Summary: When Lando returns a day early from London, he finds you lost in your cleaning playlist, wearing nothing but his sweatpants and a pink sports bra that shows off your Miami tan. The sight of you, flushed, sweaty, wholly unaware, ignites a desperate hunger that pulls you both into the shower for raw, unrestrained, sex.
Warnings: 18+!!!!! explicit sexual content (oral sex, blowjob, penetrative sex, dirty talk), mature language, consensual sex, unprotected sex (pls wrap it), creampie, reader implied being on bc, shower sex, multiple orgasms, aftercare
A/N: hiii, loves. Don’t worry Bet part two is on the way, I’m still in the process of writing it, please know I am on my phone so it takes me a little longer to get fics out. Long story short, but basically my ex broke up with me last October and I didn’t get chance to grab my laptop or anything important when he kicked me out, I tried to go back to the house but he kept making excuses as to why I couldn’t go round, so I lost a lot of stuff and I can’t afford to replace it yet. Turns out, we hadn’t even been broken up 4 months and he already had another girl on the go. So yeah, please bear with me, I didn’t want to leave you for weeks without a fic and I’ve had this one in my drafts for a while unsure if I should share it or not but I thought what the hell, so here it is loves, enjoy! 🩷
The apartment was a disaster when you started.
Well, not a disaster, you'd never let it get that bad. But after Lando had left for London three days ago, you'd let things slide. A mug here, a pair of shoes there, the mail piling up on the entryway table. Nothing catastrophic, but enough that when you woke up this morning with restless energy humming through your veins, you knew exactly what to do with it.
You'd already scrubbed the worktops until they gleamed, the lemon-scented cleaner cutting through the morning's toast crumbs and coffee rings. The washing up was done and drying in the rack, plates stacked neatly, glasses upside down, the way you'd learned from your mum. You'd hoovered every inch of the marble floors, then mopped them twice because you'd caught a spot in the corner the first time. The windows were streak-free. The cushions were fluffed. The mail was sorted into piles: bills, fan mail, and the junk you'd recycle later.
You'd even scrubbed the stubborn ring in the toilet that had been taunting you for weeks.
Your back was beginning to ache, that familiar dull throb that settled right at the base of your spine, the one that reminded you you weren't twenty anymore, that four years of racing weekends and bad hotel mattresses and carrying Lando's helmet bag through crowded paddocks had taken their toll. But you ignored it. You always did. You'd rest when you were done, pop a couple of ibuprofen, and let Lando's fancy heated mattress pad work its magic on the knots.
Lando had said time and again you could get a cleaner. "Baby, we can afford it. Let someone else scrub the toilet. You don't have to push yourself." And you knew he meant well, he always meant well, but you couldn't shake the feeling of having a stranger in your space. Going through your drawers. Touching your things. Your things. The pink vibrator in the nightstand. The lube in the bathroom cabinet. The love letters he'd written you when he was still a rookie, still nervous, still not quite believing you'd chosen him.
Those were private. Those were yours.
So you did it yourself. Paced yourself, took breaks when your back screamed too loud, and ignored the way your hips popped when you bent over the bathtub.
Now it was midday, the sun streaming through the balcony doors, and you were onto the last task: laundry.
You'd collected it all this morning, the mountain of towels you'd let pile up, the bedsheets from the two times you'd changed them in a panic before remembering Lando wasn't there to see, and his clothes. God, his clothes. You'd dumped the basket onto the sofa, the fresh scent of fabric softener rising up as you sorted through the chaos.
T-shirts. Jeans. Socks. More t-shirts.
And then there were the orange ones.
You held one up, sighing dramatically even though no one was there to hear it. Another McLaren polo, papaya orange with the sponsors running down the sleeve. You folded it with practiced precision, setting it on the pile that was growing taller by the minute.
"One hundred orange shirts," you muttered, reaching for the next one. "One hundred bloody orange shirts and he still complains he has nothing to wear."
Not that you were counting. Okay, you were counting. And you were pretty sure you'd hit sixty-seven before you'd lost track, but the point stood.
The music was loud enough that you almost missed the front door clicking shut.
