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Six years pt 1

❤︎ |5,3k| Summary: Lando found himself falling for his parent’s friends daughter two years ago. She was only sixteen then, so he didn’t do anything about it. Today she’s 18 years old and Lando finds it difficult to hold back.

The car hums along the motorway, and I'm gripping the steering wheel like it might fly away if I loosen my grip. My palms are sweating, and I keep wiping them on my jeans, trying to play it cool. Max is sitting in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone, occasionally glancing over at me with that knowing look that makes my stomach clench.

"You're quiet," he notes, not looking up from his screen. "Nervous about seeing y/n?"

I flinch at the mention of her name. "No. Why would I be nervous?"

Max finally looks up, a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because she's legal now? Eighteen as of yesterday. The age gap doesn't feel so... problematic anymore."

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, adjusting my position as my jeans suddenly feel too tight. "It's still six years, Max. She's still a teenager. I'm twenty-four."

"Right, because that's really stopping you from thinking about her," he says, raising an eyebrow. "I've seen how you look at her, mate. Even when you're trying not to."

"I don't—" I start, but he cuts me off.

"Bullshit," he says, turning his body toward me. "You've been crushing on her since you first met her two years ago. You just felt too guilty to do anything about it because she was sixteen."

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "It's not just that. I'm away all the time. Racing, training, sponsor events... it wouldn't be fair to her."

"Those are excuses, and you know it," Max says, his tone softening slightly. "The real issue is that you're scared. Scared that she might not feel the same way, scared that your lifestyle would mess things up, scared of getting hurt."

"Maybe," I admit quietly. "But it's more than that. I do feel like a pervert sometimes, thinking about her like that when she was so young. Even now, she's just starting her life, going to university soon probably, and I'm... well, I'm me. Formula 1 driver, living in Monaco, traveling the world. We're in completely different worlds."

Max nods thoughtfully. "I get it. But you can't control who you're attracted to. And you waited, didn't you? You didn't make a move when she was underage. That shows character."

"I guess," I say, taking the exit toward her parents' neighborhood. "I just... I don't know what to expect today. It's been a few months since I last saw her."

"You'll be fine," Max reassures me. "Just be yourself. And if you feel something's there, maybe this time you'll actually do something about it instead of pining from afar."

I nod, but my mind drifts back to the first time I met her, two years ago at a barbecue at my parents' house. I'd just come back from a race weekend, exhausted but still socializing because my parents had invited their old friends over. I was twenty-two, already established in Formula 1, feeling pretty good about life.

And then she walked in.

Sixteen years old, with this innocent smile that made my stomach do weird things. She was wearing a simple summer dress, her hair in a ponytail, and she had this natural beauty that hit me like a physical blow. I remember thinking, "No, no, no, Lando. She's sixteen. She's your parents' friends' daughter. She's off-limits."

But I couldn't help it. I found myself watching her all evening, laughing at her jokes, noticing the way her eyes lit up when she talked about something she was passionate about. I felt this pull toward her that was both exciting and terrifying.

That night, after everyone had left, I called Max, feeling sick with myself.

"Max," I said, pacing my hotel room. "I think I'm a pervert."

"What? Why?" he asked, sounding concerned.

"There was this girl at my parents' barbecue today. My parents' friends' daughter. She's... she's sixteen, Max. And I couldn't stop looking at her. I found her so attractive, and it's disgusting. I'm twenty-two. What's wrong with me?"

There was silence on the other end for a moment. "Well, you can't help who you're attracted to," Max finally said. "But you absolutely can help what you do about it. Just... wait. If you still feel this way when she's legal, then maybe you can explore it. But for now, keep your distance."

"I will," I promised. "I have to. This is wrong."

But even as I said it, I knew it wouldn't be easy to keep that promise.

Now, as we pull up to her parents' house, I'm feeling that same mix of excitement and guilt all over again. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.

"Ready?" Max asks, unbuckling his seatbelt.

"As I'll ever be," I reply, turning off the engine.

We walk up to the front door, and my mom rings the bell. I can hear laughter from inside, and then the door opens.

