragging the fat tip against your clit.
“Y’feel how soaked you are?” He hisses.
And then he drags it lower, pushing the tip barely into you. Maybe an inch. Before he’s pulling it back out.
You moan, head falling deeper in the cushion of the mattress.
And he grins. All mean. “Oh, y’like that, yeah?” He huffs a laugh. “That little taste? Cause that’s all you get….until you admit it.”
You breathe in sharply. Eyes pleading for something.
“Admit you like being denied, baby. Admit that you love being treated like a toy…that it gets you wet.”
He taps his cock against your entrance again. Messing with you. And your hips roll into him, trying to catch him…but his hand moves to your waist and grips it hard. Pinning you down.
“Nu-uh,” He grunts, dragging his lips over your cheek. “You’ll get what I give.”
“Charles…”
“Shhhh.” He’s smiling. But it’s not nice. It’s cocky and mean. “Been dripping for the past six days, hm?”
His fingers come up to the skin beneath your jaw, cradling it as he turns your face toward his.
“Say it.”
You blink, lips parted. “What?”
“That you like bein’ teased…denied. Edged…”
You bite your lip, eyes narrowing.
But he’s dragging the head of his cock against you. Slower. And the movement has you gasping.
And he does it again.
Again.
And again.
Dragging his cock against your core, barely nudging in before he stops completely. Pinning you down harder with each twitch of your hips.
You’re drenched. Thighs sticky with need. Body trembling with want. And aching.
He looks at you like you’re the most precious thing his eyes have ever seen. The way your skin flushes, the way your thighs shake, the way your eyes narrow in frustration.
“Y’feel how soaked you are, m’god baby…” He hisses, still barely pushing in.
And you gasp. High and desperate, as your fingers fist the pillow above your head.
He sinks in…just a little bit.
And the stretch of his cock is enough to make your cunt clench down hard around almost nothing. But he pulls back out just as fast.
Charles laughs. Cruel.
You whimper as he taps the head of his cock against your clit again. Lines himself up and pushes in again.
Just enough to feel that stretching burn.
“Fuck,” he groans. And then he’s leaning back off of you to shove two fingers deep into your cunt.
And you cry out, back arching off the mattress.
His fingers curl up instantly, hitting that spongy spot he knows you love oh so well. The spot that makes your vision blur.
You squeeze your thighs around his wrist. Bucking your hips against his hand as he works against you. Pushing and curling deep. His palm grinding against your clit.
“Fuck…f-fuck Charles…” You gasp, careening forward to reach for his shoulders.
And his eyes watch the way your face twists, the way your bottom lip catches between your teeth.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Getting close already, yeah?”
You nod quickly, legs shaking.
“Can feel it,” he grins as his fingers fuck into you harder. Faster. “You’re so fuckin’ close.”
And you whimper as your orgasm approaches. It’s right there. Like right there.
And then he pulls out.
And you let out a loud sob. Hips jerking. Chasing nothing as you pant and cry out.
Charles lifts his soaked fingers to your mouth. Presses them to your lips.
“Taste what you fuckin’ can’t have,” he snarls.
You suck his fingers in almost instantly. Tongue lapping against his fingers like you’re starving for it. Charles watches with his jaw clenched. His eyes glued to the way your mouth works against his fingers.
He pulls them free with a loud wet pop. His hand grabbing your face, squeezing your cheeks, with a single hand. Forcing your face to look at him.
“Y’think I’m just gonna let you come when you were mean to me all week?” His lips brush against yours. “Tellin’ me I can’t have you…can’t…” He laughs. “You’re literally mine…walking around in all those tiny fuckin’ shorts…the fuckin’ robe.”
He lets go of your face, pushing you back down against the mattress. Pressing his cock into your folds again. Hot and heavy.
And he thrusts forward, still not pushing in. Just nudging. Sitting there.
“Please…” You beg.
But he shakes his head.
“No,” he huffs. “Not til you’re begging. Not til you tell me that this little cunt’s mine to ruin whenever I say so or please.”
You sob again.
His hand slips down to your clit. The rough pads of his fingers brushing over you. Pressing.
“I like it,” you moan. He presses his fingers harder. “Lo…love when you tease me. I..fuck..”
And then his mouth is crashing into you. Cock pushing forward. Thick and so fucking hard.
He drives in deep.
And the stretch is so good that you think you might cry.
Charles moans right into your mouth. Forehead pressed against yours.
He thrusts again. And again. Deep. Punishing.
And it’s too much.
You sob out as your orgasm rises. Your body exploding, thighs clenching around him as you come hard around him. Shaking.
And Charles swears violently. Driving his hips in harder. Faster.
Hips stuttering until he’s spilling inside you again. White, hot sticky ropes of it. And it just keeps going.
There’s so much of it that he fills you until you’re full. Leaking out of you even when he’s stuffed deep inside.
“Fuck…f-fuck, baby,” he breathes. His head falling into the crevice of your neck. Kissing you.
His hips slow. A few slow, lazy and greedy pumps just to feel you again. Because he can.
And you’re still panting beneath him. Limbs loose and sweaty. His weight pressing into you like a weighted blanket, cock still buried deep.
He moves a bit. Only to brush your hair out of your face.
And he looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Eyes shining.
You blink at him. Blushing. “What?”
He just smiles. “Can’t believe I survived six days of that.”
You laugh. “You barely did.”
He nods. “Yeah…thought about proposing on day three…just to see if you’d break.”
Your eyes widen. Heart hammering. “What?”
And his grin widens. “Would’ve done it too…one knee…cock hard as fuck.”
You snort, weaving your fingers into his hair. “You’re disgusting.”
“Mmm,” he hums. “But you love me.”
You roll your eyes. Playfully. Lovingly. “Unfortunately.”
Charles sighs like he’s never been happier. Still buried inside you. Still leaning his weight into you.
pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader
summary: in which you and your best friends brother accidentally eat aphrodisiac chocolate OR you and oscar get so fucking horny while on a yacht in the Maldives.
warnings: smut smut smut, all smut basically. oral, p in v, dirty talk, language, marking kink, slight voyeruism, exhibitionism??, not sure what else...NOT PROOFREAD! (might be some typos)
word count: ~3.9k
author's note: SURPRISEEEE ITS OUT EARLY (I worked hard over the weekend lol) hope you guys enjoy!! THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING FOR OSCAR EVERRRR (aside from a one shot i've had sitting in my drafts for months lol) comment and let me know what you think!!! xoxo
ln4 cl16 mv1 op81
◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤
You’ve always had a sweet tooth.
Everyone knew it. Oscar especially. He used to tease you over it when you were younger. Would point out when your fingers were sticky with something sugary.
He never said it unkindly. Just amused. Soft. Something like you’ve got chocolate on your face and then passed you a napkin you didn’t ask for.
He’s always been like that. Gentle. Kind. The boy who was never loud. More of a listener than a speaker.
And he never made you feel silly. Not when you cried after falling off your bike and scraped your knee. Not when your towel slipped. Not even when you accidentally spilled juice all over your shirt on a long flight. He just handed you a new one from his backpack like he knew it’d happen.
You’d grown up like that.
And now here you were, years later. Sunburned and salty on a private yacht in the Maldives, still with a sweet tooth and one of his old McLaren shirts he gave you when he first got signed. Pulled over your bikini.
His sister, your best friend, left on in the morning for a tour with the rest of the group. Something about history and snorkeling. You’d both waved your hands declining. Something about being too burned and too sleepy for it.
“She’s going to get bored halfway through,” You sip on your drink. “Probably will call us in two hours.”
Oscar gives you a shrug. “I give her one.”
“She said it was a once in a lifetime experience.” You throw up your hands while repeating her words. Mocking her almost. Smiling.
“So is sitting here.”
And you laugh.
He’s sitting across from you, towel slung around the back of his neck, sun catching his shoulders. His hair is damp. Skin flushed from the sun. No shirt. Just a pair of swim shorts and bare feet.
You shift slightly where you are. Curled up in the shade. Bare legs stretched out. The oversized shirt clinging to you just a little too much where your bikini top was wet.
He glances at you when you move. Doesn’t speak. Just tracks it with his eyes. And looks away again.
His hand reaches for the table. “What’s this?”
You look over.
A little box. Dark. Red ribbon wrapped around it.
“Some welcome thing, I think.” You shrug. “Dropped it off yesterday.”
Oscar pulls the lid open, brows lifting. He picks up a wrapped square, amused.
“Well, well.” He says, looking at you. “Your kryptonite.”
You grin. “Shut up.”
“You gonna pretend you didn’t spot this the second we sat down?”
“I did not.”
He tilts his head, giving you a look.
“Mm, you’ve got that look.” He says.
“What look?”
“The one you used to get before stealing cupcakes at birthday parties.”
You roll your eyes, but blush. Cheeks reddening. “I did not steal…”
“You did.” He cuts you off. Already unwrapping one of the chocolates. “Always had sugar on your hands. Icing on the corner of your lips.”
You open your mouth to protest, but he tosses a piece toward you.
You catch it.
You watch him bring the chocolate to his mouth, tongue darting over his lip without thinking.
Peel open your piece and press it to your tongue. It melts fast. Rich.
You hum, licking a smear of it off your finger. “That’s actually really good.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
You glance up and catch him mid-swipe across his bottom lip. Looking dazed. Distracted.
Then he blinks, clears his throat. And nods. “Yeah, pretty good.”
He closes the lid of the box, slides it to the side. Then leans back, looking at the water.
And you sit there with him. Across from him on the cushioned benches. Chewing slowly. Feeling that heat bloom beneath your skin.
It’s soft at first.
Then deeper.
A warmth in your chest. A pulse between your thighs.
The wind sweeps your skin. And the fabric of your bikini suddenly feels too damp. Too thin. Too tight.
You swallow. Trying not to fidget.
Oscar hasn’t moved much. His gaze is still on the ocean, but it isn’t really. And you watch the way his jaw flexes. The way his foot shifts on the deck. Like he was grounding himself.
He doesn’t look at you.
And he always looks at you.
You shift again. Cross your ankles. Press your thighs together.
You glance at Oscar again.
And his lips are parted. Just a little bit. And his brow is slightly furrowed.
You sit up slightly. “You okay?”
He shifts. Then clears his throat, blinking. “Yeah. Just…hot.”
You nod slowly. “Same.”
He leans forward, breathes out. But his fingers twitch. And you notice as his back muscles roll slightly as he drops his head down, towel slipping down.
He stays like that for a few seconds. Then rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
His voice is quiet. Flat. “What was in that chocolate?”
You don’t answer right away. Because you’re fucking throbbing now. And your bikini is definitely soaked.
“Do you feel…” He swallows, throat bobbing. “Strange?”
You nod. And then remember he isn’t even looking at you. “Yeah.”
His jaw clenches.
He shifts again. Still not looking at you. And that’s how you know something is wrong.
Because he never acts like this.
You’ve seen him flustered, sure. After a race, dealing with the media, around too many people. But never like this. Not this tense. As if he’s afraid.
“I didn’t think chocolate could….fuck.” His voice cracks. And he laughs under his breath.
He grips the bench. Looking like he’s in pain.
“I think I need to go inside.”
And he stands too fast. Towel falling down. Hands clenched at his sides as he turns on bare feet and walks toward the main cabin.
You stare at his back. His shoulders. And he disappears down the stairs.
You’re so hot that you could cry. Unbearable.
You press your palm flat to your stomach. Like it’ll help.
But it doesn’t.
Because it’s not just the chocolate.
It’s him. Oscar.
Gone for less than a minute and his voice is the only thing in your head. The way his mouth looked when he licked the chocolate off his thumb. His hands. The muscles of his back straining as he leaned forward
The silence stretches heavy.
You make a quiet sound in your throat. Barely audible. And you can’t sit still. Can barely think. Can’t stop seeing him.
Your hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt. You’re hesitant at first. But then trail your fingers to the center of your ache.
And your hips lift off the cushion. A heavy breath escaping.
Your other hand grips the bench as you rock slowly against your own fingers. Over the bikini. Slow circles. Each one, pressing harder.
You let your head fall back. And the sky above is almost blinding.
“Oscar…”
You don’t even realize you said it out loud. It just slips.
And a few moments later, you don’t even hear him come back. Your fingers still at your bikini. Rubbing.
You lift your head. He’s there.
Flushed. Hair ruffled like he ran his fingers through it a million times. Eyes fixed between your legs like he’s in some sort of trance.
He just stares. Doesn’t even speak.
“I can’t stop,” You whisper. Honest.
“You’re…” He blinks. Voice low. Stunned. Like he just walked into his favorite fantasy and doesn’t know what to do. “You’re fucking touching yourself?”
You nod. And he groans.
“To me?”
“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” You whisper.
“Jesus.” His hands twitch at his sides.
You shift, spreading your legs a little wider without meaning to. Unable to stop rubbing the tight circles.
“You look so pretty like that,” He mutters.
You tremble. “I need help.”
And his eyes widen.
“Please,” you whisper. “I can’t…Osc, please.”
