hopeless lover

On Wednesday evening you were assigned to the restaurant – it was already late, almost closing time, the guests slowly disappeared from their tables, all that was left after the chatter was the low hum of the music coming from the speakers. 

You were wiping down a table when someone entered through the glass double doors, alone. Hands in his pockets, hair a bit ruffled, eyes tired. The head waiter’s breath hitched when he noticed him, quickly greeting and guiding the stranger to a table. 

You brought the dirty dishes back to the kitchen, pushing the door open with your shoulder. 

“Did you see him?” One of your colleagues asked. You looked at her with a puzzled expression, before you connected the dots. 

“Oh,” you paused. “That’s him?”  

The girl in front of you nodded with excitement, seemingly buzzing in her skin. You humoured her excitement for a bit, as she talked your ear off about the young driver – George Russell. His name rang a bell, but you weren’t that familiar with him. 

When you left the restaurant, he was still sitting there, eating his dinner alone in peace, looking at something on his phone. You allowed yourself a look – you couldn’t deny, he was very handsome.  

As you passed his table, his gaze moved to your form, eyes catching yours. You barely saw him smile briefly at you before you averted your gaze, acting like he didn’t just catch you staring at him. 

On Thursday, you had to help take care of laundry duty. This was definitely not your favourite task, but at least there were no people, it was a bit of peace in the crazy week. Your older coworker pushed a clothing bag in your hands, before she said: 

“Would you take this to room 103, please? Just came back from dry cleaning.”  

You grabbed the plastic bag, and your breath hitched when you realised what you were holding – a black racing suit. You accepted the request and headed towards said room. Your steps were muffled by the carpet on the hotel hallways, and you hesitantly opened the door marked with the number 103. 

The room was pristine – you assumed the cleaning staff was already there, but besides that, a suitcase was neatly tucked in the corner of the room, all clothes packed away into the tall closets.  

You laid the suit down onto the bed and looked at it for a second. Then another. A chuckle bubbled up in your chest as an idea formed in the back of your mind. “She’s gonna freak out,” you thought. You had a friend who was into F1, you sometimes listened to her go on and on about her favourite driver. It was not George, but still – you thought it would be a fun little thing to do. There’s no way anyone would see it, and it will be a story to tell. 

You quickly unzipped the bag around the racing suit, then jumped out of your uniform, pushing your limbs into the overall, before zipping it up in the middle. You looked ridiculous – the suit was baggy on you, too long and scrunched up around your shins and forearms.  

You fished your phone out from the pockets of your uniform and took a photo in the vanity mirror. You laughed – this was so absurd, but how many people can say they wore a Formula 1 racing suit? Not a lot. 

Your hand was already reaching for the zipper when you heard shuffling at the door, and the blood froze in your veins. You heard a muted thud as your phone hit the floor, your brain tried to run, to hide – you were considering jumping out of the window, rather than being found out like this, but your legs didn’t move. Your muscles tensed up from fear, stiff like a statue as the handle turned, and the door opened. 

His eyes immediately locked with yours as he entered, his soft hair falling onto his forehead gently. His mouth fell slightly agape in bewilderment at the scene in front of him, and you didn’t even dare to breathe – like a deer caught in headlights, unable to move. You wished you had the option of a truck hitting you instead as well. 

His warm chuckle snapped you out of it. He closed the door behind him, a wide smile spread on his face, small dimples decorating his cheeks as he turned towards you again. 

“I’m so terribly sorry, sir,” you blurted out finally, eyes locked on the floor in front of you, not daring to look at him. “I’m so sorry.” Your breathing was shallow, and you felt lightheaded. You were sure you’re going to get fired. Or even worse. What would be even worse than getting fired? Hell, what could be even worse than this situation right here? Enduring this seemed worse than any hell. 

“I think it’s adorable, actually,” he said, a smile apparent in his voice. Your brows furrowed, panic never ceasing in your body. Was this like how cats played with the mouse before eating them? Your hand was shaking at your sides, before finally mustering up the courage to speak. 

“I’m really sorry. Please don’t get me fired, I-,” you said in a shaky voice, pausing for a second. “I’ll be out of here in the blink of an eye. You’ll never see me again.” The words tumbled out of you fast, in one quick breath like it was the last you’d ever take. He stepped closer to you, and you saw his feet stopping in front of you on the carpeted floor.  

“It’s a bit big on you, don’t you think?” He teased, his hand moving to your forearm, pinching the fabric where it was baggy around your arm. His other hand moved to your chin, pinching it gently between his thumb and index finger, lifting your head to look at him. You still didn’t dare to match his gaze, but a tingling sensation ran through your body and settled between your legs from his proximity and his hot touch on you. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” was all you could muster up, waiting for this torture to end, hoping for the earth to swallow you whole. But it didn’t. 

“Such good manners, yet still nobody taught you not to touch what’s not yours?” He hummed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You still didn’t dare to match his gaze, but you felt it burn your skin as he studied your face. Your heartbeat was loud in your ears, buzzing in your fingertips. You closed your eyes, waiting for your inevitable demise. 

“Look at me,” he commanded, tightening his hold on your chin, his hand settling at your nape. You obliged, your eyes finally meeting his – they seemed hazy, his pupils dilated slightly. His gaze was darting between your eyes and lips, his breathing heavier than it was just a few seconds ago.  

“Tell me to stop.” 

Your heart skipped a beat, brain slowly processing what he was asking, without actually speaking the words. You thought it would be a harder decision, you thought you’d have more dignity, more self-control. But the soft throbbing between your legs and the tingling sensation running across your skin took the better of your judgement. You just shook your head, barely noticeable when your eyes fell to his lips just in time to see the smirk spreading across them. 

His hand dropped from your chin to your hips, and he pulled you closer into a kiss – his lips enveloped yours in hurried, hungry motions, there was no hesitation, no gentle exploration, he was claiming you with every brush of his tongue against your lips. You whimpered, fists grabbing onto the front of his team shirt, wrinkling the soft fabric, to ground yourself in the moment. 

His fingers tangled in your hair at the back of your neck, grabbing it and tugging on it gently, causing you to moan against him and softly biting down on his lower lip. He pulled away just enough to whisper against your lips, tugging on your hair, causing you to gasp sharply. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He asked, slowly undoing the neck of the racing suit, tugging the zipper down gently. You inhaled sharply, the fact that you only had your underwear under the suit dawning on you slowly. “I bet you wanted me to find you here.”  

You shook your head ever-so-lightly, as the zipper rolled down slowly on the suit, dragging inch by inch, revealing naked skin under. His knuckles brushed against your clothed breast, causing your thighs to tremble slightly in anticipation and a bit of shame. When he pulled the zipper all the way down, the lace of your panties was peeking out from under the suit.  

He bit his lip – barely noticeable, before moving both his hands to gently push the fabric aside and reveal more of your body. You closed your eyes – whether in pleasure, guilt or surrender, you weren’t sure. His palm flattened against your clavicle, slender fingers dancing against your throat, feeling your hammering pulse before he started to move his hand down slowly, exploring every inch of free skin that laid in front of him. 

Your skin was burning hot under his touch, and you held your breath – like one wrong movement, one wrong breath could cause him to vanish, leaving you wanting and empty. His hand cupped your breast, thumb caressing the hem of the black lace of your bra, causing your breath to stutter. 

“Naughty little thing,” he said, his voice sounded almost – admiring? Proud? He removed his hand from you, and you instinctively moved towards him, chasing his proximity. He grabbed you by your hips and urged you to move – you were now standing in front of the vanity mirror, him behind you, slowly caressing your sides, before his attention was on something else. 

His foot hit something on the floor, and soon he found out it was a phone – yours, presumably. A devilish smile spread across his face, and it took you a second to register what he was doing, and panic rose in your body. 

“Wait, no –,” you objected, but he shushed you gently, pressing a kiss on your temple, which somehow felt innocent, but mocking at the same time. He put the phone down on the vanity, before his hands were back on yours, touching and caressing every inch of naked skin he could reach. He leaned down and pressed open mouthed kisses into the crook of your neck, slowly sucking and biting on your soft skin. 

Your body moved on its own accord, hips pushing against him, and you felt his erection press against your ass, causing you to choke out a moan. You felt his smirk against your skin, and he splayed his hand across your stomach, pulling you into him gently before slowly snaking down, disappearing under the hem of your underwear. 

You cried out when he pressed the heel of his palm down on the small mound above the apex of your thighs, before travelling farther south, barely brushing against your clit, as he pressed a slender finger against your drenched folds. 

“Bloody hell, honey,” he groaned, moving his fingers back and forth between your entrance and your clit, spreading your wetness around. “You’re soaked.”  

You shuddered from his words, head thrown back against his shoulder, fully at his mercy. He finally moved his finger to press against your clit, and you cried out, hips bucking forward against his hands to chase the feeling. He chuckled behind you, and it took you a second to realise he was reaching for your phone. You tried to object, but his fingers moved in precise circles on you, clouding your judgement and your senses.  

He unlocked the camera on your phone, and he was greeted with the photo you took of yourself before he caught you. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest as he looked at the photo – you, in the too big, baggy racing suit, one hand holding the phone, the other in a silly peace sign up in the air. If he wasn’t so occupied by wanting to finally feel you, he would’ve thought about the fact he found it really endearing. 