Your cleaning playlist, a chaotic mix of upbeat pop, guilty pleasures, and a few songs you'd never admit to loving, blared from the Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen worktop. Dua Lipa's Physical was playing, and you were half-singing, half-grumbling along as you smoothed out the collar of yet another orange polo.
You didn't hear the footsteps behind you. Not over the music. Not over your own humming.
Two warm palms slid around your waist, pulling you back against a solid chest, and you squealed, a sharp, startled sound that dissolved into a laugh as familiar lips pressed to the curve of your neck. The scent of airplane air, airport coffee, and him flooded your senses. That particular smell you'd come to associate with coming home, with late-night arrivals and early-morning departures, with the way he always smelled a little bit like jet fuel and a little bit like the expensive cologne you'd bought him for his birthday.
"Jesus, Lando," you breathed, dropping the shirt mid-fold. "You know I hate when you do that."
"Sorry, baby." His voice was low, rough, pressed into your skin like a promise. His lips moved against your neck, soft at first, then firmer, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on your skin. "Couldn't help it. You look so good right now."
You turned in his arms, and there he was, tired dark circles under his eyes, his hoodie zipped halfway, that lopsided grin you'd fallen in love with four years ago. His hands slid down to your hips, fingers curling into the waistband of his own sweatpants that you'd stolen. Again.
His eyes were dark, pupils already blown wide, and you felt the evidence of his arousal pressing against your ass through the thin fabric of his sweats. He wasn't wearing boxers. You knew that trick, he'd done it before, showing up at hotels with nothing but joggers and a hoodie, grinning like the cheeky bastard he was when you reached for his waistband.
"I thought you weren't meant to be back until tomorrow?" you managed, your voice a little breathless as his hands tightened on your hips. "Lan, I'm all gross and sweaty."
He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin as he dipped his head to your neck again. His lips found that spot just below your ear, the one that always made your knees weak.
"Got an earlier flight." His words were muffled against your skin, but you heard them perfectly. "Missed you too much. Couldn't stand the thought of sleeping alone. Needed to come home. To you."
His hips rolled against yours, a slow, deliberate grind that sent a jolt straight between your legs. You could feel him, hard, aching, the outline of his cock pressing against the seam of his sweats. He didn't try to hide it. He never did.
"Let's go shower, baby." His voice was rough, almost a growl, and his eyes were dark with want as he pulled back just enough to look at you.
He didn't wait for your answer. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together, and he pulled you through the living room, past the half-folded laundry, past the speaker still blasting music, past the coffee table where you'd left your water bottle. You stumbled after him, your heart hammering in your chest, that familiar flutter of anticipation low in your belly.
The bathroom was bright, the afternoon sun streaming through the frosted window, casting patterns on the white tiles. Lando didn't bother closing the door all the way, he was too impatient, too desperate for you, and then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was hungry. Desperate. His tongue swept into your mouth like he'd been starved for weeks instead of days, like he'd been thinking about the taste of you on the flight, in the taxi, every single moment he was away. His hands found the clasp of your sports bra, fumbling for a moment before it gave way, and he pulled the fabric down your arms, tossing it somewhere behind him.
He pulled back just long enough to look at you.
You stood there in nothing but his sweatpants, the waistband folded three times to keep them up, your skin still flushed from the cleaning, a bead of sweat trailing slowly down your chest, between your breasts. Your hair was a mess, strands falling from your bun, framing your face in a way that made his breath catch.
"Fuck," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "You're so beautiful."
His hands came up to cup your face, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones, and he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips. When he pulled back, his eyes were shining.
"Let me take care of you," he murmured, and you nodded, unable to find your voice.
He stripped you with practiced ease, sweatpants pushed down your legs, leaving you in nothing but your bare skin, the cool air of the bathroom raising goosebumps on your arms. He stepped back just long enough to yank his own hoodie over his head, then his t-shirt, and then his sweats followed in a single impatient motion.
The water was warm when he turned it on, steam beginning to fill the small space. He tested it with his hand, adjusted the temperature, then stepped under the spray, pulling you in after you.