He groans. Hands dropping to the front of his swim shorts, palming the hard line of his cock through the fabric.
“Come closer.” You plead.
And he stares at you with wide eyes. Flushed. He doesn’t move. At least, he doesn’t at first.
But then his gaze drops back down to your legs. Spread open. Your fingers rubbing slow, desperate circles. And his hands twitch.
“I…” He says, but he’s already squeezing himself. “I shouldn’t.”
“Oscar…”
“I shouldn’t be seeing this,” his mutters. “And I shouldn’t be this fucking hard.”
Your eyes fall to where his hand squeezes against his cock. Like he’s trying to fight the ache between his legs.
And you whimper. Hips jerking. “I can’t. I need….I need help.”
His hand squeezes himself tighter.
“Fuck.” A pause. A few silent moments of heated stares. “Do you know how many times I used to think about this?”
His voice has gone rough. And you blink at him. Heart stuttering.
“I used to jerk off in my room and feel sick after,” He whispers. “Because it was you. My sister’s best friend. Always walking around in those tiny shorts. That blue bikini. Always so fucking sweet.”
Your fingers slow. Jaw falls slack.
“I’ve thought about it,” His voice shakes. “Fuck. I’ve thought about this. When we were younger.”
Your breath hitches.
“Thought about your pussy more than I should’ve.” He mutters. “Wondered how soft you’d feel. How tight. If you’d let me take my time or if you’d beg me to fuck you rough.”
Your back arches.
“Wondered what you’d sound like when you come.” He continues. “If it’s all breathy. Or if you’d cry. If you’d say my name.”
“I’d press the pillow over my face after so no one would hear me,” He admits. “Every time.”
You gasp.
“I would.” You gasp.
His hand pushes harder into his cock. Groaning. “I’ve thought about fucking you with my tongue. Holding your legs and licking you for hours.”
You press your fingers even harder.
You whimper, other hand reading for a pillow or something to grab onto. “Osc, please.”
“You want my fingers?” He whispers. “Right here? Want me to fuck you with my hand?”
You nod. Repeatedly. Fast. Almost pathetic.
Oscar lets out a whimper. And then he’s kneeling in front of you before you can blink. Hand still pressing into his cock. The other trembling as his fingers brush your thigh.
“You’re so warm.”
Your hand falls away and he replaces it instantly. Pressing two fingers against the soaked fabric. Groans loudly when he feels it.
“Fuck, pretty…” He groans. “You’re soaked. Fuckin’ dripping.”
And then he pushes the fabric aside, stares. Pupils blown. “God, look at you…"
You shake your head. “Please.”
“I’ve thought about sliding my fingers into you since I was seventeen,” He pushes them in. Half-laughing. “Thought about curling them deep and slow….hearing you moan just like that.”
Oscar swears under his breath, leaning closer. Jaw locked tight. “I’d keep you like this for hours if I could. Legs spread and needy….mine to play with.”
You cry out. Rocking your hips.
And he curls his fingers. Watching your face.
“Yeah?” His thumb circles your clit now. Slow. “Right there? Knew I’d find it.”
And you careen forward. Hands flying to grab his shoulders.
“Come for me,” He mutters. “Right here. In my fucking shirt. On my yacht. On my fingers.”
And you do.
Hard.
And he watches every second. His lips parted. Cock throbbing.
And then he drags his fingers out of you slow.
Brings them to his mouth.
Licks them clean. Eyes locked on yours.
“Taste better than I ever dreamed,” He says softly.
And then he’s grabbing the back of your neck. Pulling your lips to his. Kissing you like he’s starving.
His tongue licks your mouth like its his. Like he already knows how to pull those sounds out of you and wants to hear every single one.
And his hands slip down your body. Down your shoulders, over your ribs. Brushing the dip of your waist. Until he’s gripping your thighs.
“Wanna see bruises here,” He says. “Want people to see bruises and know.”
He stays kneeling between you, chest heaving.
“You’re soaking, baby.” His voice cracks.
He leans forward. Kissing your inner thigh. And then opens his mouth, sucking hard. Pulling a moan from you.
You feel the bruise forming as he licks over it. Sucks it again. Fingers pressing into your skin, gripping it.
“That’s one,” He mutters.
He leaves another one. Higher.
Then a third on the other leg. Right by your cunt. So close that it makes your hips jerk into his mouth.
And then he’s standing. Grabbing you under your thighs. And lifts you.
Laying you down on the table. The welcome basket crashes onto the deck with a thud, but neither of you acknowledge it. The box of chocolates dangling on the edge.
He grabs it.
“What are you doing?” You ask. Breathless.
He doesn’t answer. Opens the box, takes out a single piece and holds it up. Gaze dropping down to your cunt spread open for him.
“Need to taste you with this,” He mutters.
He leans over you. Pressing the chocolate between your lips. “Bite.”
You do.
The sun’s hot against your skin.
And then he kisses you hard. Tongue lapping against yours, sharing the chocolate. You both moan and groan into each other before he’s dropping back to his knees.
“Look at you,” He breathes. “All messy. Want my mouth, baby?”
You nod.
And he leans in. Licks you.
One long drag up your slit.
You cry out. And he groans into your cunt. Licking you. Tasting you.
“Fuckin heaven.” He drags a hand to your leg. “Can’t believe I waited this long.”
“Oscar…”
He doesn’t stop. Just hooks his arm under your thigh, and pulls you closer to the edge. Legs over his shoulder.
And buries his face in your pussy.
You grind into him instantly. Chasing every flick of his tongue.
Your hands fist into his hair, dragging his face closer against you. And he moans. Wrecked.
“Fuck,” you yell. “Oscar…oh my…fuck.”
He drags his tongue through you. Flicking your clit over and over.
“Keep fucking my face,” his voice is hot.
“You sound…my God..Oscar, you sound obsessed..”
“I am.” He grunts. Fingers curling in you as he nudges your clit with his nose.
And then he pulls one arm away. You barely notice it. Until you hear it and look down.
He’s got his hand wrapped around his cock, fisting it fast. Leaking.
He jerks his cock faster. Hips twitching into his own fist as his mouth works harder against you.
“Gonna come,” he confesses. “Gonna come from tasting you.”
You cry out.
“C’mon…” He urges. “Let me taste it, yeah?”
And it breaks you.
You moan into the open sky. Grinding against his face. Jaw slack. Eyes squeezed shut.
And then he groans, standing up and comes hard onto your cunt.
Hot, messy ropes of it. Spilling over you.
And then he’s dragging you off the table without a word. Not giving you time to even breathe. Panting.
His hands tight around you, and then he’s spinning you. Forcing you to face the ocean. Chest hitting the metal railing.
And he’s behind you. Silent.
You start to turn your head, “Oscar…?”
“No.” He says. Voice rough. “Stay just like that.”
His hands drag your shirt up. Slow.
His name in bold letters stretched across your back.
He groans. Violently.
“I should’ve fucked you in this years ago.”
Your breath falters.
“Fucking knew it,” He grabs a fistful of the shirt, twisting his hand in it. “Knew one day you’d bend over in this and I’d lose my fucking mind.”
You feel the heat of his body behind you, shoving your bottoms down with one swift flick of his hand. Cock thick and heavy. Dragging through your folds, collecting his come and your wetness.
He groans. You shake.
He presses forward, hips rocking against you. Grinding into your thighs.
“You’ve no idea what you look like.” His breath is heavy behind you. “Bent over. My name on your back. Come still dropping down your cunt.”
And you bite your lip. Arching into him harder.
One hand grips your hip, the other fisted around the shirt.
“You wore this shirt for years like it meant nothing,” His voice quieter. Mean. “Didn’t think about what it did to me every time you wore it.”
“Osc…” You attempt to say his name, but he shifts his hips into you harder and your voice cracks.
He laughs.
“Now look at you. Dripping all over me. Wearing my name like you belong to me.”
He sinks in slow. So slow that you feel every pulse. Every ridge.
And you whimper. He groans behind you. Like he’s in pain. Like he’s trying so hard to not ravish you.
But when his hips meet you, and he’s bottomed out. He just….stops.
Breathes in heavily.
“Fuck.” He says soft. “You’re so fucking tight around me.”
His fingers dig into your hip even harder. Bruising. Marking.
“You’ve ruined me,” He laughs. “Y’know that?”
And you don’t even get a chance to answer.
Because he pulls back and slams into you. Hard.
You cry out, hands gripping the railing that your knuckles turn white.
His pace isn’t gentle at all. It’s feral.
“Fucking ruined me,” He says again. “You in this shirt….you in my fucking name..do you even know what that does to me?”
You moan. So loud. And his hips smack into you. Over and over.
“You’ve been walkin’ around in it for years.” He spits. “Like it’s nothing.”
He thrusts deep, angling his hips at a better angle. “Like I haven’t been dreaming of fucking you in it since I gave it to you all those years ago.”
You’re babbling now. Unable to breathe properly. Your entire body trembling.
His hand slips from your hip and slides up your spine. He grabs the back of your neck and pushes you down. Just a little bit harder. Forces you to arch even more.
And fuck, he nearly collapses when he feels you clench tighter around him.
“You should see yourself,” He grunts. “Squeezing around me like you’re desperate to never let me go.”
And he’s lost all rhythm. He’s just slamming into you. Cock so deep.
“Can’t believe this is real.” He’s panting. “Can’t believe I get to fuck you in my shirt. Pussy covered in me.”
Your orgasm is close. And you’re shouting. Moaning.
"Bet she'd lose her mind if she knew what a slut you were f'me..."
You cry out. He feels you teetering on the edge.
“Don’t.” He snaps.
And you cry, “Oscar…please.”
“You’re gonna wait.” He demands, fucking into you more rapidly.
And he’s losing his mind. It’s sooo good.
“Say who’s inside you.” His hands squeeze the back of your neck. “Say it.”
You gasp. Jaw falling slack. Chest pressed harsh into the metal railing. “You…Osc..fuck, it’s so good..”
You sob out his name and Oscar fucking snaps.
“That’s it, baby.”
His hips hit you faster. Deeper. The filthy sound of it heard over the waves lapping the hull.
You sob into the railing.
He leans into you, head falling forward.
“Gonna come,” He chokes out. “Gonna come right inside you. Stuff you full. Let it leak out.”
And you break.
Orgasm ripping through you. Violent and hot. Back arching so hard into him. You sob out his name. Your walls clenching around him in a tight grip.
And he crashes with you. Body shuddering. Cock throbbing. Spilling into you.
He’s still panting against you when he pulls out. And it’s a fucking mess in between your thighs.
But before you can say anything, he’s dragging you upright. And you’re stumbling as he drags you across the hot deck. Hand across your stomach. Keeping you close.
And then he’s shoving you into the rinse off shower.
He reaches up. Turns the handle. And the water is so cold that you gasp from it.
Oscar laughs behind you. “Too cold?”
Your head falls onto his shoulder. “Asshole.”
And then he turns the temperature warmer, and then it’s all steam and heat again.
You expect him to rinse you off gently.
Instead, he grabs the shower head. Detaches it from the hook. And pulls your back against his chest.
“Gonna clean you up.”
You’re about to ask what exactly he means. But then he;;s nudging your legs apart. Brings the shower head straight to your cunt.
And you jolt forward with a sharp cry.
The heat. The pressure.
“Oh my god…Osc,” You’re mumbling.
And he watches you. Holding one leg to keep them apart.
“Stay open,” his voice is soft. “Wanna see you come again.”
And you whimper. Begging. “Too much…fuck.”
But he doesn’t stop. Just tilts the shower head just right. Hitting your clit.
“Thought I’d have to work harder for this,” He mutters. “But you’re soaking already.”
“Fuck…fuck.”
"Y'like this, hm?" He whispers into your ear. "Being used like some filthy secret?"
Your hands reach behind you and slip their way into his hair. Pulling it. He groans. Rutting his hips into your backside for some friction.
“C’mon, pretty.” He grunts.
And the water just keeps hitting you.
You sob. And then crash again.
Your legs shake. Cunt clenching around nothing. But he holds you up, turning you to face him. Pressing your back against the wall.
He finally sets the shower head down. Lets it spray onto the deck.
And then his hands are back on you. One at your lower back, one gripping your thigh, pulling it up to wrap at his waist. You balance on one leg.
He presses a kiss to your temple. “Y’okay?” His voice gentle. Caring.
And you nod, pressing your head into his neck. And his heart stutters when you lean into him. Like he can finally breathe.
“I’ve got you,” He whispers.
And then, he sinks back into you.
Slow. Gentle.
Your mouth falls open. The stretch still almost unbearable after everything. But the way he slides in, feels too fucking good.
You gasp. Digging your nails into his skin. And he cradles you against the wall.
He moves slow. Rocking. No rhythm. And he feels massive. Thick.
“Oscar,” You hush into his skin. “You feel…Y’feel so good.”
He nods. “I know, baby. I know.” And his voice is a whisper.
He grinds deeper. Barely moving but pressing into you. “Can’t believe you’re still this wet…” He grunts. “Still want more? Want me to stuff you full again, hm? Fuck you til it leaks down?”
