Muahh🎞

“Again! You’re too slow on the second ball! Focus on your recovery.”

You cursed under your breath but obeyed, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet, racquet ready.

You were definitely out of breath. You couldn’t afford it, but you were.

This wasn’t the moment to take shortcuts. For the first time in your professional tennis career, you were heading into a tournament as a top 10 seed: your name printed higher on the draw sheet than ever before, suddenly burdened with expectation and pressure. Everyone would be watching to see if you could back it up. If your ranking was proof of something permanent, or just a lucky run.

Being the underdog had its freedom, yes: you could swing freely, surprise people. But now, eyes followed you everywhere. Every practice was dissected, every result compared against expectation.

“Alright, let’s close on serves. Get your rhythm right before we wrap.”

You nodded, dragging yourself back onto the baseline. The basket of balls had been rolled closer, each yellow sphere practically daring you to prove you belonged inside that top 10. You bounced the first ball deliberately, keeping the toss steady, elbow tucked close to your rib cage.

The first serve came out crisp: flat, down the T, a clean ace if it had been match play.

Just like that.

“Again. Rely on muscle memory.”

You wiped your palm against your skirt and bounced another ball, preparing for a wide slice.

And that’s when you heard it. A ripple of laughter, deeper voices drifting over from the far side of the club.

You tried not to look, you really did.  But instinct tugged your eyes across the complex.

And there he was.

Lando Norris, unmistakable even at a distance, was strolling toward the padel enclosure with three friends in tow. With that relaxed bounce, cap flipped backwards, sunglasses hooked to his t-shirt, the casual arrogance of a man who never had to fight to be noticed.

You smirked. Of course he was here.

“Oh, great,” you muttered to yourself, getting ready for another serve.

Monaco had a way of making collisions feel inevitable, as if the city itself were a carefully designed maze where the same people were always meant to cross paths again, no matter how carefully they tried to avoid it.

You could pretend coincidence for a while, but eventually the word lost its meaning. Especially when it came to Lando.

That was how it had started. Once. Just once, you’d told yourself afterward, standing barefoot in a hotel room that still smelled faintly of champagne and sex, watching dawn creep over the port.

It had been after his Monaco win.

You’d both escaped early from a sponsor event, traded a look that said should we? and why not?, and somehow ended up making out behind a closed door before either of you had the sense to overthink it.

You remembered thinking, even then, that it had been absurdly easy. Too easy, maybe. No awkward explanations, no pretence. You both knew. Your bodies were your livelihoods, tuned and punished in equal measure, and there was something almost comforting about being with someone who treated that as a given instead of a novelty.

It should have ended there. A single, private night filed away under things that happen when there’s too much free champagne available.

Except it didn’t.

Because a few weeks later there you were again, standing at yet another sponsor party. Different city but same kind of music and same polite conversations looping endlessly around.

You hadn’t planned it. You never did. It just… happened. Again. A shared look. A joke whispered too close to be entirely innocent. An excuse about early mornings and long days that everyone accepted without question. Another hotel hallway, another door clicking shut behind you. The second time had felt less reckless and somehow more dangerous for it, because you both knew exactly what you were choosing.

Then there had been Barcelona…or rather, Madrid first. You’d been there for a tournament, exhausted in the particular way that only came from grinding through long matches under a merciless sun, your body sore and your head buzzing with half-finished points that could’ve been played better. His message had popped up late one evening, after you were already out of the competition.

Why don’t you come to Barcelona for a few days?

It was absurd, really: detouring to another city in the middle of a tournament swing just because a Formula 1 driver suggested it.

And yet, by the time you closed your suitcase two days later, you were shaking your head at yourself, lips quirking with a smile you couldn’t quite suppress.

The sex was too good for that, so disarmingly right it had rewired your sense of risk. Every time you were together, it was as if he read you before you spoke; he knew when to push, how to push, how to make you go crazy and when to let you rest, taking you slow and unhurrily.

It left you wrecked in the best possible way, overstimulated and breathless, wondering how something could feel so mutual it almost felt choreographed, as if your bodies had agreed on this long before you did.

You snapped back to reality, tossing the ball again. It wasn’t the right moment to think about you two naked under satin sheets, when your coach was two meter away waiting for you to deliver some serves.