It's her dad, beaming at us. "Come in, come in! Happy birthday to y/n, we're so glad you could make it!"

We step inside, and then I see her.

And my breath catches in my throat.

She's standing by the fireplace, talking to her mom, and she's even more beautiful than I remembered. She's wearing a tank top that shows off her shoulders, and a skirt that's so short it makes my head spin. Her hair is down, cascading over her shoulders in waves, and she's grown up in the months since I last saw her. The awkward teenager has blossomed into a confident young woman.

I can't help but notice how the tank top clings to her curves, emphasizing the swell of her breasts. They're not huge, but they're perfectly shaped, and I find myself wondering what they would look like without the thin fabric covering them. I mentally shake myself, disgusted with my thoughts. She's only just turned eighteen, for God's sake. What kind of person am I?

She turns as we enter, and our eyes meet. Her smile widens, and I feel something shift inside me.

"Lando!" she exclaims, walking toward me.

I hug her, trying to keep it appropriate, but it lasts longer than it probably should. I can smell her perfume, something floral and sweet, and I have to force myself to pull away.

"Happy birthday," I say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

"Thank you," she replies, and my name on her lips does something to me. "I'm so glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it," I manage to say, even though every part of me is screaming to run away before I do something stupid.

Her brother comes over then, clapping me on the shoulder. "Lando, mate! How's it going?"

"Good, good," I say, grateful for the distraction. "How's university?"

"Boring as hell, but someone's got to do it," he jokes, and we fall into easy conversation about his studies, my racing, anything to keep my mind off the girl standing just a few feet away.

But throughout the evening, I find my gaze drifting back to her. Watching her laugh with her friends, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the graceful way she moves. It's torture, but I can't look away.

Later, when we're having dessert—ice cream and cake—I find myself sitting across from her. She's licking ice cream off her spoon, and I watch as a bit of white cream clings to her upper lip. She darts her tongue out to lick it away, and I feel myself grow hard at the thought of that tongue on other places.

I shift uncomfortably under the table, trying to adjust myself discreetly. What is wrong with me? This is my parents' friends' daughter, someone I've known since she was sixteen. Someone I've sworn I wouldn't pursue.

But I can't help it. I'm completely captivated by her.

I imagine her on her knees in front of me, looking up with those big, innocent eyes as she takes me in her mouth. The thought is so vivid, so wrong, that I almost groan out loud. I pick up my glass of water, drinking it quickly to try to cool down, but it doesn't help.

Later in the evening, I find myself alone with her in the living room while everyone else is in the kitchen getting more drinks.

"So," she says, breaking the silence. "How have you been? Racing must be keeping you busy."

"Yeah, it's been crazy," I say, trying to focus on her words instead of her lips. "We're in the middle of the season, so it's non-stop."

"I watched the last race," she says, and my heart skips a beat. "You drove really well."

"Thanks," I say, but I'm barely listening. I'm watching her lips as she speaks, the way they form each word, the slight gloss she's wearing that makes them look even more inviting.

"Lando?" she says, and I realize she's been talking to me and I haven't heard a word.

"Sorry, what?" I say, looking up at her.

"Are you listening?" she asks, a small smile playing on her lips.

I shake my head, feeling my cheeks flush. "Sorry, I'm a bit distracted."

She notices where my gaze has been lingering, and instead of backing away, she moves closer. The space between us shrinks to inches, and I can feel the heat radiating from her body. Her scent, that same floral sweetness from earlier, fills my senses, clouding my judgment.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks, her voice soft, concerned. "You seem... tense."

I can't answer. My throat is dry, my heart is pounding against my ribs like a drum. All I can think about is how close she is, how easy it would be to close the remaining distance. How I've wanted this for two years, how I've dreamed about this moment a hundred times.

And then I do it.

I crash my lips against hers, unable to resist any longer. It's gentle at first, almost tentative, but then she responds, her lips parting slightly, and I deepen it, pouring all the feelings I've been suppressing for two years into this one kiss.

