lando norris x reader °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
RARE AESTHETIC : The year is about to be 2023, you’re thriving at your big girl corporate job and all your best friends became influencers, which inadvertently turned you into their sugar baby. In Ibiza, during a girls’ trip to ring in the New Year, you meet a younger guy with a bright smile and a dirty mouth – and everything goes downhill from there.
AUTHOR’S NOTE : heya!!!! reposting this with a very nice little smutty surprise at the end after taking it down a couple of months ago because i thought i could maybe write a second part… which hasn’t happened yet, but will happen soon #trust. anyways, english is not my first language so please have mercy on me hehe and i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it! also please comment what you thought of it i’m #dying to know + let me know if you’d like to be added to an eventual tag list for an eventual part 2 (and 3 and 4 and 5? i see their lore clearly in my head i just need to actually write it down grrrr)!!! anyways, welcome to “Nice To Each Other”!!!! <3
WARNINGS : smut… *monkey covering eyes emoji*
Your skin is warm from the sun and your cheeks are rosy from the accidental nap you just woke up from. A couple of feet away, in the infinity pool of the nice little villa you rented for the week, the girls are giggling about something silly, with Pinterest-worthy fruity drinks in their hands and cute sunglasses on the tip of their noses. You can kind of hear the waves hitting the shore and your playlist, the one you've curated perfectly exclusively for this trip, is playing faintly from the JBL you dropped on the sun lounger next to yours. The thought of fuck, this is definitely what life is actually all about comes to you abruptly, and it makes you smile, because yeah, you don't really see how it can get any better than this.
Your best mates, your sexiest bikini and an absolutely divine tan – you've officially peaked at 26 years old.
As soon as you sit up to undo the sloppy braids you went to sleep with, the girls notice, and before you even know it, you've got a glass of lychee sangria and a plate of prosciutto e melone on your lap.
"Well, hello there, Sleeping Beauty," Isla gushes, her slowly drying body sliding right next to yours on the lounge chair, a pretty grin on her cherry-tinted lips. "Welcome back to the land of the living. You laid down for two seconds and we lost you for the next four hours. Pretty impressive, if you ask me."
You roll your eyes at that. "Sorry, baby, not all of us can live life on easy mode. My very hardworking body cannot make the difference between a power nap and a 10-hours night of sleep anymore."
You can barely hold back your laughter as you say it, and it's now her turn to roll her eyes at you. She huffs and pushes you back to lay on the lounge chair, and when the mocking laugh finally erupts out of you, the slap she jokingly gives your chest just makes you crack up harder. "Shut up, muppet, you work in PR. Also, you're the sexiest bitch I know, so you wake up everyday and willingly make the choice to suffer. Not my problem you refuse to use your tits instead of your brain for once."
This just makes you laugh harder, and her poker face breaks quickly. Her hands come up to unbraid your hair, and you lean into it. The silence that follows isn't awkward. It's the peaceful type of quiet that can only be found when you're around the people that you love the most, and Isla, as it stands, is one of the founding members of this category.
You met at 5 years old, as lifelong best friends tend to do. She was the goalie in the little kids' football team your parents put you in before they realized that you were definitely more of an arts and crafts' girlie than a "run after a ball for two hours and kick it once in a while" kid. Isla, as it turns out, shared your philosophy, and you would most often than not end up sitting down by the goal braiding flowers into each other's hair for the majority of the game. You quickly became inseparable, and that didn't change as you grew up. At 18, as you moved to London for uni, she, who had quickly realized school was not and would never be her forte, came with you in the hopes of finding a purpose. Your first shared flat was a tiny mess with a lot of personality (mold in the bathroom), but you made do, and you made do so well that while you graduated with honors, Isla, who had always been the epitome of the cool English girl, grew an online community so vast it sometimes felt a little bit suffocating. She had started YouTube as soon as you arrived in London, and in three years, she had become a household name in both the city and the Web in general. Her content was that of a relatable twenty-something who was at the same time a chaotic mess and a bright-eyed it girl, so of course people were eating it up. The longevity of it, however, was actually what was the most surprising, because ten years later, here she still was – the brightest star in the sky, with the world at the tip of her fingers and so many brands competing for her attention in her DMs that it made you both a bit dizzy when you tried to deal with it all.
However, Isla has made it clear that wherever she goes, you, her 9-to-5 best friend with a private Instagram account and a permanent resting bitch face would also be. You were, in this big scary world of public perception and Reddit threads, her trusty sidekick, and while some people may take offence to that, you were exactly where you wanted to be. You got to enjoy all of the perks of being an influencer without having to personally deal with any of the inconveniences – who would ever say no to being their best friend's plus one to every single brand trip she's invited to? Not you, definitely, because while you do love your job, it sure as hell is not sending you to the Maldives for free, even though you did get a nice little New York City week last November, all expenses paid, to attend a one-day conference... So you guess it's not all that bad in the big old corporate world.
You're both still sitting in silence, deep in thought, her hands running in your hair, your face nearly in her rack, when Florence, still in the pool, whistles like a perv, getting both of you's attention and bringing you back to the present.
"While I'm aware you guys aren't fucking, I still hope you know that I would pay some seriously good money for that sextape if it ever comes out," she snickers, and you can't help but join in as you jokingly wrap your arms around Isla's waist, pulling her in in a lover's embrace that would definitely make both of your mums blush.
"What, jealous? You can join, babes, we don't mind a good threesome once in a while."
Flo doesn't hesitate, a wide toothy smirk taking over her face, and she nearly runs out of the pool to join you on the lounge chair, which creaks a little bit as it's definitely not made to handle the weight of three women who do pilates thrice a week for the sole objective of having bigger bums. She leaves behind Tilly and Zara, who are laughing, quite used to this underlying homoerotic tension in your friend group, as this gimmick has been going on since you first came together, in what you've come to collectively call "The Genesis", as it definitely sounds better than "we all met in a club at 18 and became inseparable because somebody drugged all of our drinks, which turned out to be a very strong bonding experience and the foundation of girlhood at its purest form".
You, Isla, Florence, Tilly and Zara. The Core 5, or as they like to call it, Y/N's Angels, because out of the five of you, you are the only one whose job is not to simply vibe, and that automatically makes you both their mother and their sugar baby. What a time to be alive.
As you settle in, with two bad bitches on your lap and a minty cigarette between your lips, the girls start to establish the plan for the night, as it's your first one in Ibiza so of course it needs to be iconic. You're happy to just sit there and enjoy the ride, because they're the ones that get invited to clubs and that need to decide which ones to prioritize over the others. Maybe you're the one living life on easy mode, after all.
"All of the reservations for dinner this week have been made when we first booked the trip, so we can't really move that unless David Guetta himself invites us anywhere... which unfortunately probably won't happen knowing the one-sided beef he seems to have with one of us since last time," starts Tilly, pointedly eyeing Florence, who just smiles and blinks innocently as if she doesn't remember that last year she very much ghosted the DJ after he apparently gave her the worst head in the history of man. "This means that we just need a club itinerary for the week. So? Thoughts?"
"I think we should hit Pacha first of all. It's always a good time. Remember the Australian guy you met there the first time we went, Y/N? Is he still trying to contact you on LinkedIn? You little minx," Zara teases you as she fills up everybody's glass to the brim with a fresh new batch of that to-die-for sangria.