But well, your rhythm was already broken, the ball drifting too far forward. You chased it, making contact awkwardly, sending it into the net.

Horrible.

You blew out a breath, adjusted your visor, and tried again. Toss, too high this time, your wrist snapping late. The serve flew long, clipping the back fence.

Terrible.

“Are you kidding me?” your coach exploded, stepping forward, hands on hips. “What the hell is that? Focus! You don’t get to spray serves like a junior. Eyes on the ball!”

From across the way, a burst of laughter broke out, the kind of easy, careless noise that cut sharper because you knew exactly who it belonged to. You didn’t dare look, but you could hear it: Lando and his mates, already on the padel court, joking, messing around with their warm-up swings. The timing of it stung, like the sound was aimed at you, even if it wasn’t.

You bounced the ball once, twice, forcing yourself to tune it out.

Split step. Relax your hand. You visualized the motion, smooth and fluid, the ball toss rising just above eye level, the racquet drop falling into the slot behind your back. Legs drove upward, shoulder uncoiling like a spring, contact crisp, strings cutting clean through.

Thwack.

The ball ripped down the T, grazing the inside of the line. An ace.

Fucking finally.

“Yes,” your coach snapped, approving. “Thank you. Again.”

You wiped the back of your wrist across your forehead, blocking out the stray noise. Ball in hand, bounce-bounce, toss. You found the rhythm again. Wide slice, dragging the returner off the court. Then a heavy kicker, arcing up, exploding off the box with vicious spin. One after another, hammering the service box until the echo of contact and the spray of clay drowned everything else out.

By the time the basket was empty, your shirt clung to your back, and your shoulder ached.

You drained the last of your water and slung your racquet bag over your shoulder, body still humming from the repetition. Your coach gave you a final nod.

“Good work today! Same focus tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yep, got it,” you said, voice hoarse but steady.

As you started toward the exit gate, the scrape of clay under your shoes mixing with the faint pop of padel balls being struck in the court opposite, something yellow rolled lazily across the gravel and bumped to a stop near your feet.

“Hey!” a voice called. “Sorry—could you grab that for us?”

You glanced down. A padel ball. Smaller, lighter than your own, sitting just beside the bench. With a small sigh, you bent, scooping it up.

When you straightened, three pairs of eyes were on you.

Lando leaned against the mesh fence, padel racquet dangling loosely from his hand, grin tugging wide at the corner of his mouth. His cap was still backwards, curls sticking out underneath, eyes alight with the same energy that had broken your rhythm earlier.

Outside of your secret bubble, you were friends. Kinda. In public, at least.

It helped that, in truth, you didn’t really know each other. No shared childhood memories, no deep conversations about fears and future plans, no emotional dialogues. What you shared lived firmly in the present, contained to specific places and moments, and that made it easier to keep everything else clean.

And somehow, it worked. No rumors followed you down red carpets. No whispers curled through paddocks or press rooms. No speculative headlines pairing your names together with a question mark and a winking tone.

And that was good.

Cause you’re primary ultimate focus was tennis. And becoming the N°1 in the WTA ranking.

And his primary ultimate focus was Formula One.

What you had wasn’t a distraction; it was just a way to cope with that demanding mechanism that revolved around being an international professional athlete.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. You played with the ball in your hands and walked toward the padel courts, visor shading your eyes.

“You know,” you started, leaning casually against the fence, “I’m a little disappointed.”

“Why’s that?” His tone was already cocky, already playing the game.

“Because I thought you were brave enough to step onto a real court. Clay, baseline, the whole thing. But no, here you are, hiding in the kiddie pool.” You gestured at the padel court, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Padel, Lando? Really?”

His friends burst out laughing, which only made his smirk widen. He pushed his cap back with one hand.

“Padel takes skill,” he shot back.

“Sure,” you said sweetly. “Hand-eye coordination, I’ll give you that”

“Ouch.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. “And here I was about to invite you to play.”

“Don’t,” you deadpanned. “I don’t humiliate people for free.”

That got another round of laughter as he shook his head. His eyes stayed locked on you, that mischievous glint unmistakable.