His hand worked its magic on you, before he realigned his palm to push a finger inside you – the sound that came from between your legs was downright filthy as his finger slowly dragged against your tight walls, and the pleasure that rolled through your body was insane.  

“Fuck, gorgeous, you feel incredible,” he mused against your neck, slightly biting down into your skin. He moved his finger in and out of you in a steady pace, before adding a second one shortly after, and pressing the heel of his palm against your clit. Your loud moans bounced off the walls, and you prayed that nobody was in the room next door. 

You rolled your hips against his fingers, grinding on them, chasing your pleasure that was rapidly building in your body.  

“Smile, honey,” he said, and your eyes fluttered open to see what he means, and in that second you heard the camera click on your phone, and the realisation made your walls to tighten around his fingers. “Aww, you like that, hmm?” He asked, his tone dripping with mockery. Your blood was slowly turning into fire in your veins. 

He lifted the phone for you to look at, the movements of his other hand never faltering, fingering you with precision, pleasuring you in ways you never imagined was possible. Your hazy gaze fell to the screen of your phone and then you saw the photo.  

Slightly blurry, you, in the racing suit – zipped down, lace bra and your naked stomach on full display, George’s strong arm wrapped around you from behind, hand buried deep inside your underwear. Your hair messy, looking at the mirror through half-lidded eyes, and he smiles devilishly against your skin, beautiful eyes looking at the camera from the corner of his eyes.  

Your walls clamped down on his fingers, and he chuckled before setting the phone back to its place.  

“Oh honey, you really do like that, hmm?” He teased, before kissing your neck once again, sucking a dark mark onto it while his fingers pushed you closer and closer to the edge, your arousal soaking his hand. “Fuck, you’re so fucking wet. Going to ruin my racing suit, hmm? Coming inside it, on my fingers, like the good little whore you are?” 

His voice was rough, and you felt the way the filthy words turned him on just as much as they drove you crazy – his hips rutted against the curve of your ass from time to time, chasing some kind of friction himself. Your skin was tingling and the whole world collapsed in on itself more and more with every flick of his wrist, walls fluttering around his fingers more often with every passing second. Your ears were ringing from being so close to your release, and all your inhibition disappeared once and for all. 

“George-,” you whined, grinding against his palm harder. His eyes widened for the slightest bit, before his features hardened again, a sly smirk on his face. He clicked his tongue before he spoke again. 

“Getting a bit familiar, are we?” He mused, curling his fingers inside you, causing a tortured moan to fall from your lips. “Where are your manners, honey?” You let out a pathetic little whine, breathing shallow, your body turning into Jello under his touch. 

“Please, sir-,” you choked out, squeezing your eyes like you were trying to hide from the words. But when you felt his hips grinding against you harder at the moniker, you decided to double down. “Mr. Russell, please-,” you pleaded, voice barely above a whisper. When he heard his name fall from your lips he tried to hold back the moan that escaped him, his grip tightening on your hips. 

“Fucking hell, honey. Good little slut, aren’t you?” Shameful pleasure trickled down your spine from the intense feeling of his fingers fucking you like heaven, and the nasty words that poured out of him without any second thought. You reached back with one of your hands and buried it into his soft curls, softly tugging on them as you fucked yourself on his fingers, faster with each passing second, chasing the high that you felt already creeping up on you, muscles wound up, goosebumps rising on your naked skin. 

“Can’t wait to fuck that perfect cunt of yours, God,” he groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Let go, make me proud.”  

You grabbed onto his forearm, and when his fingers hit that perfect spot inside you one more time, you felt your release wash over you, building up and crashing down like waves, trickling down your spine as your walls clenched around his fingers, soaking them in your sweet release.  

His movements didn’t falter until he guided you through your orgasm, and he only slowed down when he felt your body go limp against him, and he held you up to save you from your legs giving out. 

He slowly pulled his finger out of you, and lifted it to his mouth, licking them gently to get a taste of you. Your eyes were fixated on his movements in the mirror in your lustful haze, and he noticed. 

“Want a taste?” He asked, slowly pushing his fingers past your lips and into your warm mouth. This whole scene was obscene, but it was heaven to you. After he had enough of you licking and sucking his fingers clean, he pressed them against your tongue and urged your mouth to open before pulling out completely. 

His movements were fast, and they held a sudden impatience and urgency as he pushed the sleeves of the racing suit down your arms and dragged the whole thing down to pool at your feet before he looked at you in the mirror once more. 

“Look at you, so gorgeous,” he mused before he unclasped your bra with practiced ease and threw it to the floor. You felt self-conscious, your hand twitching, trying to resist the urge to cover yourself. 

Both his hands cupped your breasts softly from behind, kneading the doughy flesh, marvelling at the sight in the mirror.  

“Most beautiful tits I’ve ever seen,” he hummed, rolling your nipple between his fingers and you ground your hips against him, arousal wetting your thighs.  

“Please,” you whined, need clouding your senses as the ache between your legs became more persistent with each touch of his. 

“Please what? Needy little slut,” he groaned while he unbuckled his belt, dropping to the floor before he pushed his pants and underwear down. 

“Please, sir.”  

“Mmhh,” he hummed, contemplating. “Not convinced,” he mused, slowly stroking his length behind your back, teasing the head against your entrance. 

“Please, sir,” you cried out, trying to push yourself back against him, but he had you pinned in place. “Mr. Russell, please, I need you. Please just fuck me.”  

“Fuck baby, you’re killing me,” he groaned and pushed into you, and your eyes rolled to the back of your head from the stretch. You didn’t see him so you couldn't prepare for the size, and he was big.  

He put his palms on your ass and spread your cheeks to give him a better view as he rolled his hips against you, easing into you inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. 

“That’s it, honey, breathe. Taking it so well.”  

Your arms were trembling as you held yourself up against the vanity, and when he finally pushed in all the way, he stilled for a second, before pulling back again.  

He grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled your head backwards, the other hand gripping your hip, pulling you against him with each thrust. 

“Open your eyes,” he ordered and you obliged – meeting his eyes in the mirror in front of you. His dick twitched inside you, and you whimpered, the stretch out of this world as he fucked you steadily.  

The view was also exquisite – his head slightly fell forward, soft hair bouncing with every snap of his hips, his toned chest on full display and his abs flexing with every movement.  

“Oh my God,” you breathed, walls clenching around him, skin tingling from the intense pleasure of his tip pressing against your cervix with each thrust. 

“I k-knew you’d feel perfect,” he groaned, sharp thrusts interrupting the flow of his words. “Like you were made for this.” 

He moved his hand from your hair to your throat and pulled you back against his chest – enveloping you in his arms while his lips plastered open mouthed kisses on your neck and shoulder. 

“Look at you, what a perfect little whore you are,” he moaned, his free hand moving between your legs to caress your clit as he fucked into you relentlessly. “Sneaking into my room. Spreading your legs for me. Doing everything I say,” he says between ragged breaths, spurring both of you on with his filthy words. “Letting me use your pretty cunt. Fuck, angel you’re lucky I wanted to be inside you so bad. Because otherwise you’d be choking on my cock right now.” 

Your walls clamped down on him incredibly tight, and a guttural moan mixed with a low rumbling laugh left his lips.  

“Fuck, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His pace quickened, his hips snapping against your ass with loud noises, your arousal covering both of your thighs as he fucked you like you were made for it. Your muscles started to tense up, all thoughts from your brain have disappeared and the burning pleasure took their place. George’s name echoed through your soul as he hit that perfect spot inside you with each snap of his hips, his fingers working magic on your clit. 

Your breathing was ragged, and high-pitched moans and whines filled the air around you. 

“Look in the mirror. I want you to see when I ruin you.”  

All the muscles in your body were wound up, so incredibly tense it was almost painful as your second orgasm approached you. 

“So fucking perfect, aren’t you? Do you want to come?” 

“Yes, please-,” you moaned, writhing and grinding against him to chase your high. “Please Mr. Russell, make me come,” you all but cried, body so overwhelmed with pleasure. 

He sucked another mark into your neck as he picked up his pace, slamming into you with loud noises, hitting that perfect spot inside you while his finger drew tight circles on your clit, and suddenly the tension snapped in your body, muscles tightening and releasing, waves of pleasure rolling through you as your vision turned white. 

“Fuck, so fucking tight,” he groaned, words almost incoherent. “I can’t-, ’m gonna-,” he choked out between sloppy thrusts. “Where?”  

“Inside,” you breathed, bracing yourself against the vanity as he pounded into you.  

“Shit, baby-,” he mumbled, voice like gravel already, and after a few thrusts he came inside you with a strangled moan, pressing himself flush against you as he filled you up and gave all of himself to you. 

After a few ragged breaths he pulled you against his chest and wrapped his arms around you, kissing your shoulder. Your insides melted from the sweet gesture, and you closed your eyes.  

He grabbed a few paper towels from the vanity and handed them to you before he spoke.  

“Stay here, give me a second.”  

You nodded and your mind was still catching up with the events of the last hour as you tried to wipe away your shared fluids from your leg with the flimsy tissue. George was back from the bathroom in a second with a wet towel and he dropped to his knees in front of you, helping you to clean up your mess. 

“You don’t have to,” you started, but he shushed you. After a few more careful strokes with the warm towel, he stood up in front of you, a towel now wrapped around his waist.  