You nod as your cheeks heat up a little bit, remembering the man in question. "Well, I never accepted his follow request on IG, so beggars can't be choosers, I guess."
You're not a player, but you do enjoy the game once in a while, and when a guy has an accent, some nice eyes and a head of very pretty curls that look even prettier after being grabbed a little too hard, what's a mere girl to do but take him back home with her? That's just the polite thing to do, after all, and you were raised well.
Thinking about tall, tan and big everywhere made you kind of clock out from the ongoing conversation, and when you come back to it, a gameplan has been made.
"OK, so, it's five PM right now. Let's say we leave for dinner at eight, that gives us three hours to get ready, or two hours of prepping and one hour to look at her emails for Y/N..."
You cut Tilly off, shaking your head. "So considerate. Thank you for your generosity."
They all ignore you, and Isla brings up her strawberry vape to your mouth to shut you up.
Tilly continues, a focused look on her face that can only mean she's already planning the composition of a killer Instagram carousel. "Dress code for tonight? Let's start basic with the all white fits, and we can come back to change after dinner. So, let's say we do flowy, ethereal, linen and lace, gold accents and natural makeup for dinner. Sounds good?"
Everybody agrees. We cheer to it. The JBL is playing "Tití Me Preguntó", and the sun is just hot enough to make everything a little bit more intense, a little bit more perfect.
Three days later, on the very first day of 2023, the girls are out and about while you are stuck back at the villa, as you're never really on vacation when you're the youngest Marketing and Communications Manager Burberry has ever had. Saying you work in PR is a bit of an understatement, sure, but you never really have the time to go into the details, so that's what you usually stick to.
Where there is a brand, there is a crisis, and your job is to make sure that the crisis of today never becomes the crisis of tomorrow. Efficient, brutal and just cutthroat enough to be a little bit scary : there's a reason you got the job of your dreams at 25, and there's a reason you're still here, thriving, a year later. Some say you were made for it. You like to say that it was made for you.
It's been midnight for just about 5 minutes when you finally close your two laptops, take off your blue light glasses and try to loosen the knot in your lower back. Your normal phone (not to be confused with your work phone, whose ringtone has given you PTSD) vibrates twice from where you left it on the dresser so as to not get distracted, and two messages from Isla greet you when you pick it up.
heyyyyyyyy boss babe idk when you think you're gonna be done, but fyi we actually ended up at cova santa!!!
and we met some blokes we know there, so just text me when you get here so i can come get you!!! vip baby!!
You're about to text her that you just need to get ready and you'll be there in 45 minutes tops when she sends another text that makes a smile grow on your lips.
also i know you're trying to be responsible (lol) but this guy here is 110% your type it's kinda scary so i told him his dream girl is coming soon and i showed him a sexy pic of you and now he's trying hard to act all nonchalant but he asked for your number anyways and he keeps looking at the entrance so pls hurry up xoxo i really want to watch you guys kiss!!!!
Yeah, okay. You're definitely gonna need a couple of tequila shots before you get to her level, but you're also definitely up for the challenge – and if the night does end up with you under Mr. "110% your type"... Well, you can't really be held responsible for it.
What would be Ibiza without at least one little adventure, after all?
An hour later, you make it to Cova Santa, and the quarter of a bottle of tequila you downed as you were curling your hair is starting to hit, if the slight fuzzy feeling that’s taken over your head is any indication. You’re glad you put on one of your cosier, more broken in pairs of Miu Miu heels because you can already tell this is gonna be a long night.
The bass is heavy, the crowd is packed, the lights are bright and Isla quickly grabs your hand to drag you towards the VIP section, still hot as hell and nearly flawless even though she’s been drinking for the past 4 hours, and, realistically, for the past 3 days.
She’s trying to debrief you about something as you walk through the sea of people, and while you don’t hear all of it, you catch her drift pretty quickly.
“OK, so he’s a bit shorter than your usual boytoy, but I think what he lacks in height he compensates in banter! And we both know how much you love some good banter!”
Her scream reaches you through the general noise of the club, and you can’t help but laugh and nod, because yeah, it’s not a secret that you’re a sucker for a 6 with a smart mouth.
“And what does he do? Anything but a DJ, please!”
She pauses in the crowd, a wide smile on her burgundy red lips and an evil glint in her eyes that makes you brace yourself for the bullshit that’s definitely about to come out of her mouth.
“Worse! I think he’s a Twitch streamer!”
You roll your eyes, but once again, the alcohol in your veins makes you unable to feel anything but whimsy, so you start giggling. Ah yes, 110% your type, which of course includes men who play video games for a living. “Fuck you, Isla!!! A Twitch streamer, really? If he’s not cute, I’m being mean to him and that’s gonna be your fault, so I hope you feel guilty when I destroy his little ego and leave him for dead in Cova Santa!”
You ignore all of her jabs of “I swear you’re gonna really like him” and “I’m betting 100 American dollars that you end up in his bed tonight anyways you whore” as you finally reach the VIP section, where Tilly hands you a vodka soda as soon as you step one foot past the bouncer.
“Y/N, baby, you look stunning! What the fuck is this wet dream of a dress?” she gushes as her hands firmly grab your shoulders to both keep you at a viewing distance and to balance herself a bit, because you can clearly see that she’s wobbling a little in those 6 inches high heels. Her brows furrow, and you can see, with the sudden widening of her eyes, that she quickly realizes you’re wearing…
“Is this Versace Spring Summer 2004? Shut up!”
Both your eyes turn towards the younger blonde girl who just appeared next to you, her eyes glued to the fabric of your baby pink dress that is, in fact, straight out of the Versace Spring Summer 2004 collection.
You nod your head enthusiastically, because while this is a stranger, this is a stranger who knows her vintage couture, which automatically makes her a friend. “Yes! I love you!”
She laughs, and all three of you cheer to it. You down your glass, and as soon as you put it down, a new one appears in your hand – one of the many perks of looking like a rich pretentious bitch in those foolish VIP sections. You spend money to get more drinks, so of course they get you more drunk so you want to spend more money to get more drinks. It’s an universal trick, and one you, grand master of marketing, is still not immune to.
The blonde girl introduces herself to you as your friends all come to greet you, and you understand quickly that she’s not that much of a stranger to your friend group as a whole. Her name is Pietra, originally from Brazil, and while in your eyes she’s way too young to be hanging out around a bunch of random men in Ibiza, she’s apparently been dating one of them for a couple of months now, so that supposedly makes it all better. Also, she’s got that spark in her eyes that tells you she’s exactly where she wants to be, so while your maternal instincts urge you to feel some sympathy, the more rational part of your brain urges you to just smile and nod, because that’s just a random Tuesday in the world of people with one too many Instagram followers.
You then meet her boyfriend, Max, and everything suddenly makes sense. That is a D-list celebrity if you’ve ever seen one. He’s got a nice smile (he’s too aware of it, it’s a bit freaky) and he insists on shaking your hand like this is a business meeting, because in his world, every person he ever meets is a business opportunity. Anyways, he’s nice enough, but you once again just smile and nod, as this is a girls’ trip, after all, and you personally don’t really see any business opportunity between a Twitch streamer and Burberry. He’s also pretty quick to write you off as “poor pretty dumb girl with an office job”, which you can tell from his slightly patronizing tone when he explains what he and his entourage do for a living (they have their own brand! cool!). You don’t really mind. You’re not there to make LinkedIn connections, you’re here to get drunk with your friends and shake some ass in your favorite Ibiza club.