“Oh come on, are you sure you don’t want to play with us?” Lando pressed, tilting his head, that grin curling wider. He twirled the padel racquet in his hand like it was an extension of himself, casually confident, deliberately careless. “Could be fun. I’ll even go easy on you.”

You snorted, crossing your arms loosely over your chest, weight leaning into one hip. “Tempting, but no, thank you.”

His brows shot up, mock-offended, but you continued. “I just had a three-hour training block, and unless one of you plans to sub out, you’re already all set, see? I’d hate to ruin the symmetry.”

That earned a round of chuckles from his friends, who were already shifting back into their positions on the padel court. But Lando stayed put by the fence, attention anchored on you like you were the only person who mattered in that moment.

“You’re scared,” he said finally, voice light but edged with challenge.

You raised an eyebrow. “Scared?”

“Mhm.” He nodded as if it were a fact, lips quirking. “Big star, plays in front of thousands of people, wins tournaments, but one tiny padel match? Too much.”

You laughed under your breath, shaking your head, though your pulse skipped traitorously at the way he said it. His eyes never wavered, warm and sharp all at once, tugging at you with a pull you pretended not to feel.

“I play tennis, not padel, so keep telling yourself that,” you murmured, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You shifted your weight, already angling toward the exit, but not without one last jab. “Anyway, good luck with the kiddie pool. I’ve actually got places to be.”

You lifted a hand in a casual wave, already walking away. His friends shouted a quick goodbye, the sound of their laughter and playful trash talk already filling the court again. But you didn’t have to look back to know he was still watching you.

“See you around, then!” Lando’s voice carried easily, pitched just loud enough to make sure it hooked you.

You felt it.

The weight of his gaze, tracking every step, burning hotter than the late-morning sun on your skin. It was that same unshakable awareness that had ruined your serve earlier, like a string pulled taut between you, invisible but undeniable. You’d gotten used to walking away just before it snapped.

And yet, as you slipped through the gates, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing back once, visor shadowing your eyes.

Sure enough, Lando was still by the fence, racquet hanging loosely from his hand, eyes locked on you like he wasn’t even trying to hide it. When your gazes met, his smirk returned, small and sharp, as if he already knew you’d look back.

By the time you showered, toweled off and pulled on fresh clothes, you’d convinced yourself you were back on solid ground. Calm. Neutral. Ready to move on with your day.

And then your phone buzzed against the bench.

Lando: Dinner. My place tonight?

Five minutes. Almost on the dot.

There was something almost impressive about his timing, as if he’d waited just long enough to seem casual without risking that window where overthinking crept in. You stared at the screen, lips pressing together, a breath slipping out through your nose that was halfway to a laugh.

You already knew what it entailed. Of course you did.

With the only difference that it has never been at his place. Or yours.

Always neutral territory.

But you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Right? That it was just logistics, convenience, Monaco being Monaco. It was better than bookig another hotel room last minute. Still, you found yourself checking the door to make sure the locker room was empty, as if privacy suddenly mattered more than it had a minute ago.

You typed back before you could talk yourself out of it.

Send the address.

Setting the phone down, face-up this time, you watched the screen fade to black like a decision locking itself in place.

Then, you finished getting ready, smoothing your hair, swapping your trainers for sandals, catching your own reflection in the mirror and tilting your head like you were appraising someone else entirely. You looked fine. Normal. Unbothered. And if there was a flicker of anticipation behind your eyes, it was subtle enough to deny.

The sports club was quieter when you left, the afternoon heat mellowing into something warmer and heavier, and you walked past the courts without looking toward the padel enclosure, refusing to check whether he was still there, because that felt like tempting fate.

Once at home getting ready took longer than it should have, not because you didn’t know what to wear but because you kept circling the decision like it mattered more than it did.

This wasn’t a date. You knew that, and you reminded yourself of that firmly while choosing something simple, comfortable, the kind of outfit that didn’t try too hard and that it was probably gonna be left on the floor for hte majority of the night.

By the time you left your apartment, the sky had shifted into early evening, Monaco bathed in that golden, cinematic light that made everything look more romantic than it had any right to be. You slid into your car and let the engine hum to life, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel as you pulled onto the road, the route to his place familiar enough to feel automatic.