The water hit your shoulders, warm and steady, rinsing away the day's dust and sweat. It streamed down your body, over your breasts, between your legs. Lando watched it all, his gaze dark and hungry, his cock already fully hard, curving up against his stomach, the tip flushed and slick with precum.
He pushed you gently against the cool tile wall, one hand bracing beside your head, the other sliding down your stomach, between your thighs. His fingers found your clit, circling slowly, dipping lower to feel how wet you already were.
"Jesus," he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours. "You're soaked for me."
"Always," you whispered back, and that was all the permission he needed.
The water beat down on his back, darkening his curls, running in rivulets down his shoulders. He spread your legs wider, one hand gripping your thigh, lifting your leg over his shoulder. The position was intimate, vulnerable, the tile cold against your back and the water warm on your skin.
And then his mouth was on you.
His tongue licked a long stripe from your entrance up to your clit, flattening and pressing, tasting you through the water and soap and salt. You gasped, your fingers tangling in his wet hair, gripping the damp curls as he worked you open. He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks through your core, and he doubled down, his tongue circling your clit with practiced precision.
He ate you like he was starving, like he'd been thinking about this moment on the flight, in the taxi, every minute he was away. Like the taste of you was the only thing that could ground him after three days of meetings and spreadsheets and pretending to care about sponsorship deals.
"Fuck, Lando—" Your voice broke, your hips bucking against his face.
He pulled back just long enough to say, "Let go. I've got you," before diving back in, his fingers joining his mouth, two digits sliding into your cunt as his tongue worked your clit. He curled them just right, pressing against that spot inside you that made your vision go white, made your knees buckle.
Your leg tightened around his shoulder, your fingers pulling at his curls as the pressure built inside you, coiling tighter and tighter until it snapped. Your orgasm crashed through you without warning, a wave of heat and pleasure that made you cry out, your voice echoing off the tiles. Lando groaned in satisfaction as he lapped up every pulse of your release, working you through it until you were trembling, until your grip on his hair went slack.
He stood up slowly, water streaming down his face, his lips glistening with your release. He looked fucking wrecked. And he was still hard, his cock pressing against your thigh, aching and desperate.
"My turn," you said, your voice low and rough, still catching your breath.
You sank to your knees before he could protest. The tile was cool against your shins, the water warm on your back, streaming down your shoulders. You took his cock in your hand, thick and aching, the skin hot against your palm, and licked the tip, tasting the salt of precum and the clean tang of soap.
He sucked in a breath, his hand finding the back of your head. "Fuck, baby."
You wrapped your lips around him and took him deep.
Your tongue traced the vein along the underside, your hand working the base in rhythm with your mouth. He tasted like home, like the hours you'd spent in this exact position, like every hotel room and apartment and penthouse you'd ever shared. Your other hand came up to cup his balls, gently massaging as you bobbed your head, hollowing your cheeks, taking him as far as you could until your throat relaxed and he hit the back.
He gasped above you, his hips twitching, fighting the urge to thrust. His hand threaded through your wet hair, not pushing, just resting there, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
"I'm close," he warned, his voice strained, ragged. "If you keep—fuck—if you keep doing that, I'm gonna—"
You doubled down, taking him deeper, your hand working faster, your tongue swirling around the tip. You wanted to taste him. You wanted him to come undone in your mouth, wanted to feel his release hot on your tongue.
But he pulled back, stepping out of your reach, his chest heaving. Water streamed down his face, his chest, his stomach, pooling at his feet.
"No." His voice was rough, almost desperate. "Not like that. I need to be inside you."
He hauled you up, spinning you around, pressing your chest against the tile. The water sluiced over your back, warm and steady, and you felt him behind you, his cock sliding along your ass, your thighs, finding your entrance. He teased you for a moment, the tip pressing against your folds, sliding through your wetness, making you ache for him.
"Please," you breathed, your hands flat against the tile. "Lando, please."
He pushed in in one smooth motion, filling you completely, and a low groan tore from both of you. Your walls clenched around him, still sensitive from your orgasm, and he had to pause, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his breath hot against your wet skin.