Quickly, Zara, Flo, Tilly, Isla and you leave them all behind in the VIP section and jump eagerly into the crowd, your little circle of girls being quickly overpowered by the hundreds of people on the dancefloor. You forget all about the mysterious guy that all of your friends promised you was hot as fuck, as he wasn’t even in the VIP section when you arrived, so he’s not really your problem after all.
A house song you’ve heard once or twice in the London clubs is playing and Zara has her arms over your hips, yours finding her neck as you both sway to the music. You can see Flo recording, and while you already know this is going to end up in her “ibiza w/ my girlfriendzzz” vlog (and unfortunately probably in the intro), you don’t really have it in yourself to care. All of your friends’ fans know who you are, but they don’t really know who you are, if that makes sense. The girls have built a narrative in which you’re their smart, busy, work-driven best friend who just gets in the car on the way to the airport and enjoys the ride… which is not really that far from reality, after all. You’ve planned one trip in the past ten years… and it’s when you got Isla’s parents to drive you both to Wembley Stadium for a One Direction concert… in 2013. So, yeah, you exist, you’re an important part of the Core 5, but you’re mysterious and elusive and the most skilled with a curling iron. You still get thousands of follow requests on Instagram every week, and your name appears on a couple of Reddit threads once in a while, but that’s pretty much it. You’ve stumbled once on a TikTok thirst trap edit of yourself, and while you did save it (you looked very sexy in it, sue you), that was enough doomscrolling for the evening.
The night goes on this way, you and your girls and a beat that is surprisingly in sync with your heart, and an hour or two later, your group has spread, as of course five very fine women on a dancefloor don’t go unnoticed for too long. Personally, you’ve talked to a couple of people, but none of them have really grabbed your attention, so as your phone indicates you that’s it’s just past 3 in the morning, you’ve made your way back towards the VIP section to get some fresh air and to light up an even fresher menthol cigarette.
You find a nearly empty spot with some sofas deeper into the forest, and with a cigarette in your mouth and a half-empty glass in your hand, you nearly throw yourself on one of them, excited for some relief after one too many hours on heels one too many inches too high. You take them off sloppily before taking the opportunity to relax a little bit, laying down on your belly and holding yourself up on your elbows with your feet lazily kicking in the air. On your phone, you scroll halfheartedly through the stupidest Instagram Reels ever, so you alternate between taking a hit and giggling to cat videos, with the surrounding fairylights illuminating your face and the house music just loud enough to get your head to bop a little.
“I’ve never seen anybody having this much of a good time in a club. What are we watching?”
The voice takes you by surprise, but the vodka in your stomach makes your instincts a bit less instinctual, so you don’t jump. You just slowly turn both your head and your screen towards the newcomer, the naive little smile on your face making the whole situation way sillier than it should be. “Baby cat.”
A very nice smile blossoms on his own lips as his eyes focus on the dumb video, and your heart misses a beat. Oh. You make sure that he’s still staring at your phone before letting your own eyes finally take a full look at the stranger, scanning him from head to toe, and as you do, your spine gets a bit more rigid, your grin a bit more solid, your gaze a bit more focused. Oh.
He’s pretty. Not particularly crazily handsome, but pretty enough that you resist the urge to look too hard at his baby face to make sure that it is fully imprinted in your memory. Nice nose, nice lips, nice jawline – and those eyes. It’s pretty dark out here but you can still see them, and you like what you see. They’re gentle, kind eyes, like those of a little lamb (very weird comparison that your just as really drunk brain is extremely proud of coming up with, thank you very much)... until they focus back on your face, and then the gleam that appears in his gaze would never in a million years be found anywhere near one of those sweet little babies. Except maybe if there was a wolf close. Yeah. This boy is the wolf. He smiles with all his teeth and that just confirms your theory… but if he’s a wolf, and you’re a wolf, then who the fuck is driving the bus?
You got so stuck in your head that you lowkey forgot you’ve got an audience, so when you can’t stop a little laugh from escaping your mouth at the thought that just hit you, he just tilts his head, still smiling, as he manspreads on the sofa in front of yours. Fuck, he’s hot.
“You’re way too fit to be a psycho so I’m just gonna ignore that.”
You finish your cigarette, giggling again, before dumping it in the conveniently neighboring ashtray and turning on your side to face the guy, trying very hard to keep your eyes very far from the strip of tan skin that his unbuttoned linen shirt shows off in a way that is much too sexy to be an accident. Fuck, with this and the messy curls and the very nice outfit, he looks like too much of a good time. You need to chill.
As you go to take a sip out of your glass to concentrate on something that isn’t the way he looks at you, you realize that it’s empty, which means only one thing : you’re screwed.
“Famous last words,” you tease him, and your voice, fully against your will, takes that tone that it only ever takes when you want something real bad. Too late, then. “You never know, I might bite.”
This is the same girl who came to Ibiza with the intention of being responsible. Come on, man.
His smile, which was already sharp, just widens, and he leans forward on his elbows. Yeah, you’re in trouble. “Well, who says I wouldn’t be a willing victim, love?”
He’s so close. Too close. Who the fuck puts two sofas this close?
“Cute,” you softly roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the grin that takes over your face, and it just adds some fuel to his fire.
“I already thought you were pretty in the photos your friends showed me earlier, but those actually really didn’t do you any justice.”
Of course, the guy with the cocky smile is Mr. “110% your type”. Of course.
You shake your head at his words, getting into a position that just accidentally makes your boobs look even better than before. You catch his eyes going downwards quickly before focusing back on yours, and while he knows that you just saw that, he definitely doesn’t care. You’re playing a game together, and for once, it seems like you’ve potentially met your match.
“Funny because my friends told me the bloke they spoke with was taller, though, so I think you might have the wrong person…”
He laughs, and the fact that it’s not a fake laugh has you resisting the urge to sneakily rub your thighs together. What do you mean you’re standing in front of a man that’s both proper fit and self assured? This is a trap. It has to be. Where are the hidden cameras?
“Oh, Y/N, right? You and I are gonna have so much fun.”
It’s just you two in what has to be the most quiet spot in all of Ibiza. No interruption, no buffer of any kind. Just you, him and the visceral urge to sit in his lap.
It’s after a good minute of way too intense eye contact that you realize you don’t even know his name yet. He’s still leaning towards you like your grin is a magnetic force, so it’s not a surprise when he comes even closer as soon as you open your mouth to ask the question. It’s as if he can’t control himself, as if this crazy tension between you overpowers his senses. The feeling of it all is heady, and you shiver lightly at the realization that this is probably the most insane case of lust at first sight in the history of man. That, or you’re so down bad that any guy with some nice blue eyes gets you going like a blushing virgin.
You need to keep your cool. You really, really need a fucking drink.
As soon as the thought hits you, it’s as if the connection between you both goes deeper than just two strangers who want to shag the other, because he raises his own glass to his lips, and the sight of his Adam apple moving as he swallows has you gulping softly. He’s still looking at you with those killer bedroom eyes when you reach your hand out in the universal “give me” motion, and he, without any question, gives you what you want instantly. Be chill. Be chill. This is a man. Just a man.