You hadn’t even made it halfway there when your car’s dashboard lit up with an incoming call.

Your manager’s name.

You sighed, long and slow, the sound filling the space of the car as you considered, briefly, letting it ring out. Then you answered, because yeah, you had to.

The conversation unfolded predictably at first, the polite check-in, the acknowledgement of your recent results, words carefully chosen to sound supportive without being reassuring. You kept your eyes on the road, nodding along even though they couldn’t see you, offering the right responses at the right moments, your tone professional and controlled.

But then the shift came, subtle enough that you almost missed it until it was already there.

Expectations. Targets. The importance of momentum.

“You know, they think it’s time to take some big concrete results home this year!”

Your manager spoke about your main sponsor in the careful language of someone delivering news they knew would land heavily, explaining how pleased they were with your consistency, how impressed they’d been by your rise, before gently steering the conversation toward what came next. Concrete results. A definitive statement. A win in a big tournament.

Or what?

They would drop you? Your manager didn’t say it clearly, but it didn’t take a genius to understand that the intensions weren’t far from there.

You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening just slightly as you navigated a curve you could drive blindfolded. You let them talk, absorbing the words without interrupting, because interrupting wouldn’t change anything. There was no point protesting.

You’d been close, they acknowledged that. Painfully close. Finals that slipped through your fingers, semifinals that turned on a single point, a single misjudged shot. Enough to prove you belonged, apparently, but not enough to satisfy people who liked their success neat and definitive. But close, apparently, was no longer enough.

And now this pressure was all going to be transfered towards your next tournament, in a few weeks.

You ended the call with the same practiced calm you always did, your voice steady, agreeable, professional, even as your fingers lingered on the steering wheel a second longer than necessary.

You told yourself, firmly, that you were not bringing this with you. Not tonight. Tonight was not for spiraling, not for replaying lost points or imagining headlines that didn’t exist yet. Tonight was supposed to be easy. Light. That was what whatever passed between you and Lando existed precisely.

So you did what you’d always done best.

You compartmentalized.

One moment you were replaying your manager’s careful phrasing “concrete results”, “big tournaments coming up” and the next you were standing still, keys dangling loosely from your fingers, the world narrowing to a single door in front of you.

And before you couldn even overthink it, that door opened.

Lando stood there barefoot, sleeves of his t-shirt pushed up his forearms, hair still damp like he’d showered recently and not bothered to fully dry it.

“There you are,” he said, voice warm, casual, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” you replied, the word slipping out softer than you intended, followed by a small smile you hadn’t consciously decided to offer.

He stepped aside without ceremony, one hand gesturing you in. “Come in.”

His apartment was very him. Polished but a little messy. Minimalist but with a touch of extravagant that made it interesting.

And helmets. Helmets everywhere. Perfectly integrated in the forniture, visibe but not too cocky to scream egocentric. Not begged to be noticed.

“Want a drink?” he asked, already moving toward the kitchen. “Water, wine, anything?”

“Yeah, water’s perfect, thank you,” you replied, your smile widening just a fraction as you peeled off your coat and draped it over the back of a barstool at his open-plan kitchen island.

He nodded, already padding toward the fridge in those bare feet that slapped lightly against the polished hardwood floors, pulling out a chilled bottle and twisting the cap off with a practiced flick before handing it over

“How was training?”

“Brutal, as usual, but good” You took a long sip, the icy water sliding down your throat like a brief reprieve, and leaned against the island. “Until someone invaded the padel court and started firing balls into mine. Really disruptive “

His mouth curved instantly. “Oh? Did we distract you?”

You lifted a brow, playing along. “Not even close.”

“Really,” he said, stepping closer, invading your space with deliberate ease. “Because I could’ve sworn I felt you staring at us.”

“I was judging your awful technique,” you replied, tilting your head.

“Mmh,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced, gaze dropping briefly to your lips. “Lucky for you, I have other talents.”

You didn’t get the chance to respond.

He kissed you then, sudden but unhurried, the kind of kiss that felt inevitable rather than impulsive.

Your bag slipped from your shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud that neither of you acknowledged. His hand cradled your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone with firm possession while his other slid to the small of your back, pulling your hips flush against him, and for a moment, instinct took over and you kissed him back.