You nod. Mouth open. Moaning.
“C’mon,” He pants. Hips jerking. Cock throbbing.
It’s quick. The feel of you wrapped around his cock. The overstimulation of the stretch.
You both come quick. Crying out into each other’s skin. Soft kisses in between the moans.
And then you’re both laughing. Smiling at one another.
-
“Holy shit…I’m dying.” Your best friend announces. “Never let me go on another tour ever ever again.”
Oscar snorts from beside you on the bench, looking at his phone. “Told you you’d hate it.”
“You didn’t say I’d almost drown.”
You keep your face still. Sipping your drink.
And she plops down on the lounger across the deck, sighing.
And for a moment…it’s quiet.
Until Oscar leans in slightly, elbow brushing your arm.
His voice low. “Y’think she noticed?”
You glance at him. Shake your head.
“She’s never been less observant,” You whisper back.
And he grins. One of those fuck-you grins that makes you stutter.
And you hold back a smile.
Your best friend groans across the deck. “God, I feel disgusting. Should we order dinner in an hour?”
Oscar clears his throat. “Sure.”
“Yeah,” You say.
And then you lean, just slightly, into his side. Just enough that his thigh is touching yours again.
He doesn’t move. And he doesn’t stop smiling.
"Hey, what happened to the welcome basket?"
Oops?
taglist (holy shit SO MANY OF YOU ILY): @landoscarinthefastlane @dudenhaaa27 @330bpm-whiplash @xoln04f1xo @sainzluvrr @minjiahyung @madicecream123 @star73807-blog @simpfortoomanymen @art-h1ve @annaswrites00 @forumlabee @butterfly-daisies07 @nothereneverherever @widow-cevans @suns3treading @fmejenson @megatrilss1885 @10iceicebaby @sh1nedreamsm1le7 @ptrickbateman @chasingosc @uuoozzii @idkwtdwml123 @pinkdeadtopia @chiara8104 @ellie-bellie-29 @piastri-my-boy @1-of-my-many-obsessions @8junejpg1 @jaydensluv @astrlape @idontknow0704 @whistlef0rthechoir @op814kitty @asmoothoperator @illicit-affcirs @lilith-123321 @teddybearbeth @saudianna @skylyn-vais @fleurdangz @angxedxtz @marekmybeloved @liafics @dxrlxb @gabyasworld @treebranch23 @drysdalesv @morganalatina21 @bigcatharmony @ilovemuppets @acina27 @angelabunbun @megatrilss1885 @ilikecarsalotsometimes @roxanne-ragnvindr @euphoriapillz @luminouskalopsia @trinity2058 @livsturnioloo @wdsara48 @ini3103 @shimmermotorsport @marslovesran4eva @wherethezoes-at @monsterdesandia @mythicalmaven @3in1shampooconditionerbodywash @ella284-3 @landossainz @redcrescentmoons @jaeger-chan @altaccount283927 @ericasdumbworld @aerie717 @the0twst0shrimp0mc @ysavelelelel @phillza-my-beloved @thenalovescars @zicosbitch @scaroscar8115 @wertyuizxcvbnm @needy02 @dessashippr @quill-vy @o6hellnah @enchantedwaspwhisper @awesome-fandom-panda @biancathecool @lilorose25 @wowzees (not sure if all these worked but I took them straight from my comments on the sneak peak)
in which, post-monza, carlos celebrates his birthday and a ferrari victory with you
warnings: threesomes, semi-competitive edging, m!receiving oral, sharing is caring, unprotected sex, brief mentions of ferrari divorce
-
The fingers Carlos is slipping into your open, greedy mouth are covered in whipped frosting: red, to celebrate his birthday. Birthdays were always indulgent with him, and you always loved to see him let loose - with his diet, his inhibitions…
With you.
He never usually likes to share - but tonight he’s in a very generous mood.
After all, Ferrari wins in Monza were special.
He pulls the fingers from your mouth before you’re ready, already eyeing the man that’s propped up beside you, eager.
“Don’t I get a taste?” comes the teasing request, his voice gruff and a little tipsy from champagne and victory.
Carlos grins at the familiar stranger he’s invited tonight - his friend, his rival, soon a man that he will never again be able to call teammate.
He could never deny Charles anything - especially with the added sentimental realisation that they wouldn’t have such shared time and spaces for long.
He swipes a dab more frosting from the cake on the side table, and offers his fingers to him. “All for you, champion,” he says, obliging, and Charles opens his mouth to suck his fingers clean - every bit of sweetness a delicious promise of the things to come.
Carlos hums pleasantly at the sensation - Charles is good, sweet for him. His mouth is red from frosting - entirely kissable - as ripe as sweet fruit. Carlos lets the idle thought float in - god that mouth would be good around his dick - and has to physically stop himself from whimpering.
“More, Carlos,” Charles whines, greedily pulling him onto the bed now between you two. He cups his jaw with this tenderness that’s all their own, and Carlos sucks in a breath as Charles kisses him - one second delicate and uncertain, before Carlos pulls him in and turns up the heat instantly between them. They kiss noisily, even as your hands trail down Carlos’ body, sliding into his shorts - he’s half-hard, bucking into your touch. Charles swallows his moans as you take Carlos’ cock out for teasingly eager strokes.
“Slow down,” Carlos half-laughs, and you drink in the sound like it’s delicious wine. “We have all night.”
But the notion doesn’t exist to you now, not with the way Carlos is bucking into your grip, his eyes glazed over when you both put him on his back, stripping away whatever clothes are left on him and discarding them to the floor.
“Don’t move,” Charles whispers, between open-mouthed kisses along his chest, his sternum, his muscles leaping with the sensation of being explored, “let us do everything, birthday boy.”
“Everything?” His eyes widen, his mind spinning with possibility, “like wha-“
But he can’t finish his sentence, because Charles is already reading his mind, sending you a knowing look, and so you follow his lead, your mouths getting to work down the length of his body, exploring every sensitive part of him. He’s so perfect, so lean and sculpted and the way he shivers under your lips is absolutely addictive. Carlos watches eagle-eyed, as eventually yours and Charles’ mouths meet over the wet, aching length of his cock, with the barest, teasing hint of a kiss, tongues brushing so, so gently.
Carlos shivers into the bedspread and has to gasp out, “ohh f-fuck… slow, please…”
But you don’t want to slow down, because you’re aching to taste him, to feel the hard throb of him between your lips. Still, you’ll obey if that’s what Carlos wants… now your mouth glides slowly, with tiny little laps of your tongue to trace the veins of his cock… and Carlos sucks in a breath, writhing now. The slowing down isn’t helping at all - it’s tipping him into neediness and mind-melting want. Charles sucks the bead of precum that drips from the tip and Carlos all but sobs - it’s clear he’s spiralling past restraint now, his body begging to be more than just touched and tasted. He wants to fuck rough, wants all the heady friction you both can afford. He’s thrusting between your mouths now, relishing the sensation, the pleasure of wet soft lips, of the low rumble of Charles’ hums and your moans.
Carlos feels tortured, hot all over, not knowing where to look because it’s all so irresistible. You whimper when Charles grabs your face and kisses you openly, over the tip of Carlos’ dick that’s getting wetter and wetter by the second. Your tongue swipes across the head and brushes Charles’ tongue, and he sucks with heady, even pressure, until Carlos sobs out. “W-wait, please… slow down or…”
Charles only glances up for a bit, amusement and smugness in his eyes. “Or what? You’ll come?”
Carlos swears and shudders - he doesn’t trust himself to speak, because he’s precariously close now, teetering on the edge. Oh it’s hot, watching him squirm and shiver and be on the brink of losing his sanity, and so you endeavour to continue the torture - addicted to the power it offers. You pick up the pace with long, wet licks of your tongue, sucking the head of his dick… because that’s what you want - for him to give in, and surrender fully, messily.
Carlos yelps, the sensation unbearable now, and his hands shoot out urgently to slow your pace, to wrap his fingers along the base of his dick to squeeze himself back into restraint so he can prolong this and give himself a shot at holding back.
But Charles grabs his hand forcefully and pins it down with an assertive thump. “No,” he orders, and Carlos feels the hot shiver of need pass through him at the authority he hears. “Come, Carlos. Don’t hold back.”
Charles dips down to use his tongue on him, while you suck a maddening pattern down the length of his dick, over his balls, and Carlos’ hips are bucking, wild - his eyes glazed over with unbridled lust, as needy sounds pour from him: the half whine, half sob of “please, oh fuck, fuuuuuuck, noooo… please. Oh my god, yess, yesss - ahhh.”
Carlos slumps back hard when he comes, his cock jerking erratically between your lips and Charles’, cum spilling everywhere. He doesn’t stop shaking for a long while - his whole body wrecked as he lays boneless and spent in the sheets.
“So good, Carlos,” Charles whispers, taking stock of the mess all over Carlos’ thighs, your face.
“So hot,” you agree, your gaze appraising, hungry.
Carlos’ face lights up at the praise, and he grins lazily as he watches Charles lean in to kiss away his cum along your chin, your lower lip.
The kiss isn’t enough to sate you, though. Instead of the gentle, teasing pressure Charles brings, you shove him until he thumps backwards onto the mattress right next to Carlos. Charles yelps in delighted surprise - breath knocked out of his lungs. “Sweetheart,” his eyes flash with need now as you climb atop him, taking his cock in your hand, determined now.
“Need you in me,” you murmur, and his eyes widen with an unspoken yes, charged up with wanting.
Carlos watches with eagerness, with an insatiable hunger that tells you he’ll soon be ready for round two. His eyes scale down your entwined bodies, the way you sink onto Charles’ cock easily, mouth falling open in a low, satisfied moan. He marvels at how wet you are, how ready and hard Charles is. The way you rock into each other, panting like it’s a marathon - your hands flat on his chest, the frisson of electric heat coalescing in the tenderest parts of you. He feels good inside you, and even better than the thrusts - he grinds into you with purposeful intent. Carlos reaches out a hand to place it on your hip, his grip deliciously insistent, guiding you on Charles’ dick. “That’s it, baby.”
Your hand comes up to lay atop his - your eyes going half-lidded with the delicious sensation of being filled full. It doesn’t take long, really - Charles is panting, already close, and you’re too far gone to hold back either.
You bite your lip - wondering exactly what could take you over the edge.
And then Carlos just leans in to Charles, and presses a kiss to his neck. His mouth opens, tongue tracing a pattern down the sensitive skin, and it’s Charles’ turn to moan, melting into the sheets, as if completely undone. His eyes grow hazy, his mouth swollen and kissable. You’re tempted to lean down to taste that mouth again, to steal the pretty sounds he makes as Carlos sucks his neck and leaves a mark that’s almost as good as a race win.
But - too late, the birthday boy beats you to it.
Carlos’ hand cups Charles’ face, and they exchange a look that goes beyond words - intimate, knowing. It’s one they’ve exchanged many times - whether it’s over silly media content or on champagne-drenched podiums.
Carlos pulls him in for a kiss that’s sloppy, frantic - all tongue, and no finesse at all - just noisy and filthy and it’s the exact thing you both need to come, shaking and messy, to the tune of Carlos’ contented little sigh.
-
wrote this somewhere in september and hit a road block. finally dusting off the draft and getting it done is truly a victory in itself. I always seem to like ringing in the new year with charlos threesomes somehow…
WRITE THE BEGGING SUBBY SEQUEL THE PEOPLE ARE STARVING AND NEED TO BE FED WITH SUB CHARLES (only if u want)
my shame is sharp (and my skin gives so easy)
{carlos sainz x fem!reader; charles leclerc x fem!reader}
in which charles watches the pain and pleasure unfold. (a sequel to this subby!carlos fic)
warnings: edging / orgasm denial, m!receiving oral, coming untouched, nipple play, a lil overstimulation, dom/sub vibes
He watches from his meek little place on Carlos’ chair, watching her hair spill wildly over his teammates’ chest as she sucks on his nipple, her pretty lips glossy with spit. He sees how they wrap over the areola, and how Carlos whines and keeps so still under her torturous touch. He looks so beautiful that Charles cannot stop watching, feeling whatever little blood’s left in his brain rush down south - making him harder than he thinks is possible. He wriggles into the front of his shorts, already embarrassingly wet, a mess under the front. He wants so badly to be touched - to be the one that’s handled like he’s a mere plaything - his skin feels electric with wanting.
Instead of whining, he waits - like a good, patient boy.
He watches Carlos’ eyes roll back as she scrapes her teeth over the hard bud of his nipple, feeling a surge of jealousy for the way her free hand snakes down to stroke his dick that’s laid across his thigh, spent from his last orgasm and wet with their juices. Carlos makes a low sound, pained and hoarse and somehow so erotic, when she squeezes his cock in her hand, stroking without mercy as she builds him back up again. He’s helpless in surrender to her, bucking into her grip like it’s the only suffering he wants. Charles imagines it must hurt so good, so close after his last orgasm and he’s sensitive still. The agonised pleasure that spreads across his face makes Charles’ own cock throb.