His fingers flutter against yours for a second or two, and just to add insult to injury, he obviously very voluntarily strokes the back of your thumb with his own calloused one before letting go.
You resist the urge to chug it all in one go, because you’ve still got a little bit of dignity to maintain. Instead, in an attempt to even back the scales, you deliberately put your lips exactly where his were a couple of moments ago. He notices. Once again, his gaze sharpens, and you catch his pupils dilating. There you go. Just a man.
You take a dignified little sip of his gin and tonic, letting out a satisfied little “ah!” when you’re done. You’re not the biggest fan of gin, so this is definitely just a part of this little performance you’ve got going on. He still hasn’t looked at anything else but you, so you guess that it’s working… just as you expected.
“What’s your name?” you finally ask him, before slowly licking your upper lip to swallow the residue of alcohol that stuck to your clear lipgloss.
He sounds a bit winded when he answers. “Lando.”
You tilt your head, still laying on your side on the sofa and holding yourself upright on your elbow. Your maneater smile (as the girls like to call it) softens a bit. “Lando. Cute. Where’s it from?”
“My mum,” he offers, and his eyes crinkle, his gaze turns fond.
In turn, it warms your heart, because while this is definitely a playboy, it is also first and foremost a mumma’s boy. “Even cuter. It’s surprisingly very fitting, so good job to her.”
You’re not lying. He does look like a Lando, as crazy as it sounds. It’s a bit whimsical, and he has what you can only describe as elfish features, in a way. You don’t really know why, but it’s getting to you. Must be that 12 year old you who was obsessed with Legolas is finally waking up from wherever she’s hiding in the depths of your boy-obsessed brain.
“No Star Wars joke? I’m in love,” Lando jokes, and when you laugh, in an attempt to ignore the warmth his voice ignites in your chest, he chuckles too.
He’s so close that you can feel his breath on your skin when he does, and the warmth of it has you losing focus a little bit. You’d just need to lean forward a little bit, to maybe sneakily reach out a hand, to feel his skin against yours again. You feel dizzy with want. This is, you think, the most down bad you’ve ever been, which is fucking preposterous in itself, because as far as you know this man could be – “Are you a Twitch streamer for real or did my friend just say that to freak me out? Because, just so you know, I refuse to fuck a Twitch streamer. So, yeah. Answer wisely.”
It slips out of you too quickly, too honestly, and suddenly all your cards are on the table, and the ball is in his court. Oops. Oh well. So much for mystery and nonchalance and will they, won’t they. You want him, he wants you (if the grin that just blossomed on his lips is any indication) and now you’re both officially aware of each other’s intentions.
He runs his hand through his hair, and while you let yourself be distracted by the veins in his forearm for a second too long, you focus back on his face when he starts talking. “What’s wrong with being a Twitch streamer, anyways?” he asks you, with his eyebrows up and his smile mocking. “And no, I’m not. Well, it’s not my full time job, anyways. So I think fucking me won’t go against your moral standards, baby.”
You ignore the pet name, because it’s now your turn to raise your brows at him. “Lots of words for a guy who definitely is a Twitch streamer.”
Lando rolls his eyes in fake exasperation and quickly steals his glass back from you, making you gasp in exaggerated consternation at his action. This little game you’re playing is the most fun you’ve had in weeks.
“It doesn’t count, you little brat. I do it for like, an hour a month or something. It’s job number five out of five, so that tells you how much of a Twitch streamer I am.”
That grabs your attention. “And what’s job number one? Professional Fortnite player who, oh, actually does it in front of a camera?”
Lando’s smile widens. You’re so fucking hot, so fucking wrong, and mostly so fucking loud about it it’s adorable. “I’m a driver, actually.”
Your smile drops, and you unconsciously pout a little in confusion, because, yeah, that’s both unexpected and a first. “Like, a taxi driver?”
As soon as you say it, you know there’s simply no way that Lando, with his self-assured smirk and his confident manspread that is surprisingly more sexy than annoying, is a taxi driver.
It’s as if he can read your thoughts. “Yeah, no, no taxis. The cars I drive are a bit faster than that.”
On a normal day, if you were sober, you would probably be able to answer him in a rational way, with a full sentence, a verb and a period at the end. However, it’s nearly sunrise, you’ve been drinking for a couple of hours and his stare makes your already fogged up brain even more of a jumbled mess, so the thing that comes out is a very strong new entry in your Top 10 of Most Stupid Things You’ve Ever Said Ever.
Your mouth closes straight after, the realization of what you just said hitting you at full speed as soon as it’s out, while his opens, and stays open for a couple of seconds as he considers how to reply to such a wonderful and intelligent claim. When it comes out, it sounds more like a question than an answer. “Well. Yes. But like, Lando Norris?”
“Oh. Cool. That’s… cool,” you declare very smartly, before oversharing as you tend to do when you’re plastered and a bit embarrassed. “I only know Lewis because I work with him, so I don’t really know anything about your cars, other than they're, like, fast. Sorry for not knowing you, anyways. I’m sure you’re just as fast as Lewis. Well, maybe not, because everybody says he’s the best, and I’ve never seen him drive myself, but you know, if everybody says it.. even though everybody said the world was going to end in 2012 and-”
“Wait, you work with Lewis? How? As an influencer? What?”
His voice cuts you off as he shortcircuits, and you’re glad for it because that was a monumental Y/N rant that would have probably ended up with you most probably talking about how you lost your virginity (2012 was a dark time for everyone, okay). His gaze, which is suddenly a bit less sultry and a bit more tense, is intently scrutinizing your face. He’s slowly leaning away from you as in his head, he’s talking about all of the things you could actually be : an obsessed groupie, a journalist, or even a random woman hired by another team to fuck up his already shaky reputation even more.
In his mind, you stop being just a pretty, easy girl with a sharp tongue and doe eyes. You become a threat : an extremely fit threat, sure, but a threat anyways.
You don’t notice his inner dilemma because your eyes close in an unladylike chortle as soon as he says it, as you’re actually both not really surprised and not offended by it all. It’s a common mistake, but it’s still pretty funny to your tired brain at the moment. “I’m not an influencer, you muppet. Just because I’m a pretty girl with a fancy dress doesn’t mean I got it in a brand deal.”
That seems to settle Lando a bit, and while he’s still not fully back at ease, he relaxes a little, taking another sip before handing you the glass so you can finish it off. “So what are you? Because right now, with all the clues you’ve given me, I’ve got one option, and I’m not sure you’re gonna like it.”
You understand what he means as soon as he says it, and you cackle freely, finally sitting up, resisting the urge to let your legs land on his lap. “Lando! Are you implying I’m a whore?”
It seems your laugh is contagious, before his cocky smirk cracks to let a snigger through, and he finally leans back on one of his elbows as his other hand coincidentally lands on your knee, which rubs against his when he moves closer. “Not a whore,” he protests halfheartedly, but the glint in his eyes has you shaking your head as you scoff at his very obvious dishonesty. He still keeps the act up, letting his lips part then purse as he fakes some very intense pondering. “More like… whore-adjacent.”
“Ah! Shut the fuck up, you Twitch streamer!”