Your lips parting eagerly under his, tongue tangling with his in a slick, heated dance, your fingers digging into the warm skin of his waist where his t-shirt had ridden up, nails scraping lightly over the ridges of muscle there as you pressed back, chasing that electric pull.

But only for a moment.

Because somewhere between his lips moving against yours and the familiar press of his body close to yours, your thoughts slipped sideways.

Concrete results.

Your mouth responded automatically, but there was a half-second lag between action and intention, a fraction too slow to go unnoticed.

He felt it. Of course.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “Hey,” he said quietly. “You okay?” Breaths mingling in ragged puffs as his thumb traced your lower lip, swollen from his kisses

You smiled before you thought about it, a natural reflex to mask the noise inside your head. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”

It was convincing. Or so you tried to be.

You kissed him again before he could press further and he groaned into your mouth as his hands roamed with purpose now, gripping your ass to hoist you up onto the island edge, your legs parting instinctively to hook around his waist.

It was so easy for you to pull him between your thighs cause he’d easily fit there like he was made for it.

You stumbled towards the bedroom then, clothes peeled off frantically until you tumbled in underwear onto the mattress together in a heated sprawl, him hovering over you, familiar in the way things become when repetition dulls the novelty but sharpens the intimacy.

And yet.

Even there, with his weight grounding you and his hands warm and sure, your mind drifted. Again.

With his lips still on yours and his hands grabbing your skin, you involuntarily started thinking about tournaments you hadn’t won yet, about points lost by margins so thin they still haunted you, about the particular cruelty of being praised for consistency and for your “almost made it”.

Lando shifted slightly, sensing it again, pulling back just enough to look at you properly this time. His brow creased, just a little. “What’s wrong?” he said, not accusatory, just observant, his thumb absently stroking the inside of your knee.

“Nothing, I promise” You brushed it off instinctively, tugging his mouth back toward yours with a deliberate grind of your hips that was more meant to distract him rather than anything else.

But he felt it again, of course he did.

And this time, with a low, reluctant groan, he pulled away completely sitting back on his heels, looking at you with an expression that wiped the teasing from his face entirely.

“Hey,” he said quietly, steady but firm now. “Don’t do that, what’s going on?”

You blinked, breath still uneven, heart doing that annoying thing where it sped up for the wrong reason.

For a moment, you considered pushing back anyway, throwing out another easy excuse, another half-truth wrapped in a smile, because that was easier than admitting that your head felt like it was full of noise you couldn’t turn down.

But the effort of pretending suddenly felt exhausting, like trying to keep your balance on a point you already knew you’d lost.

You let out a slow breath, one hand coming up to rub your forehead as you looked away. “I’m sorry,” you said finally, voice softer, stripped of its practiced polish. “I’m just… I’m not really in the mood right now.”

The surprise flickered across his face immediately, brief but unmistakable, like he hadn’t expected that ending to the sentence, not from you, not tonight. Then it faded, replaced by something gentler, more careful, as he nodded once.

“Hey,” he said again, quieter this time. “That’s okay.”

He shifted without hesitation, rolling onto his side beside you, propping himself up on one elbow to face you, not pushing, not asking anything else, just there.

You stayed quiet for a few seconds longer than was strictly comfortable, the ceiling still holding your attention as if the answer might be written somewhere between the shadows and the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Then, without looking at him, the words slipped out.

“How do you do it?”

He shifted slightly beside you, confusion crossing his face as he turned his head to look at you properly. “Do what?”

You swallowed, fingers worrying at the edge of the pillowcase. “Cope,” you said, still staring upward. “With the pressure… and everyone’s expectations.”

That earned you a longer pause. You could almost hear the mental recalibration happening in his brain.

“I… don’t understand,” he said slowly. “Where is this coming from?”

You huffed out a quiet, humorless breath, finally turning your head toward him. His expression wasn’t teasing now, wasn’t amused or flirtatious, just attentive in a way that made you suddenly feel very exposed.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, before he could say anything else. “I know this is not really our thing. Talking about this stuff, I mean.” You gave a small shrug, as if that could minimize it. “But I guess I just—” You stopped, searching for the right words, then abandoned the effort. “I just need to get it out of my system.”