“That’s better, no?” He asked, his expression kind, and it puzzled you a bit. You didn’t respond you just nodded, and he reached into the closet next to you to get a fluffy robe and wrap it around you. You gladly pushed your arms into the sleeves and drawn the piece of fabric across your body, feeling less exposed. 

“I should go.” 

He pushed a glass of water into your hand, and you took a sip. 

“You don’t have to. You can stay,” he offered, an almost shy smile on his face.  

“I can’t, I’m already in big trouble,” you replied, grip tightening on the fabric of the robe. “Once again, I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Russell.” The way your body already reacted to the way you called him was downright ridiculous. He chuckled and cupped your cheek. 

“George,” he said, smile wider than you’ve ever seen before. You couldn't help the shy smile that crept into your lips.  

“I guess I’m gonna get fired anyway,” you smiled sadly, flattening your palm against his chest. 

“Then I guess nothing can keep you from seeing me this evening?” 

“I guess not,” you replied, suddenly full of confidence. “You promised me a thing or two, anyway.” 

He laughed. 

You were sitting on the ground next to Oscar, hugging your knees as you watched Liam play the guitar across from you, George singing Wonderwall a bit off-key with a drink in his hand. On your other side, you heard Lando try to hold his laughter as he watched the scene unfold, before he joined at the next chorus. 

You were so engulfed in the scene in front of you that you completely forgot about the marshmallow that you held into the fire. 

“Ah, shit,” you hissed, pulling the sweet out of the fire, which was merely a crisp at that point. The sound of warm laughter drew your attention towards Oscar, and he was looking at you with a boyish smile that always caused your heart to skip a beat ever since you were teenagers. 

“Do you want mine?” He asked, holding out his perfectly toasted marshmallow towards you, like it was the greatest achievement. 

“Nah, I’m fine thank you,” you replied, waving your hand a bit and trying to cast the burnt marshmallow back to the fire so it can meet its inevitable demise.  

“Sure?” He pressed, nudging the sweet closer towards you. “I can make another one, unlike you,” he teased, and you shoved his shoulder playfully. 

“Fine, whatever,” you said in pretend annoyance, but took the fluffy piece away from him, and when you took a bite of it, you caught his eyes dropping to your lips, mouth slightly agape before he swallowed hard and averted his gaze. You tried to pay no attention to it – it was only natural to watch someone taste the food you gave them, right? 

After he looked away his eyes settled on something behind your back, expression unreadable. You turned your head slightly and you saw Lando looking at Oscar with a similar expression, before a beaming smile found its way onto his lips. 

You decided to ignore that as well. 

As the night grew older, the number of empty beer bottles grew, the songs and laughter became louder, before eventually fading away as people left into their cabins, trying to catch some sleep. 

By the end only the flickering flames of the campfire remained together with Oscar, Lando and yourself, laughing about something stupid. You weren’t drunk, but the alcohol helped to lower your inhibitions a bit, letting go of some of the anxiety. The stars were blinking above you, the silhouette of dark pine trees framing them into a perfect picture. 

“I’m booored,” Lando whined, elongating the syllables for dramatic effect as he leaned back against a large log, sitting next to Oscar. You were curled up against the covers on the ground across them, a stray pillow holding you up. 

“Jeez, sorry we don’t hit the bar for the usual company you keep,” you teased, one brow raised as you looked at him, Oscar chuckling under his breath. Lando’s eyes darted to match yours, a daring look flickering in them. 

“Let’s play something,” he started, contemplating – like he didn’t already know what he wanted to say. “May I propose some truth or dare?”  

Oscar snorted next to him, a rosy colour of pink creeping up to his cheeks. You laughed at the proposal before you spoke. 

“What are we, fourteen?” You asked, holding the gaze of the older driver. He stood the challenge, his features unreadable. Was he daring you? He should know you better than to think you’d back down. “Or do you just want to kiss us so bad? If so, you can just tell, you know?” 

Lando’s eyes lit up, a sly, shit-eating grin settled on his face, while Oscar choked on his own spit before he laughed as well. 

“You can just admit defeat if you want to,” he retorted, one of his hands slightly gripping his thighs. Oscar squirmed a bit next to him, but his eyes were locked on your expression, heartbeat loud in his ears. 

“Fine, but you go first. Truth or dare?” You asked, leaning forward in your spot, resting your elbows on your crossed legs. Lando chuckled and mirrored your position. 

“Dare, obviously. I’m not twelve,” he teased, resting his chin in his palm. Oscar watched the scene unfold with tense curiosity, his eyes darting between the two of you from the sidelines. 

“Of course you’re not,” you replied, your tone drenched in mockery, before coming up with your challenge. “Then I dare you to jump into the lake butt naked.” 

Oscar snorted across you before he started laughing, Lando’s eyebrows shot towards the sky at the request before he smiled at you. You just sat in your spot, waiting for the events to unfold. 

“Oh darling,” he started as he stood up, pulling his shirt above his head before dropping it on the ground next to him. “If you wanted to see me naked so bad, you could’ve just said.” 

Your mouth fell slightly agape from his words and from watching his movements as he took his t-shirt off. Your eyes lazily moved down his body from his face, carefully etching the view of his toned chest and abs into your memory. 

Oscar’s eyes were locked on your face, as he studied the way you looked at his teammate like you wanted to devour him. He wondered whether you knew how much was written on your face. He wondered how much was written on his face. 

Lando pushed his shorts down as well, standing only in his boxers, that left very little to the imagination. The bulge in his underwear was already prominent, and he chuckled at the look on your face as you took him in. Oscar’s body – to his misfortune – also reacted to the scene unfolding in front of him, and he had to rearrange himself to hide it. His teammate started to walk towards the edge of the water, and you scratched your throat before you spoke. 

“I thought I said naked?” You questioned, and he turned back towards you with a playful smile. 

“Don’t be greedy darling, I have to leave some to the imagination,” he replied, then stopped at the edge of the jetty, facing away from you before getting rid of the last piece of his clothing, and jumping into the water in a cannonball. The water splashed around him, ruining the mirror image of the moon on the surface. 

You laughed together with Oscar in your spots as he resurfaced from under the water, running his hands through his wet hair. The dark of the night and the water covered his body from the chest down, hiding him from your curious gazes. 

“Will you join, or what?” He asked from the lake, pushing the water around him to stay afloat. Your eyes locked with Oscar’s, and he spoke first. 

“Don’t feel pressured,” he offered, but the slight darkness behind his eyes told you differently. 

“Come on Osc, live a little,” you replied playfully, patting his arm before you took your shirt off, leaving you in your sports bra. Oscar swallowed hard, then followed your motions. “You go first, then you can turn away while I jump in, what do you say?” 

He didn’t reply just nodded with a smirk on his face as he pushed his shorts down and repeated Lando’s actions – stopped at the edge of the water, got rid of all his clothes than jumped in, headfirst. Lando whistled and laughed before looking your way. 

“Turn away, assholes!” You exclaimed, getting rid of all your clothes, leaving them in a messy pile at the edge of the jetty before jumping in. The cold water engulfed your body completely before you resurfaced, air rushing into your lungs as the water prickled your skin, causing goosebumps to form. 

There you were, the three of you, completely naked, separated only by the dark body of water between you, and the thought sent a shiver down your spine that settled low in your stomach. 

“We really are like teenagers,” you scolded, shaking your head slightly.  

“No, if I remember correctly, as a teenager you didn’t have any friends other than me,” Oscar quipped, and your eyes widened while Lando laughed on the other side of you. 

“Prick,” you answered and splashed some water towards him, which he dodged with ease. He retorted with another splash which you tried to evade, but you bumped into Lando instead, the hot skin of his chest pressing flush against your back, sparks crawling on your skin where he touched you. You flinched away in surprise, like his touch burnt you. 

“Shit, sorry,” you mumbled, paddling a bit farther away, trying to deny the twisting feeling in your belly. You settled at a spot where the water was shallower, and you could anchor your feet to the bottom. 

“So, now what?” Oscar asked, a few strands of wet hair sticking to his forehead.  

“Should we continue the game?” Lando asked, and you huffed out an annoyed puff of air. 

“I told you Lando, if you want to kiss us so bad, just ask,” you retorted, thinking you had some kind of high ground. Boy, were you wrong. 

“Maybe later, darling. But now I dare you to kiss our friend Oscar here,” he replied, the smug smile never faltering on his face.  

“Lando!” Oscar scolded his teammate, and his voice held a bit too much weight, before he looked at you. “You really don’t have to,” he all but whispered, your loud heartbeat in your ears almost drowning out the sound of his voice. 

You really, really wanted to kiss him. It would be the perfect, innocent occasion – without complicating anything. A silly dare in a summer campfire truth or dare, outside of the borders of the real world.  

“I know,” you finally answered. “But can I?”  

Oscar’s gasped when hearing your question, but he nodded in silence. “Of course,” he muttered, his eyes burning into yours with an intensity you’ve never seen from him outside of racing related situations. 

You stepped closer to him in the water, the dark liquid still covering your body from his eyes, but you felt the heat radiating off him under the water. You placed your hand on his nape and pulled him down to meet your lips. You kissed him tentatively, brushing your lips against his, exploring gently. 

His hands found your elbows under the water and slowly moved up to your shoulder, caressing lightly before he cupped your face between his palms and tilted his head, deepening the kiss. He licked against your lower lip, urging you to open up for him, and you happily obliged.  