You’re still laughing, and he is too, and his left hand tries to sneakily move up your thigh. You jokingly slap it away before it gets too close, and he gasps in mock protest. His nose scrunches as he keeps up the smug eye contact you’ve got going, and suddenly his other hand, just as large, just as warm, is back on your thigh. Cocky motherfucker.
You let him win this round, though, because you can’t deny the fact that his grasp on you has your stomach in knots and your throat drying up.
“So, not a whore, then. Just a very pretty girl with a very mysterious job,” he drawls in an attempt to smooth things over, and you hum.
“Yeah, if you consider working in PR as mysterious, then sure.”
His gaze lights up, and he happily huffs. You act as if you can’t feel his grip tightening steadily on the skin of your thigh. It’s a win-win situation, anyways. No need for drama.
“Well, look at that. You work in PR, I’m a PR nightmare. Match made in heaven,” he playfully exclaims, before quickly understanding, from your raised eyebrow, that this might not be the smartest thing to say to a PR girl who you want to get into your bed at the end of the night. “Which is what I would say if I was a PR nightmare, but as I am of course definitely not any of that, then I guess that’s too bad for the actual PR nightmares out there.”
He shrugs innocently, and that whole little shtick makes you nearly laugh too hard again until you catch yourself right before it happens. Come on, Y/N, you need to grow a spine, like, yesterday.
In his mind, there’s still a question that you haven’t answered. “Are you, like, a PR assistant? Definitely fashion, right? You’ve got that whole thing about you. How did you even end up working with Lewis? I can’t remember him working with any brand recently, except maybe…”
You cut him off, because for once, you’re talking to a guy who seems actually interested in your job, and even though you know that this is not a pissing contest, you can’t resist the animal instinct in your DNA that makes you want to impress the beautiful man in front of you. “Burberry? Yeah, we’ve got a little bit of a partnership going in with Lewis right now, which is pretty cool, to be frank. I’m kind of like the link between his team and ours, actually, as the Head of the Marketing and Communications Department,” you offer in a very humble way, your shoulders rising in your best impression of a nonchalant shrug.
He’s stopped moving, and his thumb, which had been tracing slow circles on the skin of your thigh for the past minute, freezes completely. “Head?! Like Chief? Like Big Boss?”
You nod proudly, manipulating his state of shock to your advantage as you let your hand finally wander up his forearm, because you’ve been a very good girl for the past hour or so and you can’t resist the temptation anymore. It’s like a little treat, a little reward, when you let your fingers trace the solid lines of his arm until they hit the rolled sleeve right under his elbow just to stop right under it. You scratch lightly the sensitive skin there with the tip of your nails, and his breathing speedens a bit, but he hides it quickly, way too curious to let himself be distracted.
His voice is disbelieving, but not in a mean, condescending way. He sounds boyish, a bit concerned, a bit awed, and his following exclamation surprises the shit out of you. “But you’re like 23! And you’re the boss? You must be the most fucking terrifying PR rep ever. I knew you were definitely a bit mean, but this is crazy. And so sexy. Fuck, you’re so sexy.”
It’s your turn to freeze a little, because you’ve only heard one thing out of everything he’s just said, and that’s... “You think I’m 23?”
It comes out strangled, and he nods enthusiastically. His eyes are so expressive that you can see the sincerity in them, and you wince sharply, because you finally see through the lust-tinted glasses you’ve been wearing since you’ve met him, and it’s not looking good. You’ve been staring at him for an hour straight, but it’s the first time you actually see him, all of him. The very noticeable puppy eyes he’s making at you right now, showcasing his confusion at your reaction, just confirm everything, and you sober up nearly immediately.
You quickly take your hand off his arm before sighing deeply, closing your eyes as you do.
“Lando, how old are you?”
He frowns, not really understanding why this is all of a sudden pertinent or important. “I’m 23,” he states, before he flinches back in panic. “Wait, what the fuck, you’re not a minor, right?”
While this situation is nothing to laugh at, his question is so absurd you can’t fight the giggle that wants to escape your throat. Oh, come on.
He’s grimacing a bit at himself, realizing how stupid this sounded, and both his hands lift in the air in a “not guilty” gesture, his eyes going from scared to amused in a second or so.
“What? What’s the problem, then? Your name’s not Y/N? You’re not British? Your tits are fake? What is it?”
You just sigh again, both in plain astonishment and in utter disarray, because this is the dumbest situation you’ve ever been in, and you can’t believe it’s happening for real to you on a random Monday morning in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.
“Lando, I’m not 23. I’m 26, about to be 27 in three months. I could, like, be your mother!”
Lando physically recoils, until his brain catches up to the quick math of it all and he tsks at you. “Yeah, okay. Now, I’ve never been very good with numbers, but even I can tell you that this is not true. For a big boss, I would have expected you to know that, but I guess they just promote anyone these days.”
He’s too sassy for his own good, but you can’t even respond before his two hands find themselves back on your thighs, his grip solid, grounding.They don’t move even when you try to push them off, because clearly this boy does not understand the gravity of the situation.
His following statement just confirms that. “So, you still haven’t explained what’s the problem here.”
You gasp at him, your whole mask of nonchalance forgotten ever since you found out his age. “The problem? I don’t fuck kids, that’s the problem. I don’t want to be a cougar, thank you very much.”
This whole speech contradicts wildly with the fact that your hands, even though they’ve stopped trying to push him away, haven’t moved, and are now laying flatly on the top of his, your fingers curling slightly against the curve of his thick wrists. Fuck, I’m turning into my mother.
Your panic just makes him laugh, and it’s such a pretty laugh that you can only pretend to get mad at it. “Y/N, first of all, I’m repeating myself here, but I would definitely be a willing victim if that were to be the case. Second of all, it’s not, so calm the fuck down. Would it help if I told you I turn 24 tomorrow?”
You contemplate that as his calloused thumbs go back to tracing smooth circles on the skin of your thighs, luring you into him, your upper body leaning towards his unconsciously. “Well, yeah, it would.”
He nods, as if to say “well there you go”.
“Great, then. It’s not true, though, but if it makes you feel better, we can go along with it.”
“What?! I’m trying to help, here!”
You stand up sharply, and he stays seated, which makes him look up at you with these laughing eyes and this sinful, cheeky mouth, and while you do have the higher ground now, you think it makes you even more down bad.
His fucking hands are still on your body. At this angle, they feel enormous, like they could cover the whole length of your thighs, and oh so warm, so inviting… but you are an adult, and your willpower will not be defeated by a nice pair of hands.
“Lando, your brain is not yet fully developed, so I’m making an executive decision for us both here,” you start, right before he cuts you off.
“This is like… reverse ageism!”
His facial expression is insulted, but his tone is mocking, and his grasp on you moves from the front of your thighs to the back of them, which brings you infinitely closer to him and his long eyelashes. When he exhales longly, voluntarily, it nearly hits straight against the junction of your legs, and your eyes narrow in an attempt to scold him and his whorish behavior. It has the opposite effect, however, as the corners of his lips turn up and you feel his fingers inching up, up, up… until they disappear under the hem of your dress.
Lando lets you talk. He knows women like you : if you don’t get it all out, it’s gonna haunt you for the rest of your time with him, and he’d rather you be fully, mentally and physically there with him when he finally gets you where he wants to.