He can see between her legs that she spreads for his benefit - the mess Carlos left inside her - thick white cum dripping out of the folds of her cunt, now open and slick before his gaze, wetness streaking down her inner thighs. He swallows back, his tongue still pressed down by the panties she’d thrust into his mouth earlier, imagining how good she’d taste if only she’d allow him to bury his face there and lick up the flavour of Carlos and her together.
To his credit, Carlos gets half-hard quickly, spurred on by the fact that he’d gone nearly a week without coming - so he’s clearly pent up, eager for more. His cock looks obscenely good in her hand, the girth of it, so pretty. She tugs at his nipple until he gasps, so she pulls off her mouth and gives him an evil little smirk.
“Should I let him come again, Charles?”
Somehow his ears ring at the sound of her voice, his name reverberating. Her acknowledgement of him makes his cheeks flush - this precious offer of power she’s giving to him, to decide whether Carlos deserves another orgasm.
Underneath her touch, he can see how eager Carlos is, how strained his cock looks in her grip. Deliciously wet. Hot. And when he darts his eyes back to Carlos - who looks desperate - pained, the sexiest expression of torture painted across his handsome face - Charles knows he cannot deny his teammate anything.
He nods, once, and Carlos’ breathing instantly grows shallow.
“Like this?” She teases, her hand stroking him with slow, deliberate, agonising intensity. “Or…”
She laps at her lips - Charles wants to whimper at the temptation she’s offering.
Her mouth presses to the tip now, and Carlos howls, his hips lifting as if jolted by electricity. She swallows around him noisily and releases his cock - and Carlos shivers, swearing.
Charles squirms. Nods a little too eagerly. He likes how flustered Carlos has become.
Her grin is impish. She rubs the fat tip of his dick all over her soft lips like she’s applying lipstick - the shiny smear of precum on her mouth a tantalising snack he’s hungry for. Charles swallows and wishes he could have a taste. Instead, he’s treated to the low grunt that rolls out of Carlos - the most erotic thing he’s ever heard. As an answer to his desperation, she presses her mouth to the tip of his cock and sucks without mercy, until he all but sobs, his hips violently jerking into her mouth. She adds a hand to the base of his dick to squeeze him. Charles feels his cock press into his shamefully wet briefs and imagines it were her mouth. Carlos’ mouth.
She’s jerking him fast now - and his whines are now high-pitched, breathy. He’s swearing in warning and she doesn’t care. “Should I let him fuck my mouth,” she wonders aloud, and Carlos sobs with wanting.
Charles makes a guttural sound in the back of his throat, and she lets it happen - lets Carlos thrust until her mouth is indecently full of his thick cock, and Charles can’t stop staring - committing this indecent, filthy thing to a memory he knows he will jerk off to in time to come. He sees the moment Carlos’ thrusts hit the back of her throat because she makes a low, happy growl, a half-choked sound emerging from her throat as she attempts to keep him deep. “Shit,” Carlos exhales out roughly, hips stuttering. “N-no, baby… ahhh don’t, please-”
Charles makes his own strangled groan, his whole body charged and on the verge of coming. Fuck, watching Carlos dissolve into cries of pleasure, pumping her mouth full of his cum, some of it dripping out because it’s so much - his eyes fly open wide and he makes a distressed noise of pleasure because he’s shuddering, coming into the soaked front of his boxers, this half-ruined orgasm, not quite good but oh so full of relief that it makes him flush hot and shameful.
Carlos slumps bonelessly back into the sheets - ruined and drained, breathing erratically like he’s just run a marathon. She merely pulls her mouth off and cleans his cock dutifully with long, loving laps of her tongue - and Charles catches his own breath pathetically, watching as Carlos twitches and shivers at the overstimulation. “So good for me,” she murmurs, and Carlos hums, reaching up to thread his fingers through her hair. She leans into his touch, and the intimacy and tenderness of it all floors Charles.
His heart pounds, blood racing in his ears. He wants that, too.
As if on instinct, she glances up at him, quirking her mouth in a small, knowing smile, as if hearing his unsaid plea.
He bites his lip, squirming into his ruined underwear, knowing from the glint in her eyes that he’s the next one up for punishment (and reward).
-
a/n: well… the post-teammate era is finally here and I’m still posting charlos threesomes… the chronic brainrot about these two just can’t seem to stop.
haven’t written in the longest time but I hope you’ll accept this as an apology for my long absence 💛 as always, would love any and all feedback!
pairing: Fernando Alonso x fem!reader
warnings: mafia!Nando, sexual harassment, smut, knife play, p in v, unprotected sex
words: 1802
In which Fernando knows you like the back of his hand
---
You’re not even sure exactly why it is your husband and you need to show your faces at this event. Probably to keep up appearances to those in politics that your husband is an upstanding citizen and not in fact their worst nightmare running the Madrid underworld. As if the farce of this charity ball absolves him of any illegal activities. You can’t help but scoff into your glass of wine. You’re married to him and only know a fraction of what your husband gets up to, half of which would have the people in this room clutching their pearls.
Finishing your wine, you look for a waiter so you can get a refill. Unfortunately for you, instead of another glass of wine, you find the displeasure of the company of Mr. Sergio Pérez, an undersecretary to the Minister of Finance. Hiding your disdain behind a saccharine smile, you listen to his poor attempt at flirting.
“So what do you say? Wanna ditch this boring event and skip to where you and I get to know each other.. Biblically?”
“No thank you, my husband doesn’t like sharing what’s his,” you reply, hoping he gets the implied not interested.
“Who says he needs to know?”
God, this guy really doesn’t know when to stop, you think, your jaw hurting from where you’re clenching it.
“Trust me, Mr Alonso would know.”
“I don’t see that chihuahua of a guard dog anywhere,” he says with all the bravado of a man two whiskeys too deep to know what’s good for him. You fight the urge to smile when you see his eyes widen and feel the press of lips against your temple and the fabric of his suit against your bare back.
“Oh, you wish he were just a chihuahua when he’s done with you,” you respond with a wicked smile, resting a hand on top of the one Fernando has now wrapped around your waist. Without a moment’s hesitation, two men dressed in black appear and grab the undersecretary by the arm. Something tells you it’s hard enough to at the very least bruise by the way the man’s face contorts as they walk him out. Fernando spins you in his arms so you’re facing him, eyes scanning yours to make sure the only harm done was having to listen to the absolute garbage coming out of Mr. Pérez’ mouth. He pushes a strap of your dress back up your shoulder before taking your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
“He didn’t touch me, Nando,” you say quietly, watching your husband intently. The Spaniard’s eyes flash at the mention of him.
“Let’s go home, princessa,” he replies and you wordlessly nod, letting him pull you outside.
Fernando keeps a hand on your thigh through the entire drive home, the heat of his skin making your breath hitch. Judging by the way the corner of his lips twitches up in a smile, he’s well aware of the effect he has on you. Once you get home, he helps you out of the car –ever the gentleman, even though you know this will be the last courteous act for the night. Thanking the young guard at the door, you step inside and place your clutch bag on the console table before moving into the living room. Fernando is hot on your heels and something tells you he instructed the guards to make sure no one disturbs you for the rest of the night. You turn to face him, letting your eyes roam freely. Fernando always looks good, but something about him in a well-fitting suit without a tie just hits different, especially with that back tattoo hidden underneath it all; he plays the part of upper class and respectable brilliantly yet the samurai on his back serves as a reminder that he will do whatever’s necessary to protect his honour.
As your eyes move up to his face, you see the way his eyes have darkened. Biting your lip to stop yourself from smiling, you move back as Fernando moves to close the distance between you. Back hitting the wall, you press your palms against it as you arch up to look at him.
“I thought you were going to stop killing politicians,” you chide, squeezing your thighs shut at the wicked glint in his eyes. He brushes a knuckle over your cheekbone, making your eyes flutter closed.
“I think I’m doing María a favour by getting rid of him, let alone his wife. The asshole should know better than to ignore a woman’s no,” he says as he slides a hand up the slit of your dress. You can feel his fingers brush against the lace garter and you can’t help but gasp.
“Oh princessa, so naughty hm? Chastising me for getting rid of a problem when we both know you would’ve had him on the floor begging for mercy just as much,” Fernando murmurs and slowly pulls the dainty little dagger free from its holster on the inside of your thigh. Having his fingers so close to where you need him most leaves you breathless.
“A girl’s gotta be able to defend herself,” you offer as an explanation.
“Oh, I agree darling but I also know just how much you love it when I do this,” Fernando says and runs the blade across your collarbone before sliding it under the strap of your dress. The fabric easily yields to the blade and Fernando’s smile widens when you whimper as he slides it under the other strap to cut you out of your dress. The burgundy fabric rustles as it falls to the floor where it pools around your heels, leaving you in nothing but a thong. It wasn’t even one of the sexy pairs, needing to opt for the black seamless ones to have no lines visible underneath your dress. Which is also why you’re not wearing a bra.
“Very naughty I see,” Fernando murmurs. You gasp when you feel the cool steel of the blade against your hip where it slides under the thin material. The edge of the blade digs into your skin a little as it cuts through the fabric and you can’t help but whimper at the feeling. What’s left of it slides down your legs to join the ruined fabric already on the floor. Fernando moves the dagger again, the tip now tilting your face up. Eyes struggling to remain open, you’re taken aback by just how open Fernando’s affection for you is on his face. Here’s the thing about your marriage with him: he might be the most ruthless, the most cunning man you know, but he would never hurt you –not even when you literally hand him a weapon as delicate as your heart.
“Love seeing you like this,” Fernando all but whispers, “so beautiful when you let me do this to you.” He presses a kiss against your lips and you all but melt into him.
“Mi vida, mi alma, mi sol, all I do is for you,” Fernando whispers in the space between your faces.
“I love you,” you say on an exhale as his fingers dance over your skin. Fernando hums in response, cradling your face in his hands as he dips down to kiss you once more. Still holding onto you, he walks the two of you backwards while making sure you don’t trip and fall over the discarded clothing. Breaking the kiss, he spins you around. His hand glides up your back to your neck before he tightens his hold on you, and pushes you forward so you’re leaning over the back of the couch. You can hear the clink of metal as he unbuckles his belt, the sound of leather getting pulled free from fabric sending a jolt to your already throbbing clit. Fingers digging into the cushions, you slide your feet further apart as you try to prepare yourself for what’s to come. Fernando chuckles darkly.
“So needy, princessa. Want to be filled, hm?”
“Y-yes, please..” you sigh, arching your back. It’s no longer a want, it’s a need. Your body aches to have him inside of you.
“So wet for me, my devious girl. Look at you,” he coos as he so very slowly sinks himself into you. The stretch has you panting, fingers scrambling to keep yourself upright. Fernando groans as you clench around him. He presses two fingers against your clit, rubbing gently back and forth.
“Think you can cum like this?” he asks and all you can do is whine an uh-hu in response. Fernando begins to rub in circles, knowing just how you like it, and that in combination with the weight of him inside of you is enough to hurtle you towards your climax. It washes over you, legs trembling while you try to remain standing. Fernando groans and curses as you clench around him in waves, bucking his hips into you. Pushing back against him, you wordlessly tell him that you need him to move. Fernando lets go of your neck, dropping the dagger onto the tile floor, and moves both hands to your hips. His fingers dig into your skin as he fucks into you, slow at first but quickly picking up the pace as he uses your for his own pleasure. You’re incapable of forming any coherent thoughts as he hits that spot inside of you, your entire body wired to chase the high that’s threatening to consume you whole. Resting your forehead on your arm, you move your right hand down to messily circle your clit.
“Need you to cum for me, princessa,” Fernando pants, his restraint wearing precariously thin with each thrust. You whimper and whine in response, before crying out as your second orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. Fernando curses and tightens his grip on you as he fucks you through it, prolonging your orgasm. For a brief moment you wonder just how much more you can take before it does indeed pull you under. Fernando sinks into you once more, moaning as he spills deep inside of you. The two of you remain like that for a moment to allow you both time to come down from that high. Fernando slowly pulls out and you can feel his cum begin to drip down your inner thigh. Reaching a hand down, you swipe it away and bring your fingers up to your lips to lick them clean. Fernando curses behind you and before you know what’s happening, he picks you up as if you weigh nothing. Wrapping an arm around his neck, you rest your cheek against his shoulder. You know he will take care of you, always, and that thought fills you with more love than you have words to express.
Inspired by this gif
This fic wouldn't exist without @feralnando and @ruledbyproblematique, biggest thank you to you both 🥰
Please feel free to let me know what you think! Your comments, tags, and likes mean the world to me 💜
Summary: Everyone, including Max, says he’s too much for you. You find yourself determined to prove them all wrong. Your summer on the ranch is set to be one to remember. 6.1k
Warnings: sexual content (minors do not interact, 18+ PLEASE!), alcohol/ intoxication, strong use of language, implied unspecified age gap, public sex, oral sex fem receiving, and max is a little mean (oops). if you would like further clarifications on the warnings PLEASE send me a message!