You hesitated for half a second, then went for honesty instead of polish. “I think my main sponsor is going to drop me if I don’t win my next tournament.”

The shift in him was immediate. His posture straightened, the easy looseness gone, replaced by something sharper, more focused. “What?” he said. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, the frustration creeping in despite yourself. “My manager called me while I was driving here. Apparently I’m not delivering ‘concrete results.’” You made air quotes without smiling. “Their words, not mine.”

He frowned, clearly processing. “That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “You’re top ten.”

You let out a short laugh, one that sounded a little too brittle to be funny. “Yeah. But I haven’t won a Slam. Or a Masters thousand. And they want that.” You turned onto your side to face him fully now, the words spilling faster. “Finals don’t count. Semis don’t count. ‘Almost’ doesn’t count.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, eyes steady, expression unreadable in that way of his when he was actually thinking instead of performing ease. “That’s insane,” he said finally. “You know that, right?”

“Tell that to the people signing the checks,” you replied quietly.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before dropping it back onto the mattress between you. “Okay,” he said, slower now, choosing his words. “First of all, I think it’s different for everyone…”

You watched him as he spoke, the way his gaze drifted briefly to the far wall, like he was checking in with his own thoughts before letting them out. “But for me,” he continued, “I kind of had to learn early on to focus only on what I can actually control. Training. Preparation. What I do in the car. The decisions I make lap by lap.” He shrugged lightly, a familiar gesture. “Everything else? The noise, the opinions, the expectations… most of the time that’s not really up to me.”

You hummed quietly, encouraging him to go on.

“There are weekends where I do everything right,” he added, glancing back at you, “and it still doesn’t work out. And there are weekends where things click in ways I couldn’t have planned if I tried.” His mouth curved in a small, wry smile. “At some point, you’re just left trusting the process. Trusting that if you keep doing the work, it’ll come.”

You studied the line of his jaw, the calm certainty in his voice, and felt some of the tightness in your chest ease, just a fraction. “So you don’t think about what people expect from you?”

“Oh, I think about it,” he said with a quiet laugh. “I just try not to let it drive the car. Because that’s when it gets messy.” He paused, then added more seriously, “People’s expectations are their problem. Not yours.”

He paused. Eyes locked in yours.

“Do you think you’re doing a good job?”

The question caught you off guard, not because it was complicated, but because no one ever seemed to ask it like that, stripped of context, rankings, expectations, future projections.

“Yeah,” you said simply. “I do.”

His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing as if he’d been waiting for that confirmation more than you had. “Good,” he said. “That’s what matters”

You lay back against the pillow, eyes closing briefly as you breathed in. “I just hate that sometimes,” you admitted, voice quieter now, “no matter how hard I work, my dreams still depend on someone else. On sponsors, contracts, decisions I don’t get to make.”

He nodded slowly, letting out.a small laugh “Yeah,” he said. “Tell me about it” He shifted closer, shoulder brushing yours. “But I still think… at the end of the day, we’re more in charge of our destiny than it feels like.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Because when it finally happens, when you win that tournament, it won’t be just luck. It’ll be because you were ready when the moment showed up.”

You smiled then, small but genuine, and for the first time that night, it reached your eyes.

He was right.

You turned your head toward him, meaning to say something light or teasing to balance the weight of the moment, but the words never quite made it past your lips.

He was already watching you. His expression was soft, open in a way that felt almost intimate given how carefully you both usually avoided that territory, and for a second it struck you how rare it was to be looked at like that without expectation attached.

You lifted your hand and let your fingers settle against his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly along his jaw. He leaned into the touch without thinking, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then back up again, as if he were taking his cue from you.

That was what you’d needed, you realized then. Not urgency. Not distraction. Not even sex, though it had crossed your mind more than once tonight.

What you’d needed were those few words, spoken without judgment or pressure, grounding you back into yourself when your thoughts had been threatening to scatter in every direction at once. They had soothed something inside you in a way you hadn’t expected, in a way you hadn’t known to ask for.

So you didn’t answer him.