“Stop joking! I don’t want to be like… a predator. You’re probably famous, right? At least a little bit, anyways. Imagine the headlines : Grandma’s Still Got It!”
He guffaws. He can’t help it. This is the most fun he’s had in months, he thinks.
You’re still freaking out, but it’s more of a downward spiral than anything, so he finally cuts you off before you make yourself insane with what-ifs and conspiracy theories.
“And, and I’m going to walk around London, and people are going to point and laugh and go old hag! Old ha-ah!”
Your knees fail you when he jerks you towards him, and you literally fall into his lap, the quick move shutting you up instantly. You’re stretched over his strong thighs, and you feel him right under you. No more mental breakdown : the only thing you can think about is him, and his scent, and his arms, which have now moved right under your bum to hold you against him.
You can’t meet his eyes, and the pout that takes over your face is just a very poor attempt at seeming annoyed and not turned the fuck on. If you’ve lost all control over the situation, at least you still have yourself… right? Right?
“Deep breath, baby. That was a lot of words. Silly words at that,” he chides, and while normally you wouldn’t tolerate the slightly patronizing tone, you’re a bit tired and he’s pretty and his body against yours feels very nice.
You however don’t take that much needed deep breath, because even though he’s a fine man with a deep voice, he’s still a man, and you think listening to him like that would be your final straw. To be fair, you’d rather die, so when you start holding your breath instead, it’s quite funny to watch Lando shake his head dejectedly as soon as he notices.
“Okay, you muppet, be a brat, see if I care.”
You resist the urge to stick your tongue out at him, because, well, your own thing was about being too old for him, so that wouldn’t look too good – but God do you want to.
Instead, you let your own hands wander, playing idly with the open collar of his shirt to ground yourself, but mostly to mess with him. In return, his fingers tighten and you feel them getting closer to where you actually want them.
Oh well, may the best tease win here.
Even though you’re distracted, you still haven’t forgotten the problem at hand here, and he knows it, so he adjusts his stance.
“To go back to what I was saying,” he cheekily starts, because you both know that he wasn’t saying anything, “26 and 23 is nothing. You’re not a cougar. You’re a beautiful woman and I’m a man with eyes and, no surprise there, I want you.”
His honesty is charming. Your pout turns into something a bit more mischievous, but you’re still looking anywhere but his eyes. Right now, you’re actually focusing on the cute little moles splattered over his face. They’re adorable. He’s adorable.
As soon as the thought hits you, it’s as if a switch turned on in his brain, because one second his face is a couple of centimeters away and the next his chin is in the valley of your breasts, his head angled up so his slightly open lips hit the tip of your chin and his eyes lock directly into yours when the surprise finally makes you look.
The atmosphere is all of a sudden not light anymore. It’s so tense that you feel it in your core, in the tip of your nipples, in the roots of your hair. The fact that he has this much power over you makes you shiver, because that is a 23 years old guy you met not even a day ago, and this whole thing is pretty fucking terrifying. However, this is a question for later, because right now is not the time for thinking. Yeah, definitely not.
“I also wouldn’t mind being the predator,” he whispers against your jaw, and even though it’s a bit of a shitty pick up line and any other the corniness of it all would have made you cringe, right now it makes a quiver go down your spine, which has you straightening right into him.
Lando just looks at you after that, and with the deadly combo of both his eyes and his hands on you, it isn’t long before you let go of any rational thought holding you back.
He wins this one… but something in you tells you that this might be a win-win situation.
Your hands go up to the back of his head as a symbol of your defeat, and when you finally kiss him, Lando’s smiling.
He’s still smiling as he kisses you back and as he lets his fingers slowly reach under the back of your thong, playing with it, making you arch into him. It’s hot and it’s fast and it’s long overdue, and you’re so fucking glad that you gave in, because that is a man that knows how to kiss. His frame is solid under you, and your arms are around his wide shoulders and tangled in his hair as you can’t resist the urge to grind softly against him. The groan that escapes him is sinful, and it’s now your turn to smile, because it’s a very clear sign that you get to him just as much as he gets to you, and what a delightful thing that is.
You kiss and you kiss and you kiss for what feels like hours. He makes sounds that have your insides clenching and you feel him slowly getting harder under you, and you wonder out of the blue if 23 year old boys can still come untouched. It’s a fleeing thought, though, and you forget it as soon as he pulls you closer as if he can’t stand the mere idea of there being even just a tiny bit of empty space between your two bodies. As it stands, his tongue is in your mouth and his long fingers are so close to your cunt that it nearly hurts and you’re about to break it off to finally tell him to just fucking do it when your long-forgotten cellphone vibrates behind you, on the empty sofa where you left it.
You ignore it the first time, but when it vibrates again, and again, you unwillingly pull yourself away from Lando, who protests nearly whiningly (you’d never thought you’d ever say that but it is sexy as fuck) before throwing his head back, his breath, loud and erratic, sounding like music to your ear. Not to flex, but yeah, you’ve done that. It’s pretty fucking gratifying.
You blindly stretch back and grab your phone after a few tries, and Lando looks at you while you giggle at the screen. The light illuminates you in a way that makes you look alive, and he catalogues it all in his brain, just to remember that you’re real and not straight out of his teenage wet dreams. He stares under lowered eyelids at your fucked up, nearly fully gone lip liner, at your messy curls, at the little dark smudges of mascara under your eyes. He traces the ridges of your flushed face, the pretty pink apple of your cheeks, the way you bite your sensible, puffy lips as you smile at whatever the fuck you’re looking at on your phone. Lando can’t believe now that he first thought you were a random influencer, because it’s clear to him now that you’re not just a pretty girl in a sea of pretty girls. You’ve got this whole aura around you, and while he doesn’t really know you yet, there’s a feeling in his chest that makes him desperately want to.
He needs to snap out of it, though. This is not very Ibiza-party-boy chill of him.
“What’s so funny?” his voice comes out ragged, a bit worse for wear, and he doesn’t really try to do anything about it because in two minutes tops he plans to be back on track with his mouth fused to yours.
You shake your head, and you gaze up from the screen to lock eyes with him as you do.
“Nothing. Just the girls. They texted me to tell me that they’re about to leave,” you tell him, trying your best to not sound winded from the very intense snogging session that just happened, but failing miserably as your eyes can’t stop darting down to his now wet lips.
He hums lowly, nodding, and as he brings his hands up from your bum to your waist, holding you steady on his lap, he smirks slowly.
“Tell them we’re about to leave too, then.”
It’s now your turn to smile smugly, because yeah, that’s a pretty good plan.
“Should I also make sure to tell them to not wait up?”
He fakes thinking about it for five seconds or so, before nodding twice, nonchalantly, like you’re just two people discussing the weather and not the very intoxicating fact that in the next hour you are most definitely gonna end up naked under him in his bed.
“Yes, I think that’s a good idea, baby. You’re very smart, you know that?”
“Hm,” you shrug as you text back an update to the groupchat, ignoring the way his big hands are now gently cupping your breasts as if to give you a bit of a preview. “I’ve been told once or twice.”
You’re both grinning as you throw the phone back on the sofa behind you, and you run your hand through your hair to tame it a bit before gripping his forearms again, enjoying the feel of them flexing under your grasp. Ỳou inhale once, before boldly waggling your eyebrows at him in a way that has his own raising in glee.