You felt the faint taste of beer on him as the kiss grew hungrier – you placed your hands on Oscar’s hips and pulled him closer as his hand was now tangled in your hair, tongue exploring hungrily. 

As you pressed yourself against his hot body, you felt his now painfully hard length press against your stomach and you whimpered, before you moaned into the kiss. His hand tightened in your wet hair, pulling you into him closer, as he instinctively rolled his hips, grinding his erection against your soft skin. 

“Osc,” you breathed against his lips, and your fingers dug into his skin harder, trying to keep them from moving where you wanted to touch him so bad. Your body was burning under the cold water and the dull ache between your legs was stronger with each swipe of his tongue. 

“Fuck.” The barely audible curse came from behind you as a reminder that you were not alone. Oscar broke the kiss to move his gaze to his teammate, as heat rose to your cheeks in embarrassment. 

His gaze moved back to you, the sweet, shy demeanour in his eyes already gone, they were now darker, hungrier. He gently grabbed your shoulders and turned you around, your back flush against his hot chest and you felt his length press against your ass and your breath hitched. 

Lando was standing a few metres away from the two of you, his gaze cloudy, mouth slightly agape as he watched the scene unfold. Oscar’s lips brushed your ear as he leaned closer to whisper something to you. 

“Look at him,” he said accompanied by a mocking chuckle. “So desperate, isn’t he?” 

His hand moved from your shoulder to caress your arms before they settled on your hips, pulling you close when his hips gently rocked against you, while he plastered open-mouthed kisses into the crook of your neck. You looked at Lando through half-lidded eyes and you felt your walls clench around nothing when his eyes met yours, his hand very obviously between his legs, but he didn’t move. Your hips involuntarily pushed back against Oscar, chasing pleasure. 

“Do you want to give him a taste, hmm?” Oscar mused, slightly biting down onto your shoulder before kissing the soft spot just under your ear. “I saw how you looked at him earlier.” 

You couldn't help but whimper at his words, pleasure mixing with a bit of shame about how much you enjoyed this. You nodded briefly, squeezing your eyes shut. 

“Use that pretty mouth of yours.” 

“Yes, I-, I want to kiss him,” you confessed and you heard Lando try to stifle a moan. “If that’s okay.” 

Now it was time for Oscar’s breath to catch in his throat. His heart swell – you were asking permission from him?  He laughed sweetly before answering. 

“You can get anything you want tonight.” 

Lando stood still like a statue until Oscar signalled for him to come closer. Then he closed the gap between you quickly and put his hands on your face, planting his lips on yours without hesitation. 

He wasn’t careful – he kissed you like a man starved, licking into your mouth immediately, pressing and prodding and biting until you moaned into the kiss and pressed back against Oscar. He rolled his hips against you a few times, pressing his length against your ass, until you whimpered into his teammate’s mouth. Lando’s lips only left yours when they moved to your neck. You buried your fingers into his wet curls and pulled him closer, trying to occupy your hands as your mind went hazy.  

Oscar’s hand snaked from your hips to squeeze your ass, before he caressed you further south – fingertips gently gazing your folds, when a low groan rumbled in his chest. 

“Jesus Christ,” he said, his accent thicker than usual. “Are you always this wet?” Your cunt fluttered and he felt it even without his fingers being inside you. You shamefully shook your head, eyes squeezed shut, trying to hide from this messed up, sinful situation while chasing even more of it. 

Lando’s hand moved to cup your breast, fondling it gently before swiping his thumb across your nipple. You gasped, and your hips moved on their own accord as heat rushed to your face. His lips traced your jawline, pressing soft kisses on your skin, hot breath causing shivers to run down your spine. You gasped when his lips suddenly left you, your eyes shot open at the same time you heard Oscar’s voice against your ear. 

“Where are your manners?” He asked, his hand buried in Lando’s curls. The older driver bit his lip to try and fight back the smile forming on his lips before answering. 

“I’m sorry, Osc.” 

“Good boy,” he answered and you clenched your thighs together. You knew there was some history there, but not to what extent. Oscar never really spoke about it to you. You never imagined your sweet Oscar being like this in bed, but truth be told - you were more than happy with such turn of events. 

“Do you want him to touch you, pretty girl?” He whispered, finger still caressing between your folds back and forth without pushing in. You were desperate, electricity prickling your skin as the unbearable need built up in your body. 

“Yes, please. I need more,” you whined. Oscar chuckled and nodded to his teammate, whose hand and lips were on you again in an instant, switching his hands on your breast to his mouth, tongue circling and flattening against your nipple. 

You couldn't help the cry that fell from your lips when Oscar finally pushed a finger inside you from behind, without any restraint whatsoever. 

“Fuck, baby. You want it bad, don’t you?”  

He started to move his finger in a steady rhythm, dragging against your walls with perfect pressure and precision. You threw your head back against his shoulder and closed your eyes, and he used the opportunity to plant open-mouthed kisses into the crook of your neck while Lando continued his ministrations on your breasts. 

“Do you want his fingers on you?” Oscar whispered into your ear, so low that only you could hear. You nodded and responded a breathy “yeah”. He smiled against your temple before reaching out to grab Lando’s hand under the water and guide it between your legs. 

“Make her feel good.” 

You felt your breath hitch when the older drivers finger found your aching clit, swiping against it gently while Oscar pulled his finger out of you to spread your arousal around before pushing back, accompanied by a second finger. 

Your soft whines and whimpers filled the air as their hands moved in perfect synch, Oscar moving his free hand to your front to spread your folds, giving his teammate better access. You felt flustered, trying to bury your face into Oscar’s neck. You were clenching around Oscar’s digits with each perfect flick of Lando’s fingers and he groaned into your neck. 

“She’s so tight, she fucking loves it, Lan.” He spoke of you like you weren’t even there, and that spurred you on even more, nerves igniting in your body as you felt your orgasm creeping up inside you. “You like it, don’t you baby?” 

“Yes, please-,” you begged, delirious from the pleasure they were giving you. You squeezed your eyes shut, engulfed in the feeling of their fingers working their magic on you, their hot bodies burning against your own, soft lips dragging against your wet skin wherever they could reach. 

You heard the wet sound of lips pressing against each other and then a stifled moan – you opened your eyes, and you saw the two men kiss just a few inches from your face, their tongues hungrily tasting each other in off-centred kisses, eagerly trying to get more of each other. Oscar’s free hand was buried in his teammate’s hair, gripping it and guiding him as he wished. 

Your gaze was glued on the two of them making out while they were pleasuring you, and when you saw Oscar biting down on Lando’s bottom lip and the other man moaned into the kiss, something snapped inside you and your muscles tensed up and released all at once, your fingers digging into Lando’s shoulder, vision turning white as you came hard around their fingers. 

“I think someone liked the show,” one of them said, but you were too spent to identify who. Their movements never stalled until your walls stopped spasming and your body went limp in their grasp. You rested your forehead against Lando’s shoulder, catching your breath when he put his finger under your chin, lifting your face to match his gaze. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, a sweet smile on his face as he searched your expression, Oscar’s touch gently brushing your sides. 

Your gaze dropped to his lips, then back to his pretty eyes before you nodded. You flattened your palms against his toned chest and pushed your body closer to him, making Oscar follow you, chasing your proximity. 

“I need you,” you whispered, before pressing your lips against Lando’s. 

The warmth inside the cabin was a sharp contrast from the feeling of cooling air against your wet skin as you stumbled towards the bed. Your back hit the soft covers and Lando was on you in an instant, kissing you like there was no tomorrow, like you were his last meal. 

Soft whimpers fell from your lips when he moved, peppering kisses on your skin, your jaw, neck, collarbone, as he moved down your body. Oscar made himself comfortable next to you, cradling your face and kissing you, lips tracing you where his teammate did the same only a few seconds ago. 

Said teammate was now settled comfortably between your legs, wrapping his arms around your thighs and spreading them to give him better access to you. You looked down at him, his eyes catching yours – and the intensity of his gaze made you flustered, trying to hide your face into Oscar's neck, but he gently gripped your face and directed it back to look at his teammate. 

“Don’t hide, baby. Look at him,” he mused, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke, watching Lando from the corner of his eye. You felt his grip tighten on your thighs, spreading them a bit more before he leaned down, gently blowing some air onto your clit, which caused your hips to move, chasing some kind of friction. 

He never broke eye contact when he leaned down to finally wrap his lips around your sensitive bud, swirling his tongue around gently as his eyes fluttered close, getting lost in the feeling. 

You threw your head back and squeezed your eyes shut, back arching off the bed. Oscar nuzzled his face into your neck, covering your skin in sloppy kisses before sucking a dark mark onto you. You hissed at the prickling sensation, and you buried both your hands in their hair – one in Lando’s, one in Oscar’s, trying to pull them as close as possible. 

The Aussie driver moved his hand to cradle your breast with his lips following suit, flattening his tongue against your nipple exactly when his teammate did the same between your legs, causing you to cry out. 

“Oh my-, fuck-,” you moaned, already finding it impossible to form coherent thoughts. Oscar moved his head to kiss you before he whispered against your ear: 

“Does he make you feel good?” Your only response was a weak nod as Lando’s tongue softly traced your lips up and down, teasing before pushing his tongue inside you and wrapping his lips around your swollen cunt, causing you to cry out. 

Oscar gently grabbed your chin to direct your gaze between your legs once more, where his teammate’s head was buried. 