Most of the crew are off at the bar for the night, so when you meet Max down at the river, there’s nobody else around to notice or bother you. Just you, and him, and the setting sun, the gurgle of the creek, the cold water wrapping around your ankles as you stand there, looking for rocks on the bottom of it.
You’re trying to distract yourself, is what you’re doing. The summer heat is ebbing away as the sun sets, which leaves you no excuse for the way you can feel your whole body burning. Maybe Max was just being friendly, inviting you down here. Maybe he expected there to be more people. But he has a bottle of wine-though it’s still unopened, sitting in the river to try and keep it chilled- and he’s laid out a blanket on the bank, and… you just don’t know, is the whole thing. You don’t want to assume what his intentions are.
Max teases you from the bank, though you know his eyes are watching your every move. “Your posture is awful.”
You roll your eyes and don’t bother looking up at him. “My posture is fine, thank you. I’m looking for rocks.”
“I know,” he says.
Now you look up- he’s leaning back on the blanket, propped up on his elbows, hat low over his brow. The hat ticks up and down with his line of sight, sweeping down to your ankles and then back up, slowly, like he’s drinking every detail in. You swallow. He grins and pulls a corkscrew from his pocket.
“C’mere,” he says, beckoning you with two fingers, and your heart is in your throat. “Grab the wine?”
You wander over, handing him the bottle and reaching down to dry your feet with a towel. He watches the whole time, fiddling with the corkscrew, drying the glass bottle on his shirt. You can feel your fingers starting to shake, can feel the anticipation coursing through your body. You stay standing at the edge of the blanket, hands on your hips, looking down at him. He whistles lowly, again, and you feel your face grow hot, trying to fight the grin that threatens your lips.
“Are you going to sit?” He asks, finally directing his attention to the bottle of wine, to getting it open.
The cork falls to the blanket next to him. You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what exactly you should do here. Sit down too far from him, and you might ruin the mood. Sit down too close, and you might be too eager. He’s so hard to read, it drives you nuts.
You let out a huff and step onto the blanket, walking towards him. He takes interest and pushes himself up on his hands, and when you settle yourself in his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, he sighs almost dreamily, and his eyes fall half shut. You run your hands over the skirt of your dress to smooth it out over your lap and his, and he hands you the bottle of wine.
You take a sip- it’s warm and sugary. He clicks his tongue when you repeat the motion.
“Not too much,” he says, quietly, voice mingling with the crickets making their debut for the night.
You scowl at him. “What’s the point? Take it slow? Can’t handle your alcohol, Maxie?”
He gives you an amused grin, eyes crinkling with it, but there’s some sort of electric current running beneath it. You’re buzzing already. You wonder if he’d shock you if you reached out and touched him. If he’d light you on fire the way you feel like you're on the edge of. Does he feel it too?
“I don’t want you to get drunk,” he says.
It takes you a moment, and then the ground drops out from under you. I’m not fucking you while you’re drunk. You take one last sip, a small one, and hand the bottle back to him. He takes a drink with one hand, and his other falls to your hip, squeezing softly. You bite back a whimper.
“Please, Max,” you say, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
Max sighs, takes another sip of wine, then sighs again, dragging a hand across his chin. “You’re insatiable.”
You hum in agreement, resting your hands on his shoulders, wriggling just a bit in his lap. “Please?”
“Fuck, honey,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. You giggle.
“I need you, Max,” you say, just to watch his cheeks grow red. Just to watch him struggle with the feeling. “Make me feel good? Pretty please-“
He reaches up and puts his hand over your mouth to muffle your words. You giggle against his grip and watch as he rolls his eyes. He shifts under you, pressing one thigh between your legs, and your laughter gets caught in your chest.
“Y’think you’re funny, huh?” He mutters, and your heart begins to go wild. “Think you can get whatever you want if you ask nicely?”
You shrug, reaching up to run your finger along the brim of his hat. “Mhm. It works on the city boys.”
Max’s eyes go dark at that statement. “Is that right?”
You nod. His hand falls to your knee, and your breath hitches. He smirks, dragging his hand up the outside of your thigh, rucking the skirt of your dress halfway up your leg in the process. His hand draws a trail farther up- over your navel, skimming your ribs, touching at the exposed skin of your shoulder. By the time he cups your face in his hand, you’re vibrating with anticipation. He brushes a thumb over your cheek, and you close your eyes, letting the sparks wash over your skin.
“Need you, Max,” you say, again, steadier this time.
“You deserve better,” he says, for the millionth time.
You purse your lips. “What, you think ‘cause I’m a city girl that I can’t take-“
He squeezes your cheeks together with his hand. Dumbfounded, you look up at him, heart hammering at your ribcage.
“I think you’re a city girl with a big attitude,” he says, leaning closer. You squirm just a bit underneath his gaze. “And that you’d better know what you’re asking for.”
He releases his grip on your face. You blink at him for a few seconds, take in the rosy flush of his cheeks, the way his brows are furrowed, the way his breaths come quick and heavy. And then you grin, wide and bright and, hopefully, oh so tempting.
“I know full well,” you say, rolling your eyes dismissively. “I’ve heard all these stories about you, about how you’re too much cowboy for me, and you know what I think?”
“What.” He says, flat and unwavering.
“That maybe I’m too much for you,” you say, fluttering your lashes at him. “Maybe you’re nervous. Maybe it’s you who doesn’t know what they’re getting into.”
And that seems to strike just the right nerve. That gets him fired up beneath his skin, that sends him over the edge he was teetering on. He grabs you by the waist, hauls you close, and takes. Max kisses in a frenzy, you know this from stolen moments behind barns and buildings, but this is on another level. It’s hot and heavy almost immediately, the way he bullies his tongue into your mouth, the way he bites at your lips, the way he cups one hand around the back of your neck to keep you right there. You arch your into him, writhing and keening at his every touch, at the way his hand slips up to your ribcage, searing into your skin. He’s barely done anything and-
“Look at you,” he says, voice teetering between awe and condescension. “You’re so desperate.”
Your first urge is to say I’m not, petulantly, which would only prove his point. You could point out that he’s desperate, too, but you don’t think it would really make a difference. Instead, you reach up and grab his hat from off his head, setting it down carefully on the blanket next to you, and he watches with eagle eyes. Cowboys and their stupid hats. You distract him from it by rolling your hips against his, the fabric of your skirt bunched up around your waist. His eyes flutter closed when you run your hand through his messy hair.
“Fuck me,” you plead. You’re getting a little tired of asking, and you’re past the point of asking nicely. “Max, please, just-“
He nearly shoves you off his lap, and for a moment you almost panic, until he’s rolling you down onto the blanket and following you down, hovering over you. When he kisses you, this time, it’s to shut you up. It’s harsh and all consuming and you can barely keep up, feeling feverish.
He reaches down with the hand not supporting himself and grabs at your skirt, the soft fabric shoved up and up so carelessly. You fumble with it, trying to yank the dress over your head, but he stops you, grabbing your hands.
“Leave it on,” he says, and you writhe underneath him just at the tone he uses.
“You don’t wanna see me?” You whine, and he groans softly, lips touching yours.
“Wanna make a mess of you and your pretty little dress,” he says, and your eyelids flutter at the words. “You’ll let me do that, won’t you?”
You nod fervently. When you look up at him, he’s grinning.
It doesn’t take long from there. You scramble to unbutton his shirt, and he lets you, lets it hang open, lets you run your hands up and down his torso while he kisses you senseless. His skin is feverishly hot under your palms. The sun is down, now, the sky inky blue, stars just starting to peek out behind his head, through the trees. He kisses you until your lips are raw, until you’re writhing and whining underneath him, until he’s got your dress bunched around your hips and he’s toying with your underwear. Soft pink, with a bow. He groans when he pulls away for a moment and looks down.
Then he slides lower on the blanket and settles himself between your legs, and you start to fall apart.
“You don’t have to,” you hear yourself say, as much as you really do want him to. “I don’t- you can just-“
He blinks up at you with a clouded gaze. His chest is heaving, lips parted, one finger hooked in the waistband of your panties. You wonder if he can see well enough to tell how wet you are, or if he’ll only figure it out when he touches you. You’re trembling with anticipation. He eyes you, the way you wait with bated breath.
“Do you want me to?” He asks, voice low. You close your eyes, and he reaches up to squeeze your cheeks, waiting until you open them again. “Use your words. Do you want my mouth on you?”
“You don’t have to,” you repeat.
“Not what I asked,” he says.
“I mean. You can. I… like it,” you say. He nods. “But you won’t get anything out of it, and, like, you don’t-“
“Oh, honey,” he says, like he feels bad for you, like he pities you. “Shit, and they say country girls are naive.”
You blink down at him as he gets settled again. “What?”
“Won’t get anything out of it,” he mocks, and your face grows hot again. “S’that what the city boys tell you?”
You whine. He starts to tug your panties down your hips. When he hooks his arms around your legs and buries his face between them, it’s all you can do to keep from screaming. Your first thought, as he does it, is that maybe he really is too much for you. Before you can have another thought, they all float away, and you melt into the blanket and the ground beneath it.
He takes you apart, methodically, messily. He twists his tongue around your clit, he hums against you until you writhe beneath him, he’s messy and loud about it, so into it, so much more into it than any guy you’ve ever been with. You risk a glance down at him and nearly sob at the way he’s got his eyes squeezed closed, blush sitting high on his cheeks, strands of hair falling across his forehead. His stubble scratches at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, but it only adds to the sensation. When he moves lower, tongue lapping at your entrance, his nose nudges against your clit, and your hands fly away from the blanket- one to your own mouth, to muffle your whimpers, the other to his hair, to hold on.
He pulls away slightly, gasping for air. When you look down at him, his lips and chin are slick and shiny in the moonlight. You bite the palm of your own hand. He’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat. He unwinds one arm from around your leg, lets it fall to the blanket, and when you feel him press his thumb to your clit, you know you’re doomed.
One of his fingers circles your entrance, slipping just the tip inside. You whine, again, and he groans. He leans his head against your thigh, stubble sending pin pricks up your spine.
“You’re so tight,” he says, incredulously. “So wet. So good for me, yeah?”
You nod frantically. He blinks up at you, wide eyed, almost innocent, though he’s anything but. His hand is gripping bruises into your thigh while he fingers you open with the other, and he looks so proud of the way you’re already falling apart.
“You’re close already, huh?” He asks. You don’t bother trying to lie or fight it, you just nod again. He nods back. “Then be a good girl, take your hand off your mouth,” he says, waiting until you do to continue. “And come for me.”
He disappears between your legs again, and within seconds, it surges up, white hot and fuzzy and seizing up every muscle in your body. You see more stars than there are in the sky, your back arches off the ground, and you tug his hair, harshly. It only seems to spur him on- he takes you through it with his mouth and his fingers until you’re kicking your legs and trying to scramble away from him. When he pulls away, out of breath, face soaked, your heart is racing. He leans back and sits up, on his knees between yours, and he sticks his finger in his mouth and sucks. You hide your face in your hands and whine.
“Pretty, sweet girl,” he murmurs, and you shudder. “Knew you’d taste like honey, honey.”
He waits a few moments, for what feels like forever, to do anything. He just hovers there, watching as the aftershocks wrack your body. You suck in air like you’ve been starved of it, letting the feeling ripple through you, wondering how much he’s going to ruin you if this is only the foreplay. You can hear him taking slow, steady breaths- on purpose, like he’s trying to calm himself down, too.
When you peek out from behind your fingers, he’s grinning, staring right at your chest. His gaze flickers up to yours when he sees you move, and the grin goes wider. He’s so satisfied, so smug, like he knows exactly what he’s done to you. You’re already aching for him.
“Are you gonna fuck me now?” You ask, trying to sound steady. Your voice wavers, though, and you’re still half out of breath.
Max laughs, and you whimper, fighting the urge to kick your legs. He leans over you, and you feel all encompassed, covered up. He’s grinning wide and bright. His hand slides up your thigh, and this time he sinks two fingers into you. You cry out again, pleasure spiderwebbing through your whole body.
“Brat,” he says, voice clipped. “I really thought that’d adjust your attitude, but you need more, huh?”
“Yeah, I need more,” you say, reaching up to press your hand to the back of his neck. “Or are you too scared you’re gonna come too quick?”
You choke on your words when he crooks his fingers, dragging them against that sensitive spot that has you seeing white and leaves you breathless. The sound that leaves your mouth is almost unrecognizable to you.
Then it really gets frantic. His other hand fumbles- he’s reaching in his pockets, you realize. The metallic packet he pulls out glints in the moonlight, and you gasp eagerly. Your hands fly to his belt buckle, the metal cold beneath your fingers, and he hisses when your fingers brush against him, where he’s so hard it must be painful. You make quick work of the buckle, and the button on his jeans, and the zipper, and then you shove your hand down them, wrapping your fingers around his bulge. His head drops, chin to his chest, and now he’s the one having trouble breathing. He slips his fingers out of you, and you’re too entranced with the look on his face to even care.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, dropping the condom on the blanket next to you and using his free hand to work his jeans and underwear down his hips. “Fuck. Need-“
You wrap your hand around him, his skin hot and velvety between your fingers, and he hisses. He’s wet and messy, precum soaking the tip, and your mouth waters. You shove yourself upwards, mouth open, and-
“No,” he says, reaching for your head and pushing backwards slightly. You pout, and he groans. “I wanna, trust me, but- fuck, want to get inside you first, okay? Just- behave, for once in your life. Lay back and let me-“
You do lay back, but you also reach for the condom. His shoulders heave as you take the foil in your fingers and tear it open. When you roll it onto him, he lets out a shuddery sigh. He’s big- you can barely get your hand all the way around him. He’s going to break you, you think, in the best way. You need him desperately.