The door to his room doesn't even have the time to slam closed before the straps of your dress are off and this boy lets vintage couture hit the floor like the brute he is.
Normally you would complain at least a little bit, just for the sake of it, but with his tongue in your mouth and his grip on your arse, you're a bit too busy to care. Oh well, you'll send it to the dry cleaner when you're back in London.
That's not to say that you don't have your hands full too : you're unbuttoning his shirt (well, the last two buttons that weren't already undone) as fast as you can with your eyes closed and as soon as it's off, you're letting your fingers wander, tracing the ridges of his surprisingly robust chest and teasing a little bit as you go down, down, down...
Lando takes his mouth off yours and he huffs a laugh, his forehead leaning against yours for a second or two. "Ok. Bed. Now."
You certainly won't say no to such a wonderful offer.
You push him back towards the edge of it, and his eyes are on you as he backs up. You're naked, bar your Agent Provocateur thongs and your heels. The heat in his gaze has you shivering, but you keep your composure up. You're cool and composed when you kick the Miu Miu's off your feet, smiling a little bit, because this is all a show and you are a wonderful, wonderful performer. He's already lucky enough to just be looking at you, so of course you won't make it too easy a job for him to get you to the second act.
He's sitting on the bed, shirtless, hair a mess, when you walk towards him, and the way he tilts his head back to lock his eyes to yours has your smile widening. In this light, with the very early morning glow hitting the left side of his face just right, there's a glint in his gaze and the lines of his jaw, of his brow and of his nose are so sharp you inhale abruptly at the sight. This guy, this stranger, makes you go fucking crazy. You've never felt this much attraction to a one-night-stand, and you just know the next entry in your journal is gonna be titled "Lando". He doesn't know it, but he's just made it to the yearly "Men Of The Year" PowerPoint night with the girls.
You're still not speaking when you make it in between his thighs, and you just tilt your head a little when his fingers start toying with the sides of your panties. There's a duality in Lando that makes him both cute and sexy at the same time, and it's the type of duality you've only ever seen in the most famous of men you've worked with, which reminds you that yes, you are to about to fuck with a celebrity, and yes, that goes against every single rule you've followed diligently since the beginning of your career. Fortunately, you don't have the time to think too much about it, as he pulls you to sit on top of him and the feel of his warm skin on yours has you blanking.
The feel of his hands settling on your hips is grounding in a way that surprises you. Warm. Certain. Like he's been waiting for this exact moment forever and nothing else exists beyond the press of body on body and the soft dip of the mattress beneath you both.
For a second, you just sit there, thighs bracketing his, the room unbearably quiet except for the sound of your breathing — his a little uneven, yours carefully controlled. You can feel the tension coiled in him, the way his fingers flex ever so slightly, like he's restraining himself on purpose. It does something dangerous to you, that restraint. Makes your stomach tighten.
"You're so fucking gorgeous," Lando murmurs, voice low as if he doesn't want to disturb the peace, to cut the tension that's built between you.
You're smiling again, and your voice is just as low when you answer, but there's a hint of mischievousness in it that betrays your true feelings. "Thank you very much."
"Not even a you too? You meanie," he chides lightly, but with his smirking face in your neck and hard cock under you, you don't take it too personally.
He's scoffing jokingly, and when he bites the top of your left tit in retribution, you gasp more out of outrage than of surprise, because of course this little brat would do something like this.
As a result, you pull his hair tightly. The moan that leaves his parted lips is a bit of a revelation, but once again not a surprise. Of course this puppy-eyed cocky bastard loves some good hair-pulling. Fork found in kitchen and all that.
He's back to kissing you before you can mock him a bit for it, though, so that'll be for later.
Five seconds later, he has you under him, so quickly that you can't really comprehend how the switch happened. You're so fucking wet that it doesn't matter, anyways. What actually matters is the fact that if in the next five minutes he isn't in you, you are going to actually lose your mind.
He's still kissing you when you take matters into your own hands, trying very hard to unbutton the top of his linen trousers with your hands that are shaking slightly in want. God, you want, you want, you want. You've never been this horny in what feels like forever. You'd like to say that it's not him, it's you being just a very sexual being in general, but you can't lie, his smell and his grip and his everything are getting to you.
He understands what you want quickly, and he helps you to get his trousers off, kicking them away when they get too far down for you to continue. You hum in gratitude and to thank him, because you're a very polite girl, you let your fingers finally flutter against his cock throughout the fabric of his boxers. You're not blind to the straightening of his spine and to the inhale he suddenly takes through his nose. He's so fucking affected by you that it makes you even wetter, which you didn't think could be possible all things considered.
Lando tries to hide how erratic his breath is getting, because the fact that he's literally about to come nearly untouched at the big age of 23 is incredibly embarrassing, as his long fingers come to clench on top of your breasts. You're shaking again, but the want is slowly turning into need and it's all getting a little bit too much. This is, literally, hour 3 or 4 of foreplay, now. Enough.
There's no more hesitation between you two, because it seems you've both come to the same conclusion in your heads. Lando's lips make their way to the valley of your breasts and his calloused fingers slide your thong down your thighs before coming back up to finally feel you. There's something in his eyes when he realizes how much you want this that has you arching into him, because you're not one to be all that thrilled at a man's approval, but he seems so proud of himself (and of you!!! in a weird way!!! this is all so weird!!!) that you're feeling yourself just get hotter and hotter as the moments and the feelings go on.
Your movements also get hasty, as if you're both running against the clock. You pull down his boxers just enough to finally get his cock out, and while you can't see with the way he's pressed against you, you can tell that it's pretty just by the feel of it against your palm. He's thick and veiny and so fucking hard it must hurt. He's also began to breathe choppily against you, as if he just ran past the finish line of a marathon. His strong thighs, which are holding him up over your, are starting to flex rhythmically like he's having a stroke, but no, it's actually just you. You stroke him once, twice, before Lando stops you, eyes closed, jaw clenched. His fingers leave your cunt, which he was lazily petting, surprisingly aware that you were too fired up for more and way too tired for two orgasms in a row, as he slowly starts to rise up from you.
You let up a disapproving noise when his heat leaves you, and with your eyelids low, you wrap your arms around his strong shoulders to keep him against you. No, wait, don't leave, fuck me!
"Wait, wait, wait," Lando nearly begs you, because with your lips pouting and your sad little eyes you're starting to make him feel bad for trying to be a good person. "I'm just getting a condom, baby, I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving."
He kisses your pout quickly, sneakily, and you hate to admit but his tone and his care make you melt.
"I genuinely couldn't leave if I wanted to, anyways. You've got me fucking drunk on that pussy," he mutters as he gets on his knees to reach the bedtable on the right side of the bed, and while this was definitely an inside thought, you're glad he says it because it makes you finally gain some control back over yourself.
"One more second with my hand over your cock and you were done for, by the way," you tease him, using this little break from the feverish sexual tension as an excuse to stretch your arms over your head to fight the tightness that's taken over your shoulders.
Lando nods quickly and his facial expression as he opens the drawer has you grinning, because you've never seen a man look both this horrified and this appalled by his own behaviour. "Oh, believe me, I'm very aware of that," he nearly squeaks, and the break in his composure makes you finally laugh out loud.