Her hands come up to tangle in my hair, her fingers threading through the strands, pulling me closer. I can feel the soft press of her breasts against my chest, and I groan into her mouth, my hands roaming down her back, settling on her hips to pull her flush against me.

This is everything I've wanted, everything I've denied myself. It's better than I ever imagined, better than any fantasy, any dream. She tastes sweet, like the ice cream we had for dessert, and I can't get enough.

I slide one hand up her back, under the thin fabric of her tank top, feeling the warmth of her skin, the smooth curve of her spine. She shivers against me, a soft sigh escaping her lips, and I feel a surge of triumph, of possession.

Mine. This feeling, this moment, it's all mine.

I deepen the kiss further, my tongue exploring her mouth, tasting, claiming. I can feel myself growing hard, aching with need, and I press against her, wanting her to feel what she does to me, how much I want her.

And then reality comes crashing down.

I pull away from her as if I've been burned, stumbling back a few steps. My chest is heaving, my lips are tingling, and I can see the confusion and hurt in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," I say, my heart racing. "That was a mistake. I shouldn't have done that."

Before she can respond, I turn and walk away, heading straight for the kitchen where my parents are.

"Mom, Dad," I say, trying to sound casual, but my voice comes out strained. "I think Max and I should get going. Early start tomorrow."

My mom looks at me, concerned. "Is everything okay, Lando? You seem upset."

"I'm fine," I lie, forcing a smile. "Just tired. It's been a long week."

My dad nods, accepting my excuse. "Alright, son. Drive safe."

I say my goodbyes, trying to avoid her eyes, but I can feel her gaze on me, burning into my back. I shake her dad's hand, give her mom a quick hug, and then I'm out the door, Max following close behind.

The drive home is silent. Max doesn't ask what happened, doesn't press for details. He just sits there, giving me the space I need to process what I've done.

What have I done?

I kissed her. I kissed y/n. The girl I've been fantasizing about for two years. The girl I swore I wouldn't touch until she was legal, and even then, I told myself I wouldn't. I told myself it was wrong, that I was too old, that my lifestyle was too complicated for someone like her.

And yet, the moment I had the chance, I took it. I didn't hesitate. I didn't think about the consequences. I just acted on impulse, on desire.

And now I've ruined everything. I've made things awkward between us, between our families. I've probably freaked her out, made her uncomfortable. What must she think of me?

The thought makes me sick. I've always tried to be a good guy, to do the right thing. But when it comes to her, all my good intentions fly out the window.

When we get back to my place, Max follows me inside.

"You want to talk about it?" he asks, leaning against the counter.

I shake my head, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Lando, I saw the way you looked at her tonight," he says gently. "And I saw the way you left. Something happened."

I take a long swallow of my beer, trying to find the words. "I kissed her."

Max's eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't look surprised. "And?"

"And then I panicked and told her it was a mistake and left," I admit, feeling like an idiot.

"Ah," he says, nodding. "Classic Lando move."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, defensively.

"It means you let your head get in the way of your heart," he says, taking the beer from my hand and setting it on the counter. "You've been crushing on this girl for two years, Lando. Two years. And the moment you finally act on it, you run away."

"I'm a twenty-four-year-old man, Max," I say, running a hand through my hair. "She's eighteen. She's just starting her life. What am I doing?"

"You're following your heart," he says simply. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"There's everything wrong with it," I argue. "I'm a Formula 1 driver. I'm never home. I'm traveling the world, living a life most people can't even imagine. She's going to university, probably dating guys her own age, experiencing normal teenage things. We're in completely different worlds."

"Maybe," he concedes. "Or maybe you're overthinking it. Maybe she's been waiting for you to make a move just as long as you've been wanting to."

I shake my head. "No way. Why would she be interested in me? I'm six years older than her. I'm basically a creep."

"You're not a creep, Lando," he says, firmly. "You're a guy who fell for a girl who happened to be younger than you. You didn't act on it while she was underage. You waited. That's what matters."

"But what now?" I ask, feeling lost. "I ruined it. I made things awkward, and now I don't know how to fix it."