“Tell him how good he feels,” he mused, causing your breath to hitch and your hips to grind against Lando’s mouth, but he flattened his palm against your stomach, pushing you back down. Just as if he wanted to give you a bit of encouragement, he pressed his middle finger inside you slowly, dragging against your walls with perfect pressure, before he curled it slightly, caressing your sweet spot. 

“Holy shit-,” you cried out, muscles wound up, grip tightening in their hair. “So good, baby,” you whimpered. “You’re making me feel- s-so good, Lan.” 

He groaned between your legs, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine, before he added a second finger, moving it in perfect harmony with his tongue. His hips rolled against the bed, trying to chase some friction to ease his own building frustration. 

“You taste so good, darling,” he moaned, lips barely leaving you, his hot breath fanning against your sensitive folds. A high-pitched whine formed in your throat, but it didn’t get the chance to escape as Oscar wrapped his lips around yours, swallowing it. He ground his hips against your side, his length pressed flush against you, letting you know just how much he wanted you. 

You moved your hand from his hair between his legs to palm him slowly, before wrapping your fingers around his cock, teasing the tip with your thumb. His grip tightened in your hair and he bit your lip, hips twitching towards you, wanting more of you. 

Your senses were overwhelmed by them – Lando's mouth sucking on your clit gently, his fingers stretching you in perfect motions, Oscar’s lips wrapped around your nipple, his cock heavy in your palm. 

You felt your orgasm build with each flick of their tongues, with each soft moan falling from Oscar’s lips, electricity tingling on your skin, muscles tensing up. 

“Come on his tongue, baby, show him what you got,” Oscar whispered to you, and when he gently bit down on your nipple and Lando curled his fingers just right, you came – your orgasm violent and all consuming, back arching off the bed, pleasure rolling through your body like waves. You tried to close your legs to make the British driver stop but he didn’t - he forced your legs open and kept lapping at your oversensitive cunt, causing you to cry out. 

“Fuck, Lando, I can’t,” you whined, tears prickling your eyes at the overwhelming feeling. Oscar made you to look at him, his eyes dark, hair a mess from your fingers running through it constantly, lips swollen from making out. 

“Yes, you can,” he reassured, but it sounded more like an order rather than comfort. Your whole body was trembling; muscles wound impossibly tight, your free hand was gripping the sheets under you like your life depended on it.  

“Give it to me, baby. Make me proud,” Oscar whispered against your skin, and you felt your second orgasm ripping through you, shaking your whole body and making tears fall free from your eyes as your walls spasmed around Lando’s fingers. 

After helping you through your high, he carefully removed himself from you, trying not to unsettle you in your oversensitive haze, gently wiping your juices from his chin with the back of his hands. His eyes raked over your naked body – chest heaving, eyes closed, completely spent, like you were on another planet. 

“Good fucking girl,” Oscar murmured, pressing soft kisses against your temple. “Are you alright?” 

Your eyes fluttered open to match his gaze, slowly nodding as a soft smile found its way to your lips. Your eyes fell to his mouth, moving your hand up to his nape, pulling him into another kiss. 

“I want more,” you purred against his lips, before adding a shy “please”. 

“Yeah?” He asked, accompanied by a low chuckle. “Greedy.” 

A breathy laugh escaped your lips as you looked between the two of them. 

“I want to make you feel good.” 

You saw the muscles flex in Oscar’s jaw as he swallowed hard, caressing your cheek before moving away from you. 

“Turn around,” he ordered and you obeyed, moving and turning over to your stomach.  

You felt the bed dip next to you from the movement of the two men, before you heard Lando’s muffled moan fill the room. When you looked over your shoulder, you saw Oscar’s hand buried in the older driver’s curls, pulling him into a messy kiss, all tongue and teeth. Lando’s skin was flushed from his chest all the way to the tip of his ears, his chest heaving when they broke the kiss to catch some air. 

“You were right. She tastes good,” Oscar hummed, catching your eyes as he looked over your naked form, and you shuddered under his gaze, suddenly feeling so exposed. 

You buried your face in your arm, trying to hide from the intensity of the situation. Oscar moved quickly on the bed, settling behind you, gripping your thighs and pulling you up a little to your knees, while Lando settled against the headboard in front of you, his cock only a few inches from your face. 

You bit your lip when you made eye contact with the Brit, and he reached out to caress your face gently. 

“You sure you want this?” He asked, eyes gleaming with admiration. 

“Yes,” you breathed and he smiled. You felt Oscar press up against your folds before he leaned down, pressing a kiss to your back. His hand wrapped around your throat gently, not even squeezing, just letting his presence known. 

“He can have your mouth,” he mused against your ear before slowly tracing your folds with his middle finger. “But this cunt is mine, you hear me?” 

The sudden possessiveness caught you off guard, causing your insides to twist and your walls to flutter. Oscar read your body like an open book, smirking to himself while noting your reactions. 

“Tell me.” 

“Only y-yours, Osc,” you whimpered, anticipation burning in your veins. He pressed a quick peck on your cheek before moving away, kneeling behind you. 

Lando cupped your chin, thumb slowly caressing your bottom lip as in urging you to use your mouth. You looked up at him through your lashes – eyes shimmering with pleasure, and the desire to please. He bit his lip to try and fight the groan bubbling up in his chest, nodding barely noticeable for you to go on. 

You leaned on one of your elbows, wrapping your fingers around his base before you licked his flushed tip, swirling your tongue before flattening it against the underside of his dick, licking from the base up to the tip agonisingly slow. 

“Fuck, just like that, baby-,” Lando moaned, his hand tangling into your hair, holding it away from your face. Not forcing or guiding yet, just letting his presence known. 

You took him into your mouth slowly, sinking down onto him as much as you could, using your hand to pick up the slack. With hollowed cheeks you started moving, sucking him off slowly, never breaking eye contact. 

Oscar’s fingers moved to your drenched folds, spreading your wetness around before pushing one, then two fingers inside you quickly, moving them in a steady rhythm before he pulled them out. You felt his length press against your entrance and your walls fluttered in anticipation before he finally pushed in. 

He moved slowly, sinking into you inch by inch, allowing you (and himself) to savour the feeling. He stretched you so perfectly, causing you to linger on the edge of perfect pleasure and slight pain. When he bottomed out, he stilled for a second, allowing you to adjust to the stretch, using the occasion to watch you blow his teammate. 

Your skin was burning, body wound tight from feeling so full – just the fact that you had them both like this could make you come right then and there. 

When he finally started to move, his pace was steady – his movements weren’t tentative, there was no doubt behind them. Like he knew exactly what you needed, his hands gripped your waist, guiding you while his hips snapped against your ass as he buried himself in your tight core. 

Muffled moans got caught in your throat as you pushed yourself further down onto Lando’s cock with each bob of your head, eager to make him feel good. 

“Christ, I knew... I knew you’d feel like this,” Oscar said, his voice breathy and ragged between thrusts. “Like heaven.” 

Your walls gripped Oscar tighter, the feeling of being so full starting to be overwhelming. Lando’s grip tightened in your hair, trying to hold himself back. 

“Baby, fuck... Can I-,” he started, but choked on his words as a moan took their place. “Can I use your mouth?” 

You opened your eyes and looked at him – completely wrecked, skin flushed, hair a mess, eyes shining with tears, chest heaving. You just nodded, and you heard Oscar’s groan from behind you, his movements stuttering as he took the scene in. 

He kept his steady pace, rolling his hips against you in perfect motions, his cock hitting your sweet spot with every thrust, causing you to see stars behind your eyelids. Lando adjusted his hold on your hair and pushed your head further down on himself. 

“Tap me if it’s too much, yeah?” He managed to breathe out, and you nodded, taking a long breath through your nose, bracing yourself.  

He started to guide the pace of your head, thrusting upwards at the same time, chasing the feeling of your throat tightening around his length, while Oscar fucked you from behind, trying to find a pace to match his teammate’s.  

You felt Lando’s cock hit the back of your throat and you gagged around him slightly, but he kept you there for a second, savouring the wet gagging sounds that escaped from you. Oscar moaned behind you, his own breathing ragged. 

“Fuck, she’s gripping me-, d’you like that, baby?” He asked before Lando let go of you – you pulled off him to try to catch your breath, wet coughs leaving your mouth, but you didn’t complain and sank back down onto him, tears burning your face. 

The room fell silent for a while, only the sound of skin on skin, heavy breathing and your muffled gags filled the air. 

“Baby, my God-, so good,” Lando mumbled, words starting to blur together. 

“Feels so good... been wanting this for s-so long,” Oscar said through gritted teeth, and you whimpered from the confession, their shared praise filling every crevice of your being, pleasure flooding through your veins. 

Oscar picked up the pace and so did Lando, his head thrown back against the headboard, a thin layer of sweat glinting on his skin, and praise never stopped falling from their mouths. 

“Good fucking girl, feels so perfect-” 

“That’s it, baby... m-making me feel so good. Don’t stop, fuck-” 

You felt your orgasm build once more – tension knotting in your belly, muscles tingling with electricity as all thoughts left your mind and all you could do was surrender yourself to the sensations. 

“Don’t stop, baby ‘m gonna come,” Lando groaned. “Will you be good for me?” His voice was raspy; you could tell he was holding back already so you just nodded as much as you could. 