You're still giggling when he's suddenly back on top of you, ripping the condom wrapper off with his teeth and frowning at you in fake outrage. "You think that's funny, huh?"
You stop laughing at the sight, because he's tan and wrecked and glorious, but you just cannot stop being a fucking brat anyways, so, with your lip in between your teeth, you nod cheekily. He then nods back, but it is slow and measured, and the way his veins bulge against his thick neck grabs your attention, so you miss the way he takes his cock in his hands and rolls the condom over it. You're still laser-focused on his neck when his fingers end up in your hair and his grip tightens to pull your head back so you can finally look back into his eyes. You gasp, because yeah, sue you but you definitely match his freak when it comes to hair-pulling.
"You want it, hm?" he asks, and the sudden dirty talk has your brain shortcircuiting. Well hello there. "You want my cock?"
You're still biting your lower lip, and while it's starting to fucking hurt, you're grateful for it as it is the last thing holding you back from instantly nodding.
The situation is not in your favor. You're laying down and he's standing upright on his knees, holding his cock while he also holds your gaze. He's tan and there's a slight sheen of sweat over his bronzed skin that makes him glow, and the flexing of both his thighs and his biceps just highlight the sheer strength hiding in his somewhat unassuming body. That's the kind of build you associate with swimmers, in a way : broad shoulders, tight waist and very nice glutes. You think he would do wonderful in a pilates class.
"Come on, pretty, don't get shy on me all of a sudden," Lando adds before very voluntarily letting the tip of his prick hit your clit, and a surprised moan is the only answer you give him. "Yeah, I know, baby, you want it so fucking bad, right?"
Your hands are reaching for his chest against your will, because you just need to feel him. He, who is trying very hard to be in charge of the situation, lets you do it, because he's as hungry for it as you are. He even leans in, letting his navel hit yours and settle there, and you feel his toned stomach extending against yours as he breathes. The intimacy of it all is stifling.
You're undulating your hips under him, and every time the tip of his cock catches your clit, you exhale sharply. "L-Lando," you stutter with your eyes closed, because it's all too much, and you don't think you could give him the begging he wants right now even if you wanted to.
He's pussy-drunk, you're cock-stupid – what a fucking dream team.
"Ok, ok, baby," it's his turn to sound like he's choking on his own breath. "'m gonna fuck you, baby."
As soon as he slips the tip in, you're arching into his body, your face pressing into the spot where his shoulder meets his neck. You're panting at the feeling, at the rightness of it, because this has been a long time coming. You simultaneously both sigh in bliss when he's fully in, because there he is and there I am and there we are finally together.
There's no pause, no break, no moment of hesitation. As soon as he is in your cunt, his hips go to work, and he starts pounding, to your absolute delight. It's so weird that this stranger seems to know exactly what you want when you want it, but you don't spend too much time questioning it because ever since you met Lando 4 hours ago, he proved that you're surprisingly very alike in way too many ways – a fact that is a bit scary considering you're a nearly 27 years old woman and he's a freshly 23 years old guy, and worse, a 23 years old professional athlete. You sure do hope that he's the one that is a bit too mature for his own age and not the opposite.
Your fingers are grasping at any part of him you can reach, and as he fucks into you with vigor, your nails find the middle of his back and press in, because you need to attach yourself to something, anything. Lando shudders against you when the pain hits him and it just makes him piston into you harder because yeah, it's confirmed, you're his fucking dream girl. He never doubted you would disappoint, but here you are, ticking all of his boxes one after the other without even knowing it.
While he's having an eye-opening realization (he never wants this night to end), you are too, but mostly because you're about to come for the first time from penetration alone. His big hands are so tight on your hips that it hurts, keeping you as close as humanly possible, and there is no stimulation other than his cock inside you and his pelvis deeply grinding into your clit with every back-and-forth of his own hips, but for once in your life, that is enough. There's something building slowly but surely in your chest, a feeling you can't name, you can't place, but it's sirupy and it's fluttery and it's undeniably good and special and beautiful.
If you were drunker, this is when you would say "I love you". Actually, you're now stone cold sober, and you're resisting the urge to do it. As you'd rather die than ever do that, you just moan against him, biting his soft skin to ground you to something solid, to something real.
His pace is unforgiving, and his hands have moved to your bum as soon as your legs wrapped around his waist to get him even closer. You're both so fucking loud it's a bit shameful, but there's no place for shame of any kind in a room that is already filled to the brim with so much lust and so much tension. He hits all the right places, all the spots that make you twitch and tweak and scream out in glee, and without any warning, you're coming.
It's loud and it's messy. It doesn't hit you in waves – it hits you like a fucking tsunami. You're panting and he's nearly fucking growling and you can't believe that this is your life. Thank God you came to the club tonight. Thank God you came to Ibiza. Thank God you were born, even. You wish you were exaggerating, and you know the girls are gonna laugh when you try to explain the feeling because you don't think you can put it into words, anyways, so you probably won't even try. This is going to stay yours, and yours only, for now – not like a dirty little secret, but more like a coveted gift from somebody you'll never ever see again.
Your hands are now in his hair, and Lando comes as you're scratching gently his scalp. His hips still into you abruptly and the moan he lets out is more of a whimper than anything, which has your spent brain clocking back in for a second to say nice before going back to an unconscious state. His breathing in your ear is labored as he falls back on top of you, still inside of you, and you both just take a minute to enjoy it, to soak in it. You inhale when he exhales, and your lethargic bodies are like two puzzle pieces that just fit into one another.
The room is silent again bar for your shared breathing, and your eyes close for a second, or probably more than that because the next time you come to, he's off of you with a fresh pair of boxers on as he's washing you clean with a warm water-soaked hand towel.
You hum at the feeling, and his head rises so his gaze can meet yours. The small smile that takes over his face is endearing, so the little bit of energy you still have in you is put to use to give him a lazy grin in return.
"Hi," he boyishly beams, and your heart twists in your chest at the sight. "I lost you for a minute there."
"I think I'm a little tired," you murmur back sluggishly.
It's the understatement of the year, as even bringing your hand up to try to fix your messy hair is a challenge in itself. You honestly think you just make the situation worse, and that is confirmed by the crinkling of his eyes and the toothy smile that just keeps growing bigger and bigger as the seconds go on.
"Go back to sleep then, pretty. I'll take care of everything."
You're about to do just that, lulled by his low voice and his heartwarming kindness, when your hand shakily reaches out towards the wall against which you dropped your purse and your cellphone when you first arrived. "My phone... Can you..."
"I've already plugged it in. Go to sleep, girlboss, your emails will still be there tomorrow," he quips cheekily.
Your eyes close with the thought of fuck, I think I could love this man.
A week later, when you're back home in your London flat and a verified account with a couple of millions of followers requests to follow your very private Instagram account, the memory of this thought alone is enough to have you deciding that you will not press the blue accept button.
Not yet, not now. There's no place in your life right now for a pretty boy with pretty eyes and even prettier words, and if you're honest with yourself, that is unfortunately ultimately for the better.
Luckily for Lando, however, fate works in mysterious ways – which is exactly what he tells himself when he catches a glimpse of you in the Spa-Francorchamps paddock seven months later.
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