"Talk to her," he suggests. "Explain how you feel. Tell her you've been interested in her for a while but you were waiting for the right time. Tell her you panicked because you were scared of messing things up."

"And if she doesn't feel the same?" I ask, the fear gnawing at my insides.

"Then at least you'll know," he says, placing a hand on my shoulder. "At least you'll have closure."

I nod, but I'm not convinced. What if I've ruined everything? What if she never wants to see me again?

The thought is too painful to bear.

The door closes behind Lando, and I'm left standing in the living room, my heart pounding, my lips tingling from his kiss. I can still feel the pressure of his mouth against mine, the warmth of his hands on my back, the way he pulled me closer, as if he couldn't get enough.

And then he pulled away.

He called it a mistake. He said he was sorry.

And then he left.

Tears well in my eyes, but I blink them back, refusing to let them fall. I won't cry over him. I won't.

But it hurts. It hurts so much.

For two years, I've been dreaming of this moment. For two years, I've been hoping, wishing, praying that he might see me as more than just his parents' friends' daughter. More than just the kid sister of his friend.

I've tried everything to get his attention. I've worn my prettiest dresses, my most flattering tops. I've laughed a little too loudly at his jokes, touched his arm "accidentally" when we talked, found excuses to be near him whenever our families got together.

And for two years, he's barely looked at me. He's been polite, sure, but distant. Disinterested, almost. Like I was just another person in the room, not someone he could ever be interested in.

I started to believe it. I started to think that maybe I was deluding myself, maybe I was just a silly teenage girl with a crush on a guy who was way out of my league.

But tonight... tonight was different.

Tonight, he looked at me. Really looked at me. I saw the desire in his eyes, the hunger, the need. I felt it in his kiss, in the way his hands roamed my body, in the way he pressed against me, hard and wanting.

It was everything I'd imagined, and more.

And then he took it all away.

He called it a mistake. He ran away like I was some kind of disease, something to be avoided at all costs.

Why?

What did I do wrong?

Was I not responsive enough? Did I not kiss him back right? Was I too eager? Too forward?

Or was it just me? Was I just not what he wanted after all?

The thought sends a fresh wave of pain through my chest. I sink onto the sofa, pulling my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible.

I can hear my parents and his parents talking in the kitchen, their laughter floating through the house, oblivious to the storm raging inside me. How can they be so happy, so carefree, when my world is falling apart?

I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself before I have to face them. I can't let them see me like this. I can't let them know what happened.

But how do I act normal? How do I pretend that everything is okay when nothing is?

I stand up, smoothing down my skirt, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I force a smile onto my face, practice it in the mirror hanging on the wall. It looks fake, even to me, but it'll have to do.

When I walk into the kitchen, my mom looks up, her brow furrowed with concern.

"Sweetheart, are you okay?" she asks, her voice soft. "You look pale."

"I'm fine," I lie, my voice barely above a whisper. "Just a bit tired. It's been a long day."

My dad nods, accepting my explanation. "Well, why don't you head up to bed? We'll probably be heading out soon anyway."

I nod, grateful for the escape. "Okay. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, sweetheart," my mom says, coming over to give me a hug. "Happy birthday again. We love you."

"Love you too," I mumble into her shoulder, trying to ignore the lump forming in my throat.

I make my escape, heading up the stairs to my room, closing the door behind me. The moment I'm alone, the tears I've been holding back finally fall, hot and fast, streaming down my cheeks.

I collapse onto my bed, burying my face in my pillow, letting the sobs wrack my body. It hurts. It hurts so much.

Why did he have to kiss me if he was just going to take it back? Why did he have to give me a taste of what I've been wanting for so long, only to snatch it away?

It's cruel. It's unfair.

I thought... I really thought he felt the same way. The way he looked at me tonight, the way he kissed me... it was real. I know it was.

So why did he run?

Was it because of the age gap? He's twenty-four, I'm eighteen. Is that really such a big deal?

Or was it because of his lifestyle? He's a Formula 1 driver, always traveling, always busy. Maybe he thinks I couldn't handle it. Maybe he thinks I'd be too much of a distraction.