He leans over you again as you trace a finger up the vein on the underside of his cock. “You’re sure you want this?”
You nod, and he cups the side of your face in his hand, the softest touch he’s ever given you. “Yeah,” you say, quiet enough for only him to hear. “So bad. Are you sure?”
He lets his eyes fall closed as he takes his cock in his hand, his knuckles bumping against yours. He leans down to kiss you, and there’s a sweetness to it. Like the calm before the storm, like the wind blowing waves in the grass. You breathe him in.
“Oh, honey,” he says against your lips. “I’ve been sure since the day I first saw you.”
He slides into you in one long, swift stroke of his hips, and you hold onto the blanket for dear life. He’s big, but the stretch feels so good, so full. He has his hands on either side of your head, and he kisses you through it, swallows your whimpers as he waits. You reach up, wrap your arms around his neck, and arch your hips up against his. He gets the idea.
He’s not in a rush, now, it seems. Things are much less hurried. He rocks his hips into yours, grinding deep with each thrust, making you see stars every time. He pulls his lips from yours and trails them down your jaw, just to bury his face in your neck. When he groans, loudly, it vibrates your whole body, and you shiver beneath him. You’re melting, you think.
“Is that good, honey? S’this what you wanted?” He asks, pressing the words into your skin. You whine and arch your back. “Come on, city girl, where are your big words, huh?”
You can’t find them, is the thing. You can’t do anything except cry out from beneath him as he hits that spot, over and over again. You feel him deep, you feel him everywhere, in every muscle and bone and nerve of your body. He leans down closer, his nose bumping against yours.
“Max,” you gasp out, when he nips at your jaw.
“So good, honey,” he groans against your skin.
Your nails scrape down his back, sure to leave marks. You hope you leave marks, that his friends tease him for it, that he wears them proudly. As if he’s heard you, he ducks his head to your collarbone and sucks harshly. Then he’s tugging at the neckline of your dress, pulling it down until he can see your chest, too, letting out a guttural groan at the sight. The whole time, he keeps up the rhythm- long, slow, deep. His hand gropes at your chest. You reach up, fist your hand in his hair, and tug his lips back to yours.
That’s how you come the second time- with his mouth muffling your wails, one hand tugging at strands of blond hair, your other hand slamming against the blanket beneath you. He works his hips the whole time, he takes you through it, his own groans slipping past his lips and into yours. He doesn’t stop. You’re not sure why you expected any different.
“Oh,” you say against his lips. “Oh, Max- I-“
“There she is,” he says, voice taking on a softer edge. “That’s a good girl. That’s it, honey. Fucked that attitude right out of you, huh?”
All you can do is nod frantically and let yourself finally crumble completely under his hands. He’s silhouetted against the night sky, but you can see his eyes, his smile, the way his shoulders heave. His thrusts grow frantic, and the arm he’s using to hold himself up starts to shake.
He kisses you when he comes, hips jerking, and you follow him over the edge. You’re sure you leave bruises with the way you hold onto him. You think his handprint is burned into your ribcage. He’s loud about it, moaning into your mouth, gasping for air when he finally pulls away.
“Fuck,” he mutters into the open air.
He pulls out, and you whine. Then he promptly collapses on top of you.
“Oof,” you groan, and he makes a non-committal noise. “Did I wear you out?”
He sighs. “Does the back talk ever stop?”
You shrug and card your fingers through his sweaty hair. “You like it.”
He hums, his face pressed into your neck. “Do not.”
You roll your eyes up at the sky. He takes your silence, his fingers dancing against your bare skin. Your dress is still bunched around your middle, chest and legs bare to the night. He’s not much better- shirt haphazardly hanging off his shoulders, his jeans shoved halfway down his thighs.
“We should get cleaned up,” he says. “Rinse off the… sweat.”
You whine. “I don’t wanna go back to the house yet.”
He laughs into your skin. “Honey, the creek is right there.”
You swallow. The water is cold, and it’s dark, and there are fish in there. There are rocks and sticks and any number of things to step on. You don’t mind the creek when it’s daylight, when you can see what you’re touching-
“Oh come on, city girl,” he says, and you groan. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”
“It’s dark,” you reply, and he laughs again. “Don’t be mean to me.”
He pushes himself off your chest. You fight the urge to whine about it, to wrap your arms around him and pull him back into you. He kneels between your legs, grinning, and you sigh happily. He’s a sight to behold, all lean muscle and broad shoulders.
“Come on,” he says again, reaching for your hand. “I’ll protect you.”
He strips out of his clothes fully and leaves them on the bank next to your dress. The water is frigid, but when he wraps his arms around you and holds you close, it’s not so bad. He runs his hands along your body, under the surface, and you wrap your arms and legs around him so you don’t have to touch the bottom. You’re sure he knows- he laughs when you do it- but he doesn’t call you out. He just kisses you, the water lapping at your shoulders, stars reflecting off the surface.
There’s a part of you that knows this shouldn’t feel so romantic. That this will come back to bite you, that soon, you’ll wish you never had this. This moment, on a blanket on the banks of the river, stars above your heads in the dark of the night. I don’t come back, he’d said. This can’t mean anything. You can’t get attached. So, to cut the seriousness of it all, you break the kiss and the silence.
“You know,” you say. “I’m not even from the city. I just go to school there.”
Max laughs, his hand squeezing at your side. “If you’d told me that, this would’ve happened a lot sooner.”
…..
He tries to keep you from getting too close, tries to keep you out, but he always melts in the moments after sex, lets his guard down, lets you in. He tells you about his family, about how he never wants to go home but misses his sister, about all the places he’s been and where he wants to go.
In exchange, you tell him stories about the city, about classes and people and parties and how it all feels so silly when you lay under the wide expanse of stars, no light pollution to sully them. You tell him about the guys back at your college who would never hold a candle against him, though you don’t tell him that part. No need to boost his ego.
He points out constellations and teaches you how to navigate without a map, how to follow the stars, and you soak it all in. He teaches you what plants you could eat and which ones would kill you, he saves you from the poison ivy that riddles the ranch, and you spend countless hours together, any second you can steal away. You’ve never felt more free with anyone else in your life.
Sometimes, he pulls away. He gets withdrawn. He’s trying to protect you, he says- himself, too, probably. You remind him, time and time again, that you know he doesn’t stick around. You try to pretend it doesn’t stab you in the stomach to say it every time. No matter how much he pulls away, without fail, a few days later he finds you, pulls you into his chest, and kisses you senseless. You let him come back every time, because you’re not sure you could ever really resist him.
Your favorite night of the summer is the one where you meet him down by the bunkhouse and he steals you away for a whole night. You tell your aunt and uncle you’re going camping with Maddy, and you’re sure they don’t believe you but they don’t ask questions, either. You get in Max’s truck and he drives until you hit a state park. He has a tent, and a tiny air mattress, and a sleeping bag for the two of you to share. You make a fire and eat s’mores while you’re sitting in his lap, and for one night, it feels real. The air mattress is the closest thing to a bed that you’ve ever shared with him. He smells like campfire and tastes like marshmallows and he fucks you like he loves you, and if you stop to think about it it’ll break your heart. You know why he suggested this, why he’s doing this. It’s August. The end of the summer is breathing down your neck, the same way he does when he curls around you as he falls asleep, his lips against your skin.
A week later, you pack up your car with all your clothes, your boots, and one of Max’s flannels. He’d wrapped you up in it one night when you shivered, laying next to him in the bed of his truck, and you never gave it back. He’d never asked. Now you’re off to college, and when you come back next summer, he’ll be gone.
You think you’ll keep it forever, just as proof that he really did exist, that for one summer, you got to have him. You’d tell him he changed your life, but you’re sure he doesn’t want to hear it.
He watches you load your last bag into your car, leaning against the fence, chewing on his lower lip. When you close the trunk, he meanders over, his hat in his hands. You turn and lean against your car, hands on your hips.
“So,” you say, giving him a once over. “Guess this is goodbye, cowboy.”
He lets out a huff. “Don’t get all emotional on me now, honey.”
You blink. “I’m not.”
You’re lying, but he doesn’t need to know that. If he notices, he doesn’t call you out on it.
He’s thumbing at the brim of his hat, holding it in front of his stomach. He shifts on his feet, and you cock your head at him. You’ve never seen him so unsure of himself. It makes your heart clench in your chest. When he reaches out and places his hat on top of your head, you swear your heart nearly stops.
He’s smiling, now. “Looks better on you.”
You reach up to touch it, the brim low on your forehead. “I disagree.”
When you try to take it off, he pushes it back down on your head. “Keep it.”
“Max…”
“Every good country girl needs a hat,” he says, and you grin widely. He matches the expression.
You dig your hand into your pockets and come out with a piece of paper, folded nicely. He glances at your hands and bites his lip. You waver, for just a moment, but you need to do this. For your sake. You reach out and press it into his hand.
“It’s my address,” you say. He opens his mouth, but you shake your head. “For if you ever want to write. You don’t have to. I’m not expecting you to. But. You have it, if you ever need it.”
He closes his mouth and nods. He tucks the paper in his pocket, and then he reaches out, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, solidly, slow and steady and sweet. Like honey.
When you drive away, he’s standing in the yard, hands in his pockets. His hat sits on the dashboard for the whole journey, a constant reminder of what you left behind.
…..
The first letter comes a month later. It’s not a love letter, not an outpouring of emotion. You had never expected it to be- that wouldn’t be Max. But it’s a letter, all the same, and that’s enough. He tells you he’s been thinking of you, and that says more than you’d ever hoped for. He gives you a return address, too- he’s moved on, at some other ranch for the winter. You read over your reply a million times before you send it, and you wait and wait and wait for his reply with bated breath.
The second letter comes, and you breathe a sigh of relief. It becomes a weekly routine- his letters always seem to show up on Fridays. You sit down, read them, and then pen your response. Sometimes, he doesn’t say much- just that work is good, or slow, or tough. Sometimes he writes about the funny things that happen. He sends a picture, one week- it’s him, bottle feeding a newborn calf, an unexpected winter baby. You pin the picture to your corkboard.
You write to him about your classes, about your friends, about the bars and the parties and the city. You tell him you know he’d hate it there. He tells you maybe it wouldn’t be so bad with you. You don’t tell him, but you hate to think of him in the city, trapped in a too small apartment, wandering narrow streets. He belongs out in the open, under the wide expanse of blue sky. Honestly, the longer you stay in the city, the more you hate it, too.
You try not to let it all go to your heart. You know it won’t work- he doesn’t stick around, he’s a nomad, and you won’t change that about him. You would never ask him to change. You write the letters out by hand, and sometimes, you spray the paper with your perfume before you seal the envelope. You wonder if he notices until he writes about reading your words and swearing he could feel you in the room with him.
Four weeks before your graduation, he says he’s moving on to the next ranch for the summer, and that he’ll write with his new return address soon.
The letters stop, and they don’t start back up again.
You’d always known this could happen- he’s probably busy with work. He’s got things to do, more important things than worrying about writing to you. So you walk the stage at graduation, and when you pack up your apartment, you place the flannel, hat, and photo of him in a box, carefully. Just because it ends doesn’t mean you can’t hold on. You wonder where he is, now, if he headed off to the far west coast like he said he wanted to, or if he ended up closer to home. You wonder if his sister will visit him like he’d been hoping. You try not to wonder if he’s met a girl, but you do it anyways. Maybe he found a pretty cowgirl, one who fits him better than you ever could.
You put your stuff in your car and turn on the radio. Springsteen. Born to Run. The road blurs with your tears, and you wipe them away hastily.
You’re headed to your aunt and uncle’s for one more summer. You haven’t secured a job yet, and the sun and warmth have you aching to be back at the ranch. They greet you with hugs when you pull up, help you unpack your stuff, and your aunt doesn’t ask any questions when you hang Max’s hat on a hook near the bed. You wonder if Maddy’s back this year, if they’re planning on going to the bar tonight, if drinking will take away the bitter edge of it all. You’re here, but it feels different this year. Something’s missing. You hope the feeling goes away soon.
You pull the curtains open to look out over the pastures. The cowboys are out, roping cattle, the grass rolling in waves. A stupid thought crosses your mind- that maybe, one of them knows where Max is, that maybe they’d give you his address- but you shove it down quickly. If he wants to be gone, you have to let him be gone. He warned you. If he wants to get in touch, he knows where to find you.