You closed the distance instead, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was slower and softer than before. This time it wasn’t about proving anything or trying to lose yourself in sensation. His hand came up to rest at your waist, warm and steady, and you felt him relax beneath your touch, meeting you there without question.

And finally, your mind was quiet.

The kiss shifted almost without you noticing, the softness giving way to something warmer, more insistent, as if the relief you’d been holding back finally found somewhere to go. His hand slid more securely at your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to anchor you there, and you felt the familiar spark catch, the kind that always lived just under the surface between you, waiting for the slightest excuse.

For a moment, you were only aware of the heat of him, the quiet sounds between breaths, the way his thumb traced an unconscious arc against your side.

And then he pulled back.

Not abruptly, not coldly, just enough to look at you properly again, his forehead resting briefly against yours.

“Hey,” he murmured. “You know we don’t have to do anything, right?” His eyes searched your face, not suspicious, just careful. “We can just… have dinner and Chill. Watch something stupid. Whatever you want.”

You smiled at that, softer than before but steadier, and lifted your hand to his jaw again, grounding yourself in the feel of him. “I know,” you said quietly. “But I’m good. Really.” You met his gaze, letting him see it. “Head’s clear now. I promise.”

He studied you for a beat longer, then nodded, the tension easing from his shoulders as a small smile tugged at his mouth. “You sure?”

You didn’t give him time to overthink it, didn’t waste a second on words. You leaned in again, sealing his mouth with a brief, teasing kiss; tongue flicking once against his before you pulled away, letting your lips trail lower in a scorching path along the column of his throat, sucking lightly at the pulse hammering there. “Yeah, positive.”

And with that, your hand dipped boldly between your bodies, fingers slipping past the elastic waistband of his boxers to wrap around his cock; thick and velvet-hard, already leaking steadily from the tip as you gave him a firm, twisting stroke from root to crown, thumb smearing the pre-cum in a slick glide that had his hips jerking up into your grip

Lando half-moaned, half-laughed, the sound rumbling deep and breathless from his chest, a choked “Fuck—wow, my words did really inspire you, yeah?” spilling out in that cheeky British drawl, even as his free hand fisted the sheets, abs clenching under your other palm where it splayed across his stomach.

You laughed low against his skin, the vibration drawing another shudder from him. “They definetely did,” you murmured, nipping the hinge of his jaw, your grip slick and unrelenting to really show him you were okay, more than okay, finally here in the filthy rhythm of it.

You and Lando lay tangled on your sides, face to face in the rumpled sheets; breaths syncing in hot, ragged bursts as your fist pumped his cock with slick, twisting strokes that had him thrusting lazily into your grip.

His hand tightened at the nape of your neck, holding you there while his other arm hooked under your thigh, hoisting your leg up high over his hip in one fluid, possessive yank, before he slotted his thick thigh between yours; the coarse hair and muscle grinding right up against your soaked folds with delicious pressure that made you whine into his kiss.

You got so utterly lost in it then, the world narrowing to the fllawless heat of his mouth devouring yours, tongues sliding sloppy and deep, teeth clashing, your hips rocking instinctively to hump his thigh, dragging your swollen clit over the rigid flex of it with every needy grind that smeared fresh arousal down his skin.

His free hand roamed everywhere: palming the heavy swell of your tits through your bra, rough fingers pinching and rolling your nipples into stiff peaks that throbbed under the lace before hooking into the straps and yanking them down roughly.

The clasp snapped open with a quick twist at your back and he shoved the fabric aside to expose your bare breasts, kneading the soft flesh with greedy squeezes that had milked moans from your throat.

You were so consumed by the blaze of his touch that your hand faltered on his cock, strokes slowing to a distracted squeeze before falling away entirely, forgotten in the haze.

But he didn’t mind, not one fucking bit, didn’t even break rhythm, just growled low into your mouth before abandoning your lips to latch onto the frantic pulse at your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise as his teeth scraped the tender skin.

With a shift of his hips, he rolled fully on top of you, pinning you beneath his weight in the best way: his cock trapped heavy and leaking between your bellies, twitching against your skin as his fingers quickly hooked into your panties, ripping them down your thighs in a frantic tear that left you fully bare and exposed, the ruined lace dangling from one ankle like a trophy before he kicked it off entirely.