His grip tightened in your hair as he snapped his hips against your face one last time, burying himself in your mouth up to the hilt. You felt his cock twitch in your mouth as he came with a loud moan, tears rolling down your face as he emptied his load down your throat, Oscar still fucking you in a steady pace, groaning and moaning sweet nothings. 

Lando pulled you off him and gently caressed your face, but you were too overwhelmed by Oscar to really pay attention anymore. You buried your face against Lando’s thighs, as his teammate moved his hand around your body to caress your clit, before his other hand grabbed your hair and pulled you up against him. 

You cried out, now kneeling in front of Lando, naked body on full display, back pressed against Oscar’s chest, his hot skin burning against yours, and sticky with sweat. The world narrowed down to this room, this bed – where Oscar touched you, where he was buried in you so deep. 

“So fucking perfect, baby. You did so good.” He pressed a wet kiss onto your shoulder before biting down on your neck, sucking another dark mark onto your skin. His fingers drew perfect circles on your clit as he pounded into you, and you felt your orgasm build and build and build. 

“Give me another. I know you can,” he said, voice like gravel, and with that you reached the turning point – your building orgasm came crashing down, pleasure overwhelming your senses, walls spasming around Oscar as goosebumps rose on your skin and your vision turned white. 

Feeling you come around his cock was the final straw for him – he finally let go as well, a string of incoherent curses fell from his lips as he came deep inside you. For a few seconds nobody spoke, Oscar hugged you close and kissed your shoulder while both of you tried to calm your breathing.  

You didn’t even realise that Lando moved from the bed, only when he kneeled in front of you with a wet towel, taking you from Oscar’s arm and offer some stability.  

“Thanks,” you whispered and took the towel, cleaning up your shared juices. Lando just held you and pressed a soft kiss onto the top of your hair, while the two of you waited for Oscar to be back from the bathroom. 

“Everything good?” He asked, voice uncharacteristically shy after all that just happened. 

You just smiled at him gently and nodded as the two of you climbed up against the headboard, tangling up under the covers. When Oscar came back, he joined the two of you – him on your right, Lando on your left. 

It was surreal, but somehow it felt like the best possible place for you to be. You snuggled up against Oscar’s chest, and he wrapped his arms around you, slowly caressing your hair before he pressed a kiss onto your forehead. Lando spooned you from behind and rested his hand on your waist, drawing lazy circles onto your skin. 

You were so spent, so out of this world, that you felt like you were drunk, so out of it. Maybe that, or the feeling of your face buried against Oscar’s warm chest, his strong arms wrapped around you that caused you to open your mouth to speak. 

“I love you,” you murmured, so low that it sounded like you were talking in your sleep. Maybe you were. 

Lando’s head snapped up to meet the gaze of his teammate, both their expression laced with confusion. Oscar’s heart hammered against his ribcage, even though he tried his best to hide his reaction to your words. 

He just shook his head at his teammate, before settling against the pillows and pressing another soft kiss on the top of your head. Lando snuggled against you as well and wrapped his arm around your waist – whatever you meant, it was a discussion for another day. 

It wasn’t like you usually went out. Not with the team, not after races. You were Mclaren PR—your job was to keep things clean, polished, appropriate. But someone had grabbed your wrist, handed you a drink, and said, “C’mon, one night. Everyone is a part of the win today.”

So now, hours later, you were leaning against the bar of a club too exclusive for your credentials, your orange team polo traded for something black and slinky. Your skin still smelled faintly like champagne.

The place was all glass and gold and smoke. Bass thumped through the floor like a second heartbeat. Oscar had disappeared into the crowd with a handful of engineers and Lando not long after arriving. You nursed your drink slowly, fingers curled loosely around the condensation.

You were only a few sips in when someone’s hand slid across the bar next to yours.

“God, it’s hot in here,” came his voice—familiar, tired, giddy.

You nursed your drink slowly, condensation slipping down your fingers as the music pulsed warmly through the club air. The ice clinked with each slow sip, your eyes scanning the crowd just beyond the rim of your glass.

Around you, more of the PR team had gathered—laughing over photos, recounting the chaos of the pit wall, teasing each other about who had cried when Oscar crossed the line. It was easy company, full of the post-race glow and secondhand euphoria. A few people had already told you how good your pictures looked on the socials. Someone had toasted to “team effort,” and even though you weren’t one to usually go out after races, tonight it felt right. Good. Like you were part of something worth celebrating.

You were already a few drinks in—warm, happy, a little soft around the edges—when a familiar hand slid across the bar next to yours.

“God, it’s hot in here.”

The voice was low, slurred ever so slightly, and unmistakable.

You turned your head, and there he was.

Oscar. Flushed. Lit up.

His cheeks were pink from the heat or the alcohol—or maybe the sheer weight of a win finally sitting in his bones. His curls were damp at the temples, his shirt unbuttoned one more than usual, collar wide and loose. He looked electric and a little out of place and exactly like he belonged.

There was something in his posture too—looser than you’d ever seen him. Like the sharp lines of focus had softened just enough to let something else slip through.

His grin was crooked when your eyes met, and his words melted together like honey on the rim of a glass. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”

You shrugged, sipping again. “Even PR has to celebrate sometimes.”

He leaned in just a bit closer—not touching, but near enough for you to feel the heat off his skin. “Good. ‘Cause I was starting to think this night couldn’t get any better.”

Your heart skipped.

The line might’ve been cheesy. Hell, it was cheesy. But it didn’t sound rehearsed coming from him. It sounded raw. Tired and giddy and honest in the way only someone slightly drunk and completely unguarded could manage.

“You don’t usually come,” he said, words a little round at the edges, eyes trailing down to your hand still curled loosely around your glass.

You blinked, one brow rising with a smirk. “Well,” you said slowly, already tilting your head, “that’s one way to start a conversation.”

Oscar’s face flushed, an even deeper pink now blooming across his cheeks. “I meant—shit.” He laughed, sheepish, tipping his head back like it could shake the words back into order. “Out. With the team. After races.”

You leaned a hip into the bar, shoulder brushing his just slightly. “You don’t either,” you said, smiling into your drink.

“Right,” he echoed. His eyes flicked to yours again, and something softened in them. “Guess we both broke tradition.”

For a while, it was just the two of you—carved out in a little pocket of stillness against the noise. The crowd moved like static around you, music pounding and lights flickering overhead, but none of it quite touched the space you shared.

It wasn’t deep conversation. Nothing serious. Just the kind of back-and-forth that existed in that perfect in-between: light, easy, just this side of flirty. You joked about the chaos in the garage, the pre-race panic over the telemetry glitches, the way Lando tried to soak everyone—and somehow just you—in champagne. Your laughter came easier than usual, loosening like a ribbon pulled free. Oscar laughed too, head tipping slightly to the side every time you surprised him.

There was something charming in how his smile lingered longer than it should have. Like he wasn’t quite ready to look away.

You noticed the way he swayed, just barely, as he stood. He wasn’t stumbling or slurring, but his sharpness had gone soft at the corners. Eyes a little glassy, posture a little relaxed. His shirt had shifted slightly—creased at the collar, unbuttoned just low enough to suggest the hour—and you had the sudden, strange thought: he looks like someone who just stepped into himself. Like he’d finally let the pressure fall from his shoulders and just was.

You felt it too—less guarded than usual. Maybe it was the drink, or the lights, or the thrill of the win still echoing through your ribs like a held breath. But talking to him didn’t feel like navigating PR, like scripting moments for cameras or plotting timelines. It felt... normal. Easy. Nice.

Then the music surged again—bass rolling deep and sticky through the floor—and a pack of people pushed between you. Laughter and bodies and half-sung lyrics wrapped around you like a wave, and you blinked, just for a second—

And he was gone.

The crowd thinned, and your shoulder no longer brushed his. Your drink was empty. Your hand felt colder.

You turned your head, scanning—but no flash of his brown hair, no crooked smile in the crowd.

You stayed at the bar for a while longer, the buzz of celebration still humming in the walls, even as the crowd began to thin. Your heels pinched at your toes with every shifting step, the skin behind your knees aching from standing too long. The warmth from the drinks had softened the edges of your thoughts, made everything feel loose, detached. But beneath the fog of champagne and music, something lingered—something unsettled. A sense that the moment you’d shared with him hadn’t quite ended, even if the space between you had.

Eventually, you slipped away. The rooftop was nearly empty now—only a few stragglers clinging to their drinks, talking in low murmurs. The cold hit your skin immediately, biting through the fabric of your dress and raising goosebumps along your arms. The air was crisp and strange after hours of warm bodies and sticky dance floors. Above, the stars blinked faintly against the dark sky, distant and impossibly clear, like they’d only come out for nights like this.

You leaned against the brick wall of the building, the roughness scraping faintly through the thin fabric at your back. You closed your eyes. Just for a breath.

Then—

Footsteps. Not hurried. Not cautious. Just there.

A breath behind you. Familiar.

“Oscar?”

Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

He stepped fully into view, clearly more unsteady now, his gait loose and his balance lagging just slightly behind each step. His hands were jammed deep into his pockets, his curls damp with sweat and night air, cheeks still flushed from inside. When he heard your voice, he turned his head and smiled, slow and crooked like it had to climb up his face.

“I thought you already left,” he said, words sticking just slightly as they left his mouth. Then that smile stretched, wider now, like he was amused by his own honesty. “Needed air. Didn’t expect you here.”