"God, you feel—" He couldn't finish. He started to move.
His thrusts were deep, deliberate, each one pressing you harder against the tile. The sound of his hips slapping against your wet skin echoed off the walls, mixing with the rush of water and your shared moans. One of his hands snaked around to your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he fucked you from behind.
"Look at you," he rasped, his voice low and rough in your ear. "Taking me so good. You love this, don't you? Love when I come home and fuck you like this."
"Tell me." He drove deeper, harder, your knuckles white against the tile. "Tell me how much you missed my cock."
"So much," you gasped, your voice breaking. "I missed—I missed you inside me—fuck, don't stop—"
He didn't. He fucked you through another orgasm, your body shuddering around him, your walls clenching and releasing as pleasure washed over you. The feeling of you coming undone around him pushed him closer to the edge, and you felt his rhythm falter, his grip tightening on your hips.
"Cum inside me," you whispered, the words barely audible over the water. "Please, Lan. I want to feel you."
He buried himself deep, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he released inside you, hot, pulsing, endless. You felt every spasm, every twitch, the sensation sending aftershocks through your own sensitive body. He stayed there, grinding slowly, riding out every last pulse of his orgasm, until his body went slack against yours.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the water and your breathing, heavy and ragged. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close.
But you felt it, a twitch. Another. He was still hard inside you.
"Again," he murmured against your skin, his voice wrecked but determined. "One more time."
He didn't pull out. Instead, he turned you around, your back against the tile, and lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms around his neck, and he pressed you against the wall, still buried deep inside you.
This time was slower. Deeper. His forehead pressed against yours as he thrust up into you, his eyes locked on yours, not breaking contact even as the water streamed down your faces.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice raw. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," you breathed back, your fingers tangling in his wet curls, gently tugging as he moved inside you.
He groaned at the tug, his hips faltering for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut. "Fuck, baby. Your hands in my hair. Always gets me."
You did it again, pulling gently, and he moaned, burying his face in your neck as he fucked you against the tile. The angle was perfect, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes, and you felt another orgasm building, coiling low in your belly.
"Cum with me," he whispered against your ear. "One more time. Let go with me."
You did. Together. Your bodies shuddering in sync, your release mingling, the water washing over you both as you clung to each other, breathing each other in.
When it was over, he held you for a long moment, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard. He pulled out slowly, and you felt his release trickle down your thigh, mixing with the water and disappearing into the drain.
He didn't let you go. He turned you around, his hands gentle now, and reached for the soap.
His hands moved over your shoulders, down your arms, across your back. He lathered your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you shiver. He knelt to wash your legs, your feet, then stood again to rinse the soap from your skin. When he was done, he washed himself quickly, then turned off the water.
He grabbed a towel, the biggest, fluffiest one in the cupboard, and wrapped it around you, cocooning you in warmth. He dried his own hair with a smaller towel, then wrapped another around his waist before taking your hand.
"Come on," he murmured, leading you out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.
The bed was unmade, the sheets still rumpled from your restless sleep the night before. He guided you to sit on the edge, then disappeared into the bathroom again. When he came back, he was holding the hairdryer.
"Let me," he said, and you didn't argue.
He sat behind you on the bed, your back against his chest, and began to dry your hair. The warm air blew through the wet strands, his fingers gently combing through tangles, working from the ends up so he didn't pull. You leaned back into him, your eyes closed, feeling the hum of the dryer and the steady beat of his heart against your back.
"You know you don't have to do this every time," you murmured, your voice sleepy.
"I know." He kissed the top of your head. "But I want to."
When your hair was dry and soft, he set the hairdryer aside and pulled back the covers. He guided you under them, then climbed in after you, his body spooning yours, his arm draped over your waist.
"Thank you for coming home early," you whispered, your eyes already fluttering closed.
His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer. "Always, baby. Always."
You felt his breath even out, his grip loose but present. You smiled into the pillow, your hand finding his where it rested on your stomach, your fingers lacing with his.
The laundry could wait until tomorrow. The orange shirts could stay unfolded.
Right now, there was nowhere else you'd rather be.