Or maybe... maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm not pretty enough, not interesting enough, not... enough.

The thought sends a fresh wave of insecurity washing over me. I've never been the most confident person, always a bit shy, a bit awkward. But around him, it's worse. I never know what to say, never know how to act. I always feel like I'm saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing.

Maybe he sees that. Maybe he sees how inexperienced I am, how naive, and it turns him off.

I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling, my tears slowing to a trickle. I can still feel his lips on mine, the memory so vivid it's almost real. I can still taste him, still feel the warmth of his hands on my skin.

I touch my lips, tracing them with my fingers, wondering if I'll ever feel his mouth on mine again.

Probably not. After tonight, he'll probably avoid me at all costs. He'll probably make excuses to skip family gatherings, to avoid being in the same room as me.

The thought makes my heart ache. I don't want that. I don't want to lose him completely.

But what choice do I have? I can't force him to feel something he doesn't. I can't make him want me.

All I can do is try to move on, try to forget about him, try to focus on my own life, my own future.

Easier said than done.

The door to my apartment clicks shut behind me, the sound echoing in the silence of the entryway. Max follows me in, his presence a quiet weight at my back, but I don't turn around. I can't. I'm too lost in my own head, replaying the moment over and over again.

The kiss.

Her lips, soft and yielding, parting slightly as I deepened it. The taste of vanilla ice cream and something uniquely her, something sweet and floral that made my head spin. The way her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, as if she couldn't get enough of me either. The soft press of her breasts against my chest, the way she shivered when I slid my hand up her back, under her tank top, feeling the warmth of her skin.

And then the panic, the guilt, the sickening realization of what I'd done. The look on her face when I pulled away, the confusion and hurt in her eyes, before I turned and fled like a coward.

"Want to talk about it?" Max asks, breaking the silence.

I shake my head, walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge. I grab a beer, twisting off the cap and taking a long swallow, the cold liquid doing nothing to cool the fire burning inside me.

"There's nothing to talk about," I say, my voice rough.

Max stays for another hour, trying to talk me through it, but I'm barely listening. My mind is elsewhere, replaying every moment of tonight, every look, every touch, every word.

When he finally leaves, I lock the door behind him and lean against it, my head in my hands. The apartment is silent, the only sound the pounding of my own heart.

I make my way to the bedroom, stripping off my clothes and pulling on a pair of sweatpants. I don't bother with a shirt. The cool air feels good against my heated skin.

I lie down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, but sleep is the furthest thing from my mind. All I can think about is her.

Her lips, her eyes, the way she smelled, the way she felt in my arms. The way she responded to my kiss, her hands tangling in my hair, her body pressing against mine.

I'm hard just thinking about it, my cock straining against the fabric of my sweatpants. I shift uncomfortably, trying to ignore it, but it's no use. The memory is too vivid, too powerful.

I close my eyes, letting the images wash over me. Her in that short skirt, her long legs on display. The way her tank top clung to her curves, emphasizing the swell of her breasts. The way she licked the ice cream off her spoon, her tongue darting out to catch a drop of cream on her upper lip.

I groan, my hand moving down to palm my erection through my sweatpants. It's not enough. I need more.

I push my sweatpants down, freeing my cock. It's hard and leaking pre-cum, the tip glistening in the dim light of the bedroom. I wrap my hand around it, stroking slowly, teasingly, as my mind continues to drift back to her.

I wonder what she looks like naked. I've imagined it so many times, in so many different ways. Her breasts, perfectly shaped, fitting in my hands, her nipples hardening under my touch. Her stomach, flat and smooth, her hips flaring out, her legs long and slender.

I stroke myself faster, my grip tightening, as I imagine her on her knees in front of me, looking up with those big, innocent eyes as she takes me in her mouth. The thought is so vivid, so wrong, that I almost groan out loud.

I've been celibate for two years. Two years. It's the longest I've gone without sex since I lost my virginity at nineteen. Before I met her, I was never one for relationships. I was always too focused on my career, too busy traveling, too unwilling to commit. I slept around, a lot. Random women, one-night stands, no strings attached. It was easy, it was convenient, and it never meant anything.