He came to a stop beside you, shoulder just barely brushing the brick wall where yours rested. You could feel the warmth radiating off him even through the chill. His breath made small clouds in the air. His eyes were glassy—not lost, but softened, his guard dropped just enough to let something else through.

You glanced at him sideways. The moonlight picked out the edge of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth. You could still smell whatever citrusy drink he’d had on his skin—sharp and sweet. His breathing had slowed now, more even, but still deep like he hadn’t fully caught it all night.

And then—he looked at you.

Really looked. Not the kind of glance you’d shared during briefings or behind-the-scenes shots. Not the polite, practiced gaze of someone used to being seen. This was something else. His eyes were fixed on you like you were a question he’d just realized he needed an answer to.

You blinked, breath catching. “What?”

He laughed, low in his chest. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. You felt it—buzzing in the stillness between you. That quiet shift in gravity, the part where everything hung just a second too long. The unspoken edge of something waiting to tip forward.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes still on yours. “You’re really beautiful, you know.”

You gave a soft snort, not quite prepared for that. “You’re really drunk.”

“Yeah.” His mouth curved, but the words stayed clear. His gaze didn’t waver. “I’m drunk. But you’re beautiful. And tomorrow I’ll be sober.”

A pause. Just long enough for the weight of the words to settle.

“But you’ll still be beautiful.”

The air left your lungs all at once, and for a second, you didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Your heart hammered against your ribs with something sharp and sudden. His face didn’t flinch—there was no joke in it, no teasing grin. Just that quiet, open look that felt more naked than anything else all night.

Then, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed, he leaned forward. The space between you closed to nothing. And he rested his forehead gently against yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t a question.

It was just... there. A fragile press of warmth, of breath shared, of something honest in the silence.

And then—Lando’s voice cut across the rooftop, yelling something about shots and being next up at the bar.

Oscar’s head lifted. He grinned again, lopsided and tired.

He didn’t say goodbye. Just walked backward a few steps, still facing you, that same smile soft on his face.

Then he turned, disappearing back into the noise and lights.

And you stayed where you were, staring at the door he’d vanished through, the stars still burning quietly above your head, like they knew something you didn’t.

The hotel room is too bright.

Harsh daylight slices through the narrow break in the blackout curtains you forgot to pull shut, lighting the room in slanted lines. You groan and roll deeper into the bed, burrowing your face into the stiff hotel pillow. The cotton smells faintly of detergent and the faintest trace of your perfume—warmed into the fabric after last night when you all but collapsed face-first on top of the covers.

You hadn’t even taken off your clothes.

Your dress is still half-on, bunched at the waist. Your phone is dead somewhere on the nightstand. One heel is toppled near the bathroom door, the other nowhere in sight.

Your head throbs—not a sharp pain, but a dull, wet pressure just behind your eyes, like your thoughts are too swollen to move properly. You lie there for a while longer, motionless except for the steady rise and fall of your breath and the occasional twitch of a muscle that wants to get up but can’t quite remember how.

Eventually, your body overrides your brain. You peel the dress off with slow, clumsy fingers and shuffle barefoot into the bathroom.

The tile is cool beneath your feet. You turn on the shower and wait until the steam starts to fog up the mirror. The water is hotter than usual when you step under, but you don’t flinch. You let it burn a little, let it drag the ache from your limbs and the film of sweat and smoke and champagne off your skin.

Your head leans against the wall for a moment, the water rushing around your ears. Your eyes close. The memory of Oscar’s flushed cheeks and soft slur of voice floats up, uninvited. You see his smile again, the one that didn’t feel rehearsed, and the words—you’ll still be beautiful—echo in your head louder than the spray.

You exhale.

You don’t know what that was, or what it’s supposed to mean now, in daylight.

Wrapped in a towel, you pad across the carpet, gathering your things slowly. Your dress gets folded and stuffed into a corner of your suitcase. Makeup bag zipped. Chargers coiled. You find your missing heel behind the armchair, of course. Your phone finally comes to life as you plug it in, buzzing faintly with missed texts and one blurry photo from the night before—Oscar, mid-laugh, drink in hand, someone’s arm around his shoulders. He hadn’t seen you take it.

Your stomach flips.

When everything’s finally packed, you sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, palms braced on your knees. You’re not ready to leave, but staying won’t solve anything.

So you stand, grab your suitcase handle, and head down to the lobby.

The lobby is too bright—marble floors gleaming under morning light, too clean, too loud in its stillness. You step inside, dragging your suitcase behind you, fresh from the shower but still not entirely present. The weight of sleep clings to your shoulders, and last night feels half-dreamed, half-lost.

Then you see him.

Oscar.

Sitting low on a leather couch by the windows, hoodie slouched over his head, water bottle untouched on the table in front of him. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers absently picking at the hem of his sleeve. He looks like he feels exactly how you do: run through, hollowed out by celebration and too many hours without real rest.

And for a second, you pause.

Because you remember. The rooftop. The cold air. The smell of citrus and sweat. His words, slurred but certain: "I'm drunk. But you're beautiful. And tomorrow I’ll be sober. But you’ll still be beautiful."

Your stomach flutters—but then he lifts his gaze, meets yours with a tired sort of smile. Easy. Blank.

No flicker of recognition.

Your heart drops a little. Of course. He was drunk. You were too, to be fair. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it didn’t even land.

Still, you smile back. Casual. Friendly.

“Morning,” you offer.

“Hey,” he says, voice raspier than usual. He clears his throat, sits up slightly. “Rough one?”

You nod, dragging your suitcase closer. “Could’ve been worse.”

He chuckles faintly. “Could’ve been better.”

There’s a pause where neither of you says much—just the faint murmur of voices near the doors as the team filters into cars. Then:

“You heading to MTC?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “Few of us from PR are reporting in later this week.”

He nods, gaze flicking toward the spinning doors. “Same. I’m going back with the engineers though.”

You nod too, chewing your lip like you might say something else. But what would you even say? Hey, remember calling me beautiful like it was the most honest thing you’ve ever said? You don’t.

“See you there, then,” you offer instead.

He lifts his water bottle in a mock-toast. “Yeah. See you.”

And just like that, the moment passes—quiet and unacknowledged. You pull your suitcase away with a faint tug of regret trailing behind you. Maybe it meant more to you. Maybe he really doesn’t remember.

The MTC feels colder than usual.

Not the temperature—though the glass-walled corridors always carried a clinical chill—but something else. Something in the way people move, fast and focused, laughter from the race weekend now just a faint echo in the past.

You’ve been back for hours already. Meetings, debriefs, emails stacked like bricks in your inbox. It’s the first real pause you’ve had, and you find yourself at the café corner of the atrium, hands wrapped around a paper cup of burnt coffee, eyes scanning the light-dappled water outside but not really seeing it.

And then you feel it.

Not quite a sound. Not quite a shadow.

Just the shift of the air when someone enters the space. When he enters the space.

Oscar.

You don’t turn around right away. You don’t have to.

You can sense him—quiet but not unnoticed. He’s standing across the room, near the vending machines, shoulder tilted against the wall, deep in conversation with a mechanic you vaguely recognize. He’s wearing black MTC gear, arms folded, curls pushed back messily from his face.

Your heart skips—just slightly.

You see it then. The way his eyes flick across the room. Just once.

You force yourself not to read into it. Not to linger.

Instead, you push off from your seat, paper cup in hand, notes clutched to your chest as you make your way toward the corridor. Your mind’s already halfway to your next meeting, shuffling bullet points and strategy when you round the corner—and crash directly into someone.

Coffee sloshes violently from your cup, splattering across your notes. Papers flutter like startled birds. You gasp, stumbling back, and then:

“Oh shit—sorry, I didn’t see—”

Oscar’s voice. Closer now.

You look up, eyes wide.

Of course it’s him.

Of course it’s him.

He’s already crouching, long fingers chasing runaway pages with quick, fumbled movements. “That’s my fault,” he mutters, brows knit. “I wasn’t watching—”

“No, I wasn’t,” you rush to say, kneeling across from him. Your fingertips touch the same page, and you both freeze for a beat too long. “Really. I should’ve—”

“It’s okay.” His voice is quieter now. Closer. “I’ve made bigger messes.”

He offers a sheepish smile, holding out a soggy corner of your schedule. You take it carefully, your fingers brushing his.

You both glance up at the same time. And you’re too close.

For a heartbeat, no one says anything.

Then:

“You alright?” he asks. Gently. Sincere.

You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah. You?”

He gives the smallest shrug, looking down again. “Could be worse. I didn’t get scalded by your coffee.”

Then, Oscar clears his throat, gesturing vaguely at your front. “I, uh… kinda spilled coffee all over you.”

You blink. Look down.

Oh.

The pale fabric of your blouse is soaked, clinging to your skin in places and already browning along the seam. You inhale sharply, suddenly aware of how bad it must look.

“Shit.”

“I’m really sorry,” he says quickly, eyes wide, hands sort of frozen in midair like he wants to help but doesn’t know how. “I—I have a small office, just around the corner. There’s a sink in there. If you want, I can try—like—washing it out? Before it stains?”

You hesitate. He looks so earnest. So mortified.

“…Now?” you ask, a little tentative.

“Yeah, I think that’s best,” he says, already turning slightly, motioning you to follow. “If you’re okay with it.”