“Fuck,” he rasped between kisses, lips dragging wet and stinging along your collarbone, nipping the swell of your breast before soothing with a broad lick, his hand now free to roam your naked curves, “It was fucking hot to see you train today,” he confessed.

“… was so hard not to follow you into the locker room and fuck you right there.”

Breathless, ragged laugh punched out of you at his confession, “What stopped you then?” you gasped out, nails digging into the bunched muscles of his shoulders as he continued to lavish your breasts with bruising kisses and rough, possessive squeezes.

At that, Lando pulled back just enough to look down at you, a wicked grin spreading across his flushed face. He let out a low, throaty chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest where it pressed against yours. “Why?” he teased, “Would’ve you liked it? Would’ve liked the risk?” His thumb stroked the sharp bone of your hip, his gaze locking onto yours with playful intensity. “Hearing every footstep outside the door, knowing anyone could walk in and see me buried balls-deep in you?”

Oh, he was playing dirty.

He didn’t give you a chance to answer, didn’t wait for the breathy yes already forming on your swollen lips.

With a growl that was half-laugh, half-pure hunger, he lowered himself between your legs in one fluid, predatory slide, his broad shoulders pushing your thighs apart until you were spread wide open for him.

One hand remained latched possessively on your breast, kneading the soft flesh and pinching your nipple into a stiff, aching peak; the other hand released your hip to hook under your knee, spreading you even wider before his fingers laced tightly with yours, palm pressing your joined hands into the mattress.

And then he devoured you.

His mouth crashed onto your pussy with no preamble, no gentle exploration. His tongue speared deep inside you in one long, filthy lick from your soaked entrance all the way up to your throbbing clit, lapping up the gush of your arousal with a groan that vibrated against your most sensitive flesh.

“Fuck, your taste…” He ate you out like a man possessed: tongue fucking you in deep, rhythmic plunges before flattening to swirl broad, relentless circles around your clit, sucking the swollen bud into his mouth.

You cursed and moaned, a litany of broken fucks and oh gods spilling from your lips as your mind fractured, splintering far away from all the worries and the sponsor anxieties that had shadowed you when you first walked into his apartment.

Now there was only this: the searing heat of his mouth devouring your cunt, the rough, possessive grip of his hand still kneading your breast, the slick, filthy sounds of his tongue fucking deep into your dripping core before swirling with relentless precision over your swollen clit.

You were left fighting to control your breathing, to not explode too soon, but it’s a losing battle; every time he sucked your clit into the wet heat of his mouth, sent another violent tremor through your limbs, coiling the pleasure tighter and tighter in your belly until it’s a white-hot knot begging for release.

“Lan, I’m so close…” you barely whispered but then, when you came, it crashed over you with shocking force, your back arching off the bed as your pussy convulsed around his tongue, gushing fresh wetness that he drank down with greedy.

And through it all, you couldn’t stop smiling, a breathless, dazed grin spreading across your face even as tears pricked the corners of your eyes… because that’s exactly what this is about, isn’t it?

This raw, uncomplicated hunger, this mutual understanding that stripped away everything else until it was just two bodies chasing the same fire. It was why you kept seeing each other, why you kept crashing into his orbit: for moments like this, where the world narrowed to sweat and skin and shared, shuddering release.

And with him, it was something else. Better and more intense than anything.

You stay like that for a few seconds, panting and smiling dopily at each other in the aftermath: him kneeling back on his heels between your splayed legs, his mouth and chin glistening with your spend, a smug, boyish grin lighting up his flushed face; you lying sprawled and boneless on the rumpled sheets, chest heaving as the last tremors subside.

And after a few moments, without a word, you just lazily rolled over onto your stomach, ass lifting in a deliberate, inviting arch as you buried your face in the pillows with a contented sigh, presenting yourself to him fully.

Lando let out a low, delighted laugh “Oh, just like that?” he teased.

His hands came down on your ass immediately, palms smoothing over the curves with a possessive squeeze before one lifted and came down in a sharp, playful smack that echoed in the quiet room.

Status: ongoing

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Preview and Summary

Chapter 1

georgia rose speaks!