delicatelover

You knew the day would be a lot two drivers, a camera, and a social media content schedule stacked tighter than your nerves but nothing could’ve prepared you for them like this.

“Come on, cariño,” Checo purrs, a lazy smirk curving his lips as he leans into the camera lens. The light catches the mischief in his eyes, warm and wicked. “You sure you don’t want to be in this one with us?”

You shake your head, praying it comes off as firm. “I’ll pass.”

But your voice wavers just slightly and it’s enough.

Max notices. Of course he does. His eyes drag over you, slow and knowing, like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. Every nervous swallow. Every stuttered breath when he stands too close. When he brushes a hand along the small of your back under the guise of repositioning a mic or adjusting your angle for the shot.

You’ve been trying to keep it professional. Really, you have.

But Max Verstappen and Sergio Pérez make it very hard.

Literally.

You somehow survive the TikToks. The “who’s most likely to” game where Checo keeps picking Max, and Max keeps looking at you. Even the ridiculous blindfolded snack taste-test that ends with Checo licking frosting off his finger while looking you dead in the eyes and Max muttering something under his breath about needing a cold shower.

By the time filming wraps, your nerves are frayed. You’re half-hoping they’ll just pack up and leave give you a break from the magnetic pull of their heat and hunger. But the moment you slip toward the hallway exit, Checo’s fingers curl around your wrist.

“One last thing,” he says, nodding toward the Photo Booth tucked beside the catering table. “For the memories.”

Max rolls his eyes but heads for it anyway, pulling the curtain open. “We just spent six hours filming. You want a strip of shitty pictures too?”

Checo shrugs, ever casual. “Not for me. For her.”

You blink. “Me?”

Two sets of eyes — dangerous, dark, and far too convincing — lock on yours. It’s a trap. You know it’s a trap.

And you step forward anyway.

Inside the booth, it’s a tight fit cramped and electric. Max’s thigh slots beneath yours. Checo’s arm snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can’t breathe. Or maybe you’re breathing too much.

The machine chirps its countdown.

“Smile,” Checo says, teeth flashing.

Click.

First photo: All three of you smiling, barely contained tension radiating off the frame.

Second countdown begins.

Max’s fingers trail lightly up the back of your neck, brushing your hair aside. A deliberate touch.

“You’ve been teasing us all day,” he murmurs, lips just behind your ear. “You know that?”

You turn, barely, but the second flash blinds you before you can answer.

Click.

Checo’s hands slide to your hips, pulling you closer. You feel the shift — from playful to predatory — like a temperature drop before a storm.

“You think we didn’t notice how you kept looking at us, mmm?” he breathes, voice thick with something deeper than lust.

“I—I was working,” you manage.

But your voice is already wrecked.

Click.

Third photo: Checo’s hand on your thigh, Max’s mouth just brushing your throat, eyes locked on you like a man starved.

Then it unravels.

Checo tugs you into his lap, your skirt riding up in the scramble. Max shifts behind you, pressing you between their bodies. You feel them — hard, hot, straining. Max’s breath burns your skin.

“Curtain’s closed,” Checo murmurs. “Nobody has to know. We’re all alone.”

His fingers dip under your skirt, past the lace of your panties. When they slip inside, you gasp — loud enough that Max covers your mouth with his hand, groaning low as your body clenches around the intrusion.

“Fuck, she’s soaked,” Checo breathes, pumping slow and deep. “You want this, preciosa?”

You nod, desperate. “Yes, please—”

Max growls behind you, dragging your shirt up to kiss the curve of your shoulder, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

“Then give us something too.”

You reach without hesitation. One hand wraps around Checo’s cock, already thick and heavy in your grip. The other finds Max hot, pulsing and he ruts into your palm with a soft curse like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing control.

“You feel that?” Max hisses, rutting harder. “Been hard since the fucking Q&A. Watching you squirm. Pretending.”

Checo thrusts his fingers faster, curling just right and when his thumb circles your clit, you shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a wave, sharp and overwhelming. You moan into Max’s shoulder, hips jerking, thighs trembling with the intensity of it. They don’t let you fall.

Max’s grip tightens. Checo’s mouth finds your throat, muttering Spanish praises into your skin.

You keep stroking them through your haze, still trembling, until Max swears and spills into your hand, his body shaking with it. Checo follows with a groan, hips lifting beneath you as his cock twitches in your grasp.

Silence falls, thick and charged.

The machine hums.

The photo strip prints with a soft whirr, reality creeping back in.

Checo is the first to move gentle now. He tucks your hair behind your ear, presses a soft kiss to your jaw. Max buttons your shirt slowly, brushing his thumb along your collarbone like he can’t quite stop touching you.

The strip slides out.

You glance at it.

First frame: smiles, innocent enough.

Second: smirks and heat in your eyes.

Third: a blur of movement, your head tipped back, Max’s mouth open like he’s about to bite.

Fourth: aftermath. Lipstick smeared. Your blouse askew. Your eyes dazed. Checo biting his lip. Max smug as sin.

Checo plucks the strip and slides it into your pocket with a wink. “Para los recuerdos.”

Max leans in, his voice gravel and promise. “And next time…” His lips brush your ear.