But then I met her.

Two years ago, at that barbecue at my parents' house. She was sixteen, innocent, and completely off-limits. But I couldn't help it. I was drawn to her in a way I'd never been drawn to anyone before.

The week after I met her, I was at a race weekend, and I couldn't stop thinking about her. Dirty thoughts, inappropriate thoughts, thoughts that made me feel sick with myself. I tried to ignore them, to push them away, but they kept coming back, stronger and more vivid each time.

I went to a club that night, determined to find someone, anyone, to take my mind off her. I found a woman, tall and brunette, with a body that was everything I usually went for. I took her back to my hotel room, my mind already racing with what I was going to do to her.

But when we got there, when she started undressing, when she reached for me, I couldn't get hard. It had never happened before. I was twenty-two, in the prime of my life, and I couldn't get it up.

I kept thinking about y/n. Her smile, her laugh, the way she looked in that summer dress. The thought of being with another woman, of touching someone who wasn't her, felt wrong. My stomach twisted, and I felt sick.

I apologized, making up some excuse about being tired, and sent her home. I felt like an idiot, like a failure, but I also felt a sense of relief. I didn't want to be with anyone else. I wanted her.

After that night, I didn't even try. I gave up on casual sex, on one-night stands, on meaningless encounters. I've been celibate ever since.

I've jerked off, of course. A lot. But only to thoughts of her. I've imagined her in every possible scenario, in every possible position. I've wondered what she looks like naked, what she sounds like when she comes, what she feels like wrapped around me.

I've even thought about looking for pictures of her online. I know she has social media, I know she posts photos. But I've never been able to bring myself to do it. It feels too invasive, too creepy, too wrong. She was underage for so long, and even now, the thought of seeking out images of her for my own pleasure makes me feel disgusted with myself.

But now, tonight, after kissing her, after feeling her respond to me, the need is overwhelming. I stroke myself faster, my grip tightening, as I imagine her here with me, in my bed.

I imagine her lying next to me, her skin flushed, her chest rising and falling with each breath she takes. I picture her reaching for me, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw, her eyes dark with desire as she leans in to kiss me again. This time, there's no panic, no guilt, just the two of us, lost in the moment.

My hand moves faster, my strokes becoming more urgent as I imagine her hands on my body, exploring, learning every inch of me. I wonder what her touch would feel like, soft and hesitant at first, then growing bolder as she gains confidence. I can almost feel her fingers trailing down my chest, my stomach, lower, until they wrap around my cock, replacing my own hand.

The thought sends a jolt of pleasure through me, and I have to stop for a moment, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I'm so close, but I don't want it to end yet. I want to savor this, to draw it out, to make it last as long as possible.

I close my eyes, focusing on the image of her in my mind. I imagine her straddling me, her knees on either side of my hips, her hands resting on my chest for balance. She's wearing that same tank top from tonight, but this time, there's no skirt, just a pair of lacy panties that leave little to the imagination.

My hand, which had been stroking my cock in time with the fantasy, moves faster now, my grip tightening as I approach the edge. I can feel the pressure building, the tingling sensation at the base of my spine, the tightening of my balls.

I'm so close, so close, and with one final, hard stroke, I'm there.

My orgasm hits me like a freight train, intense and all-consuming. I cry out her name, my body shaking with the force of it, my release spilling over my hand, onto my stomach, onto the sheets.

It's the most powerful orgasm I've had in years, maybe ever, and it leaves me breathless, shaking, completely spent.

I lie there for a long time, my chest heaving, my heart pounding, as the aftershocks ripple through me. The fantasy was so vivid, so real, that for a moment, I almost believe it actually happened.

But then reality comes crashing back, and the weight of what I've done, what I've said, what I've run away from, comes crashing down on me.

I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, and run a hand through my hair, my mind racing.

What have I done?

I kissed her. I told her it was a mistake. I ran away like a coward.

And now, now I've jerked off to thoughts of her, to fantasies of being with her, of telling her I love her.

It's wrong. It's so, so wrong.

But it feels so right.