You glance again at your ruined shirt and sigh. “Yeah. Okay.”

The short walk is quiet. Tense, but not uncomfortable—just that thick kind of silence where neither of you knows what to say first. His office is small and clean, papers stacked in careful piles on the desk, a grey MTC hoodie slung over the back of the chair. He holds the door open for you.

“I’ll, um…” He gestures toward the sink tucked into the corner, then back to you, clearly scrambling. “If you want to give me the shirt, I’ll try rinsing it.”

You raise a brow. “Right. Just like that.”

He laughs, but it’s nervous. “I mean—not just like that. I’ll use soap.”

You stare at him.

He runs a hand through his hair, flustered. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—just if you want. You don’t have to.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say slowly, fingers already moving to the buttons, more out of instinct than thought. “You’re probably right. It’ll stain.”

Oscar turns a little to the side as you undo the blouse, the damp fabric peeling off with a soft tug. You’re left in your tank top, suddenly hyper-aware of your bare arms, the chill of the air conditioning, him just a few feet away.

He turns back too soon.

His eyes catch on your exposed shoulders—just for a second—but it’s enough to make his throat bob with a quiet swallow. “Uh—I have a hoodie. If you want.”

You nod quickly, covering yourself instinctively with the now-offending blouse.

He grabs the one from his chair, crossing the small space in two strides, and holds it out. You duck your head as you take it, the soft cotton brushing your arms, his scent already warming through the fabric.

As you pull it over your head, your fingers tangle in the sleeve—and before you know it, he’s stepping in, helping untwist it.

And suddenly, you’re close.

Too close.

His hands fall to your wrists, steadying the fabric, his breath close enough to warm your cheek.

The hoodie settles over you with a quiet finality.

You glance up at the same moment he does.

Neither of you moves.

The silence presses in again, thicker than before. But there’s something fragile in it now—something that feels like it might break open, or shift everything, if either of you leans an inch further.

“I’ll just… rinse this,” he says, voice lower now, as he gently takes the blouse from your hand.

You nod, still watching him.

And for a long second, even as he turns to the sink, he doesn’t let go of your wrist.

He lets go of your wrist finally, almost like he had to remind himself to do it.

You don’t say anything as he turns, sleeves pushed up, and starts running water over the blouse at the small sink. The room is quiet except for the faint hiss of water and the rustle of fabric. He’s careful with it, more careful than you expected, using the gentlest bit of soap and his thumb to work at the stain.

You lean back against the edge of his desk, the hem of the hoodie curling against your thighs. It swallows you whole—warm, soft, his.

“Didn’t think I’d be hand-washing someone’s clothes in my office today,” he says after a beat, not looking back.

You laugh softly. “Didn’t think I’d be half undressed in someone’s office either.”

He freezes for a split second—shoulders tightening—then glances over his shoulder at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “We’re really breaking McLaren protocol, huh?”

You smile, fiddling with the edge of the sleeve that still smells faintly like his cologne and worn cotton. “Rebellious.”

He turns back, attention fixed on the blouse like it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground. The water runs soft against the fabric, soap swirling through the fibers. His movements are steady, but you see it—the slight tremble in his fingers, the faint flush that climbs up the back of his neck, all the way to the tips of his ears.

“You know,” he says after a moment. His voice is soft, almost lost beneath the sound of the water. “I think I probably already broke a few McLaren rules last weekend.”

It’s not a joke—not really. He laughs a little, but it’s uneven. Nervous.

You don’t answer, not yet. Not while he keeps scrubbing at your blouse like it’ll save him.

“I just…” he hesitates, the fabric slack in his hands now. “I didn’t know if I should bring it up. Or if you even remembered.”

The silence stretches, but only for a heartbeat.

“I do,” you say, and it comes out smaller than you expected, your voice caught between surprise and something gentler. “I remember.”

That makes him turn. Not just his head this time, his whole body pivots slowly toward you. His hands still drip with water, your blouse hanging limp in his grip like a peace offering he doesn't quite know how to present. His hair is a little messy from the steam. His eyes, though—those are wide. Searching.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “If that was weird. Or if I was weird. Or—God—when I was awkward. Or when I obviously broke rules.” His words tumble out too fast, falling over each other. “I mean, I didn’t want to say it. I didn’t mean to say it like that. But…”

He finally meets your gaze.

“I meant what I said that night.”

The words settle into the quiet like a landing. Not jarring, but solid. Sincere.

You look at him—really look at him—and you can tell how long he’s been carrying this around. How much of that night has played on repeat behind his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t just alcohol that loosened his tongue. Maybe it was something heavier, older, waiting.

You stand slowly, the oversized hoodie shifting over your frame as you do. His gaze flicks down for the briefest second, then back to your eyes, like he’s trying his best not to mess it up this time.

You step a little closer.

He sets the blouse aside carefully and takes a small step forward, like he’s afraid to break the spell. But you don’t move away.

You just keep looking at each other.

The air between you hums, charged but quiet like something sacred lives in the pause.

You tilt your head just slightly, chin tipped up as you look at him, eyes steady. “You were really drunk,” you murmur, almost teasing, but not quite. It’s gentler than that, softer around the edges. A reminder, maybe. Or a question.

His mouth lifts at one corner, but it’s a fragile sort of smile—like he knows what he’s about to say matters.

“I was,” he admits. His voice is low, careful. “Maybe that’s where I got the confidence.” He breathes out, eyes never leaving yours. “But like I said… I’m sober now. And I still think you’re beautiful.”

You feel it then, the subtle shift in the space between you—the way it tightens like a held breath, like something long-held is about to give way.

A strand of hair slips forward, falling across your cheek. His hand moves before you even register it, fingers brushing the strand back, his touch so featherlight it sends a quiet thrill down your spine.

He doesn’t drop his hand.

Instead, his palm finds your cheek, warm and tentative, thumb resting just beneath your eye. You lean into it, instinctive, breath catching slightly in your throat.

His gaze flickers, your eyes, your lips, back to your eyes again.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” he asks. A whisper, almost.

You nod before you even realize you’re doing it, your voice caught somewhere between the thud of your pulse and the heat blooming in your chest. “Yeah,” you breathe.

And then he leans in slow, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away, like he’s trying to memorize the moment just before and when your lips meet, it’s not rushed. It’s not sharp.

His thumb lingers for a second along your cheek before his palm settles there fully, grounding, steady.

It’s not fireworks or breathless urgency.

It’s soft, like a secret. A question more than an answer.

His lips find yours in a kiss that feels... delicate. Not unsure, but intentional—like he’s been carrying this moment for days and wants to make it last. You lean into it slowly, fingers curling around the fabric of the hoodie at your waist, pulling him just a little closer.

The room is quiet around you. The only sound is the distant hum of the building. But here, now, in this tiny office with a damp blouse forgotten on the desk and your heart thudding beneath borrowed cotton, it feels impossibly warm.

When he pulls back, barely, your noses still brush. His voice is quiet.

“I thought about that night more times than I probably should’ve.”

You exhale, your forehead touching his now. “I did too.”

His smile is small. Shy.

Weeks passed. The season rolled forward. Races, travel, press—it never stopped. But neither did the small, steady gravity between you.

Sometimes, he would find you during lunch breaks just to sit beside you, knees brushing beneath the table. Other times it was a shared coffee left on your desk with a little note tucked under the lid. Nothing dramatic. Nothing loud.

Just him. Just you.

You had moments. Lots of them.

Like that night, after a chaotic media day, when he knocked softly on your hotel door and said, barely above a whisper, “Can I come in?” You didn’t need to ask why. He came in, curled beside you under too many blankets, and said, “I can’t sleep unless I know you’re near.”

And then there was the photo from the garage—the first one he posted with you half-visible in the corner, his caption not about the race, but a lyric. One you recognized.

One that made your heart twist, in the best way.

But maybe the clearest moment came months later.

Another win.

You were already pressed against the barriers, camera in hand, lens trained on the blur of papaya as he crossed the line. The crowd roared around you—mechanics yelling, pit wall erupting. It was chaos, joy, adrenaline wrapped in noise. But your world narrowed to the frame in your viewfinder.

Oscar.

You tracked every movement—the way he slowed the car, waved at the grandstands. The way he unbuckled with practiced hands, climbed out of the cockpit, raised his fists to the sky like the moment might lift him off the ground.

Then he jumped down, helmet tugged off, hair damp against his forehead.

And that’s when you saw it.

The way his eyes scanned the crowd—not aimless, not distracted. Searching. Intent.

For you.

You lowered your camera just in time to see him take the last step.

There he was.

Closer than you'd expected, already in front of you. He didn’t stop. Just folded you into his arms, sweat and heat and joy pressed against you in one breathless second.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, his voice low, husky, wrecked from shouting.

“Feels like I’m drunk,” he said. “And you’re still beautiful.”

You blinked up at him, startled, a laugh caught in your throat.

“Osc, babe—everyone is watching” you whispered.

But he was already pulling back, just enough to look you in the eyes, that same glint from the rooftop all those months ago—only now clearer, grounded, real.

And then he kissed you.

Right there, over the barrier. Pressed his lips to yours like the world had gone still. Like nothing else mattered.

Cameras flashed.

People screamed.

The team lost it behind you, Lando somewhere yelling “Are you kidding me?!” and someone else whooping, and photographers already elbowing each other for the angle.

But you didn’t notice any of it.

You kissed him back.