You push the glass windowpane up to let the warm summer air wash over you. It’ll be dinnertime, soon, Friday night dinner with all the staff. Biscuits and burgers and fresh fruit galore. There will be weeds to tend to in the garden tomorrow, and the bar will still be the same as always. It’s just another summer like all the rest. The cowboys are already heading in for the evening. There’s one of them, out on his own, who moves like he’s one with his horse. It reminds you of… you blink, watching as he throws his head back and laughs. Your heart skips a beat. Without even thinking, you turn and run. Down the stairs, through the house, and out the back door in your bare feet. The long grass whips against your legs. You must be seeing things, but- you need to know. You have to go see for yourself.
They’re moving the cattle towards the barn, but he hangs back, face tilted up towards the sun. When he turns his head, you feel your heart lurch in your chest. He breaks away, directs his horse towards you. When he gets within ten feet of the fence, he slips off the saddle. You can’t bring yourself to move or say anything or even breathe. You must be dreaming.
“Hey, city girl,” Max calls out.
His grin lights you on fire all over again. Suddenly, you feel like you can breathe. It’s Max, it really is- your Max. He’s here.
“You came back,” you say.
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” He hums, reaching up to take his hat off his head.
“But you don’t come back,” you say, fighting the urge to bite your lip, or scream, or cry, or jump the fence and tackle him.
He shrugs and blinks at you, blue eyes sparkling under the hot midday sun. “Must’ve been something in the air here. Something called me back.”
“Something?” You ask, putting on a brave face. “Or someone?”
Max laughs, the same as he did almost a year ago from the back of the horse, the day you first laid eyes on him. Then he looks around, nods, and puts one hand on the fence, his hat hanging at his side in his other. He leans close and presses his forehead to yours, and you gasp and close your eyes.
“Come on, honey,” he says, brushing his lips against your cheek. “I think you already know the answer to that.”
…..
a/n: this is now the smuttiest thing i have ever written. will be unavailable for 3-5 businsss days thank you for reading!
Summary: Everyone, including Max, says he’s too much for you. You find yourself determined to prove them all wrong. Your summer on the ranch is set to be one to remember. 5.1k
warnings: sexual content (minors do not interact, 18+ PLEASE!), alcohol/ intoxication, strong use of language, public sex, oral sex fem receiving, and max is a little mean (oops). if you would like further clarifications on the warnings PLEASE send me a message!
title from Born To Run by Bruce Springsteen, but also from Springsteen by Eric Church, which references… Born To Run by Bruce Springsteen. for mood setting, see also: She Calls Me Back by Noah Kahan and You Should Probably Leave by Chris Stapleton
One of your favorite parts of the summer is the first couple days after you get to your uncle’s ranch. You spend your summers there, helping tend to the gardens and some of the animals in exchange for a breath of fresh air, some time away from the city. You’re in college, now- your last official summer break before real adulthood kicks in- but you’ve been coming here since you were barely able to walk, sometimes with your parents, sometimes without. This year, it’ll just be you. It’s freedom, the way you like it best.
You first see him out in one of the pastures, on horseback, helping round up a wayward bunch of cows. He’s laughing, head flung back, sunlight dancing on his skin. He even sounds pretty, you think, leaning on the fence and watching. You’ve changed into a dress for dinner, your muddy clothes washed and hung out to dry. The cows are being difficult. He doesn’t seem to show even an ounce of frustration.
You’re startled when someone speaks from behind you- It’s Maddy, one of the long term ranch hands.
“Who’s that?” You ask, gesturing at the man.
Maddy whistles lowly and shakes her head. “Don’t even.”
“Don’t even what?” You ask, blinking back at her.
“Get started,” Maddy says, waving a hand dismissively. “You know the saying, too much horse? He’s too much cowboy for you.”
You pout, turning back to look at him. “He seems nice enough.”
He’s climbing off his horse, chatting with another one of the guys. Maddy blows out a breath through pursed lips, and you lean farther on the fence, resting your chin on your hands. The man takes his hat off and runs a hand through his sweat damp hair, and the sunlight glints off the blond strands. You sigh, and Maddy shakes her head.
“Serious, sweets. You don’t wanna go down that road. Max is…,” she sighs and never finishes the thought. Max. It’s a nice name, short and sweet. “Why’d you come out here, anyways?”
“Dinner’s ready,” you say in a dreamy tone.
Maddy groans happily, then whistles loudly, the sound making all the guys turn their heads. “Suppertime!”
You meet Max’s eyes from across the field. The sun is low in the sky, white fluffy clouds dotting the blue above your heads. He grins just a little wider when he looks at you, you swear. He tips his hat to you and then he nudges his horse, taking off across the pasture, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them.
Every Friday, your aunt makes dinner for all the staff, with your help. You all sit down at tables in the backyard and fill up on home cooking and fresh food from the garden. They’re your favorite nights of the week. At dinner, you find that Max is sweet, just like you’d predicted. He says his please and thank yous, his sirs and ma’ams, he smiles kindly at everyone he talks to. He’s friendly, he takes his hat off before he sits down at the table, he’s a perfect gentleman. Maddy must be crazy. How could he ever be too much?
Ten minutes into dinner, you think maybe you know what she meant. You’ve ended up across the table from Max, a few seats down- completely on purpose, on your part. You want him to be able to see you. And he does- fork full of salad halfway to his mouth, he pauses, tilts his head at you, and smiles.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” Max says, dropping the fork to reach his hand out across the linen tablecloths. “I’m Max Verstappen.”
You introduce yourself when he takes your hand in his. You see his eyebrows raise when he hears your last name- he’ll know you’re related to his boss, now, but he’d said his last name, so you’d felt the need to do the same. His hand is warm and calloused against yours, and your cheeks grow hot.
“You live here?” He asks.
You wiggle your hand side to side. “For the summer. I help out in the garden, do odd jobs around the ranch. Then in the fall it’s back to college.”
Max raises one brow, leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Knew you were a city girl,” he says.
“Yeah?” You ask, playing along. “What gave it away?”
He shrugs. “You’re too soft,” he says.
It’s not really an insult, but for some reason, it sounds like one coming from him.
…..
You don’t see Max again for a while, except from a distance, you in the garden, him out in the pastures on horseback. The way he rides is enchanting, like he was born to do it, like a natural. Some people just have it in them, your uncle had said.
It rains for three days straight, and the creek at the back of the property floods like it always does. When the water goes down, Maddy invites you out to a bonfire with everyone on a Friday night, a rare week when they’ve been given a Saturday morning off. You agree eagerly, and you head down just after dinner. You’re greeted by the people who know you, the ones who’ve been coming here for years, who’ve seen you grow up. Someone hands you a bottle of alcohol- you don’t ask what it is before you take a pull. Someone whistles lowly. You turn, and find Max’s blue eyes, lit up by the fire.
“Got something to say?” You ask, hand on your hip.
He shrugs and grins. “No ma’am.”
You roll your eyes and walk away, taking the bottle of tequila with you. Down at the river, Maddy’s floating in the current. You decide she’s a better companion than Max and head for her instead. You pull your dress over your head to reveal your swimsuit, and you slip into the water, sighing at the feeling. The bottle of tequila is abandoned on the bank.
It’s a good night for this- just on the right side of too warm, the water just the right temperature. You take turns swinging off the rope swing, and you laugh and joke and bask in the last remaining sunlight. When the sun goes down, you join the circle around the fire, ending up next to Max completely on accident.
He leans close and nudges his thumb against your arm. “You know, for a city girl, you fit in well.”
You huff and roll your eyes. “I’ve been coming here my whole life. You’re the outsider here.”
He hums softly. When you glance at him, he’s smirking. It makes your blood boil, but worse than that, it makes you want to kiss the smirk right off his face. You hate how easily he seems to get under your skin. To try and drown it out, you reach for the bottle of tequila again.
By the end of the night, Maddy’s gone, and the only person who seems to even notice you’re still there is Max. When you nearly spill the remains of the bottle into the river, he dusts his hands off on his jeans, reaches for your wrist, and starts to walk away with you in tow.
“Time for bed,” Max says, gesturing at you.
You blink, trying to clear your vision, stars swirling above Max’s head as the two of you pop out of the woods and into the open field. “Where’re you takin’ me?”
“I’m taking you home,” he says, almost gently.
Taking you home. You like the sound of that. You think. If he means it how you hope. Maybe you could get it out of your system. Just one good fuck and you could stop watching him when you should be tending to the garden.
“Are you taking me home?” You ask. “Or taking me home?”
“What?” He asks, voice wavering. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what ‘m asking,” you say, voice slightly wobbly.
Max stops in his tracks, eyes wide, brows furrowed. He drops his grip on your wrist. You’re halfway back to the house, standing in the grass of one of the fields. You’re too drunk to care about being seen, or what’s in the grass- you just want Max to answer you.
“I’m not gonna fuck you,” he says, firmly. “If that’s what you’re asking.
You let out a whine and nearly stomp your foot, your whole body growing hot just at the words. “Why not?”
He’s looking at you with an unreadable expression. He’s still in his work clothes, button up shirt and faded jeans, hat still perched atop his head. You could reach up and take it off him, if you wanted, if he’d let you. Maybe undo a couple buttons on his shirt. You wonder if his skin would taste like salt, like the sweat you’d seen beading on his upper lip earlier in the day.
“Because you’re drunk,” he says, scratching at his jaw, stubble scraping under his fingers.
“So what?” You say, blinking up at him.
His face twists into a scowl. “So what, you’re drunk?”
You shrug. Behind him, you can see the house. The kitchen light is still on, the glow pulling you in like a moth to a flame. You hope your aunt and uncle are asleep. He takes a lurching step towards you, and you lose your breath when he cups your jaw in one hand, thumb brushing against your skin.
“I’m not fucking you while you’re drunk,” he says. “I don’t know where that came from or who said it to you, but you deserve better than that.”
“Okay,” you reply, suddenly entranced by his blue eyes, bright even in the low light of night.
He manages to herd you up to the house without laying another finger on you, which is a huge disappointment, honestly. He hangs back while you walk up the steps, staying out of the light. He’s worried about being caught with you. Something twists in your stomach at the implication, at what they would think. Nothing happened- it wouldn’t be worth the humiliation, really. But the sitting room is empty, and so is the kitchen. You’re safe, probably.
“G’night,” you call out softly over your shoulder.
When you turn to look, he’s already gone.
…..
There’s exactly one bar within a 30 mile radius of the ranch, and you know it well. It’s near and dear to your heart. Maddy yells at you from the wide open barn doors one night and invites you out with them, and of course, you say yes. You’re in need of a stiff drink, some loud music, and maybe a little bit of dancing.
She picks you up at the house in her truck. The only seat that’s left is the back passenger seat, the others taken up by other ranch hands. The wind whips through the open windows as she peels out of the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust that you know will have your aunt clicking her tongue and rolling her eyes.
Maddy cranks the volume on the CD player. The first year she came to work here, the radio died, and she became reliant on CDs. Then the player stopped ejecting CDs, leaving her copy of Born In The USA trapped, doomed to spin and play through the half broken speakers forever and ever. Bruce Springsteen’s voice rings out over the rattle of the half broken bumper.
The bar is packed, as expected for a Saturday night. Ranch workers do long hours, longer weeks, but Sunday morning is always a time of rest, no matter how few of them bother going to church. Everyone’s here, from your uncle’s 72 year old neighbor Etta to the kid who works the cash register at the gas station. This is the place to be- the only place to be.
It means Max is here, too. It takes you a while to spot him, surprisingly- he blends in well, in his dark shirt, faded jeans, boots and cowboy hat, he looks like everyone else in this place, in this town, in this state. You’re two drinks in, another one in your hand, when you see him. He’s leaning against the bar, leaning close to some girl you’ve never seen before. She’s just his type, probably- long hair, dirt on her jeans, a real life all American girl. You hear his voice echoing in your head- city girl, too soft- and you take a swig of your drink. When you look back at him, he’s staring at you, smirking. You roll your eyes and turn away.
You have a good time, despite Max’s words bouncing around in your head, bringing with them a bit of a feeling of not belonging here. You mingle with the guys from the ranch that you already know, the ones who’ve been working there for years. You dance with one of them when he asks politely, accept a drink from another with a sweet smile, perch yourself on a stool and watch them play pool. You’re laying it on thick, because it’s fun, and because you can feel eyes on the back of your head. Max is watching from across the bar, even as that same girl hangs off his arm and grins up at him. You’re not sure what to make of it.
He doesn’t come near you, doesn’t speak a word in your direction. He just watches, like he’s lying in wait. It would piss you off if it didn’t turn you on so much. You wonder if he notices when you kiss one of the guys on the cheek after they win. You wonder if he sees the way you pull the top of your sundress down just a little bit. You wonder if he sees you pout at someone to buy you a drink, if that would work on him, if he’s checking you out the same way this other guy is.
He doesn’t come close until the end of the night, when they turn on the lights and you’re sure you smell like tequila and cheap beer. Maddy disappeared with a guy from another ranch and left you with her keys, but you’re definitely not fit to drive. You wobble a bit when you stand up from the barstool, and suddenly there’s a strong grip on your side, steadying you. You flinch and try to wrench yourself away.
“Don’ touch me,” you slur, twisting to face whoever it is. You come face to face with Max, and you scowl. “‘Specially you. Don’t you have manners, cowboy? Don’t touch a lady without permission.”
Max rolls his eyes and snatches the keys from your hand before you can blink. “Who the fuck was going to let you drive?”
“I wasn’t gonna drive,” you insist, scowl deepening. “Was gonna find someone to drive me. Give me the keys.”
He ignores you and starts to walk away. As he brushes past you, he reaches for your wrist and tugs gently. You follow, only because he has the keys and his grip is warm and you can feel his thumb pressing into your pulse point. Your breath hitches. He drags you out of the bar, and the cold air hits like a slap to the face, waking you up.
“Hey,” you snap, stopping and tugging your arm from his grip. “What are you doing?”
“Taking you home,” he says.
“What happened to the girl who was all over you?” You ask, too drunk to stop yourself. “She was giving you fuck me eyes, you know. You’re not gonna take her home?”
He scoffs and reaches for your arm again, and you tug it out of reach, crossing your arms over your chest. You know the motion pushes your tits together, and you see his eyes flicker down to sneak a peek. You grin. He rolls his eyes.
“No,” he says, jerking his head towards the parking lot. “Come on.”
“Did you already fuck her in the bathroom, is that why?”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “No.”
“You could take me home, you know-“ you start.
He fixes you with a stern glare that has your face heating up, your stomach churning. You’re coming on too strong. He doesn’t want you like that, and now you’re drunk and acting insane and- he’s just trying to make sure you get home safe. He thinks you’re some stupid city girl who can’t hold her liquor and was going to drive drunk, and you would never-
“I really wasn’t going to drive,” you say, and his face softens. “I would’ve slept in the truck if I had to.”
“I know,” he says softly. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”
You nod. “You’re good to drive?”
He nods. You let him take your hand this time, instead of grabbing your wrist, and you try not to get used to the feeling of his calloused palm against yours.
By the time you leave the parking lot of the bar, there are three other people in the backseat, and a few in the bed of the truck, too. Max is a careful driver, though you’re sure part of that is because of the people in the back. He stops at another ranch and one of them climbs out, and then he stops at the bunkhouse at your uncle’s ranch before he steers the car up towards the house. It’s just the two of you. The CD is still spinning, playing quietly through the speakers. He puts the truck in park in front of the house, kitchen light glowing, and you feel like you’re going to be sick.
Instead, words slip past your lips. “I’m sorry. For being… weird. Forward.”
Max scoffs.
“I know. Understatement.” You shrug, reaching for the door handle. “I just. I read the signals wrong. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
You open the door a crack and then freeze when his hand falls to your thigh, gripping tight, burning hot even through the fabric of your dress. Your breath is caught in your chest. You turn to look at him, his face half illuminated, half shadowed.
“You didn’t,” he says.
You swallow. The air is thick with humidity and tension. “Didn’t what?” You ask.
“Make me uncomfortable,” he says, softly. “Or read the signals wrong.”
You pull the truck door shut and turn towards him in your seat. His hand never leaves your leg, his eyes never leave your face, not even when you lean towards him, just slightly. Your heart is in your throat.
“But you told me no, after the river,” you mumble. “And then tonight…”
“You were drunk,” he says. “And you’re drunk again. And you’re too good for me. You deserve better. But…”
“But?”
“But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he says, and your skin lights on fire. His fingers dig into your leg, and you hope to god he leaves a mark. “Bet you taste sweet as honey, too.”
Blood roars in your ears so loud you barely hear the words you say next. “Maybe you should find out for yourself.”
He grins, and then he shakes his head. He releases his grip on your leg and exchanges it for a light smack against the outside of your thigh. If you were sober, you’d call him out for it, but right now, it just sends a shock through your system.
“Time for bed, honey,” he says, and in a trance, you open the door again and head inside.
In the morning, you wonder if you imagined it all. But when you bring coffee out to the cowboys on Monday, he blushes red as the tomatoes in the garden, and you know it was real.
…..
5 days go by. 5 days of watching out the window while he works, 5 days of pining, 5 days of avoiding him at all costs because if you’re being honest, you’re nervous. But then it’s Thursday afternoon, and he walks into the barn while you’re already standing there, and suddenly your heart is pounding in your chest.
He leans against one of the walls, crossing one foot over the other, arms folded over his chest. “You’re avoiding me.”
You shrug, leaning over to brush a bit of dust off your boots before you lean against the opposite wall. You don’t meet his eyes. “Wonder why that would be.”
He huffs. “If you want to be a brat, I can go.”
Your cheeks are burning, and you finally look at him, a glare set in your eyes. He’s smiling, the asshole, barely containing his amusement. Maybe you don’t want him, maybe he’s a jerk, maybe- he uncrosses and recrosses his arms, and you watch his muscles twitch under the fabric of his shirt. You swallow.
“I already told you what I want,” you mutter.
“Oh, good, you remember that,” he retorts.
“I wasn’t that drunk,” you snark back.
“Drunk enough to say it out loud when you can’t even look me in the eyes now,” he says, taking a step away from the door. “Come on, say it like a big girl. Ask me again, sober, like you did before.”
Your heart is in your throat, now. He looms over you, eyes sweeping up and down your body. It’s then that you realize how short your dress is, how close he is, how much you really do want him.
“Max,” you whine, almost petulant.
He tilts his head. “Can’t you ask nicely? Where are your manners?”
You blink up at him, once, twice, three times. His cheeks are rosy red, pupils blown wide. He smells like sweat and sunshine and man and you can’t get enough of him. His hat sits low on his brow, plush lips just barely parted, like he’s waiting for something. You can’t stand it anymore, can’t play this game with him forever.
You reach up and take the hat off his head, and he groans. When you put it atop your own head, he blinks slowly. His hand falls to your hip. It makes you feel like you’re burning up, even through the fabric.
“Fuck me,” you whisper, leaning up to put your lips close to his ear. “Will you do it if I say please, Max?”
His hand squeezes at your hip harshly, and his mouth falls open. And then he’s kissing you, shoving you up against the wall of the barn, and you barely have time to wrap your arms around his neck before he’s slipping his tongue into your mouth. He kisses like no boy you’ve ever kissed before, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, what buttons to press, just how to touch you to have you seeing stars before he’s even begun. He slips his hand lower from your waist and under your skirt, sliding up your thigh, and you whimper into his mouth. His other hand slams against the wall next to your head to try and steady himself. You arch your back, pressing your chest to his, melting when he shifts so one of his legs is slotted between yours, and you-
There’s a shout, then voices, headed your way. Max rips himself away from you, leaving you gasping for air, lips already parting to whine about it. He snatches his hat off your head.
“Max,” you pant, and he blinks harshly, taking another full step back from you. “Wait, Max-“
“Later,” he hisses. “Just- we’ll talk later, okay?”
Then he disappears from the barn, leaving nothing but empty air and a bit of beard burn behind him.
…..
You don’t talk later, really. Max is a rollercoaster. He kisses you in the barn and then ignores you for 24 hours. He sits next to you at the Friday night dinner and slides his hand up your thigh under the table, far too high to be anywhere near polite, and then ignores you the next morning when you bring out coffee, too busy talking to one of his buddies. He finds you in the barn a different night and wraps his arm around your waist, pulls your back to his front, and kisses your neck until you’re bracing yourself on the workbench in front of you, and then at the slightest noise outside, he’s gone. It’s maddening. It’s like he can’t make up his mind.
“You’re too young,” he says, one night.
The two of you are standing out in the fields, watching the sun sink low over the horizon. He has his hands in his pockets.
“Right, because you’re ancient,” you reply.
“Are you even twenty one?” He asks.
“I was in the bar the other night, wasn’t I?”
“College kids get fake IDs.”
“I’m perfectly legal,” you answer, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt. “In every possible way.”
He spins you around, presses you up against the fence, and kisses you. You’re amazed the grass doesn’t catch on fire from the heat of it all.
…
You meet him and the rest of the crew down by the creek another night, and this time you catch him watching when you wade in the cool water in your swimsuit. He doesn’t bother looking away, just keeps watching and grins, making your face heat up. He must know what he does to you, must know how he makes you feel, and it’s so unfair.
You dry off and slip back into your dress a while later. He lends you his flannel when the sun slips down and you shiver in your spot, sitting on the ground and leaning against his legs. He’s sitting in a camp chair behind you, and every so often, you feel his hand against your shoulder. You try not to read into it.
Someone pulls out a guitar and starts to strum. You turn to him.
“Can you play?” You ask. He shakes his head, and you hum. “Then what’s your cowboy party trick?”
He tilts his head at you, brows furrowed. “What?”
“You know, like… the guitar, darts, bull riding,” you say, gesturing at him. “What makes you cool?”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and speaks softly, close to your ear. “The only guys who need party tricks are the ones who can’t pull a girl without them.”
You scoff and slap his knee. “Then maybe we should find you a trick, cowboy.”
He reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “Nah. I think I’m doing just fine.”
You glare up at him, hoping he can see it even in the dark. He laughs. You roll your eyes.
“But I am pretty handy with the rope,” he says, and then he winks.
You blink up at him, and his shoulders start to shake. You cross your arms over your chest and turn to stare at the fire again, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of asking exactly what he means, or if he’s offering. Behind you, his leg shakes with his laughter.
…
Another afternoon, he pulls up behind you in his truck while you’re walking down the dirt road and calls out a “hey, honey.”
This leads to you climbing into his truck with him, and a short drive to a more secluded area. Then he gets you in his lap, his hands on your hips, and kisses you senseless. You can feel him getting hard underneath you. It makes you ache. You chase after his lips when he starts to pull away, his hands still holding you tight.
“I don’t come back,” he tells you, lips brushing yours.
“Okay,” you mutter. Then you pause. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t come back,” he repeats. You huff. “I won’t be back here next year. I’ll be… I don’t know, but it won’t be here.”
Some cowboys stay at one ranch their whole careers. Others wander the Wild West and never go back to the same place twice. You should’ve known Max would be a runner.
“Okay,” you say, again. “What does that have to do with anything?”
He shrugs. “You deserve someone who’ll come back.”
And. He says it, but then he hauls you close and kisses you again, so. You choose to ignore it.
…
On a Saturday night, at the bar, you lean over to whisper “come on,” in his ear.
He’s nursing a gin and tonic. “Gonna have to be more clear what you’re asking for, honey.”
You giggle, draped over his shoulder in the dark corner of the booth. Nobody’s looking, and even if they were, they wouldn’t care. Your hand rests on his shoulder, your chin resting atop your hand, your lips brushing his ear. He shudders.
“Meet me in the bathroom in five?” You ask.
He groans, eyelids fluttering, and turns towards you, nose to nose. He’s so close you swear you can feel his breath. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek.
“You’re better than getting fucked in a bar bathroom,” he says. When you raise a brow and open your mouth to protest, he winces, and adds, “you’re better than this bar bathroom, and I’m not fucking you here, and you’re drunk.”
You sit back and cross your arms over your chest petulantly. You can see the smirk on his lips from the corner of your eye, but you don’t bother to call him out on it.
…
Max is a rollercoaster, but you grow tired of being stuck on the ride pretty quickly. He kisses you and touches you and then he pulls away. No matter what, he won’t fuck you. He’s always got an excuse. It’s driving you up the walls.
“You are driving me nuts,” you say through gritted teeth, three days later, when you look up and find him leaning on the garden fence, watching you pull weeds.
“Think it’s the other way around, honey,” he says, shaking his head. “You look pretty like this.”
You look down at yourself, at the dress you’re wearing, at the way you’re kneeling on the ground. Your face gets hot, and you wipe the dirt from your hands onto your apron.
“Then do something about it,” you snip, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist. “Or would you rather just stand there and stare?”
He whistles lowly, and you try to pretend the sound doesn’t send a shiver down your spine. “City girl’s got an attitude, huh?”
You huff, push yourself up off the ground, and gather your things. You’re not just going to sit here and let him ogle you, let him think up fantasies to get off to later like you know he’s probably doing. He knows what you want, he’s admitted he wants it, too, but he won’t give in, and you’re so over it. He thinks you’re the one with the attitude, but-
“Hey, honey,” he says, just before you start to walk away. You turn over your shoulder, squinting at him, the evening sun straight over his shoulder.
“Yeah, Max?” You answer, hating how anticipatory you sound.
He looks at his watch. “Meet me at the river in an hour?”
You blink. Your heart skips a beat. Then you nod. He nods back. You wait for him to walk away, picking a couple more tomatoes off the vine. Then, once he’s out of sight, you take off running through the tall grass, all the way up to the house. Your hands shake with anticipation the whole time you’re getting ready. It feels a bit ridiculous, but you can’t help it- something is in the air, some sort of current, crackling beneath the surface. You just hope you get to find out exactly what it is.
part ii. coming tomorrow @ 3pm EST!!
a/n: thanks for reading! hope you enjoyed! fair warning, part two kicks things up a notch in terms of +18 content. see you all tomorrow!
