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after five races in a row, kimi antonelli feels like he’s on top of the world. at the end of the day, though, he might just be on top of you.
genre: short-short-shooort fic. romance.
warnings: suggestive. kimi antonelli is so hot omg. waist grab and… yeah.
word count: 646.
a/n: I KNOW I KNOW, KIMI AGAIN. i'm not normal about him, sorry. guys, to be totally honest, this doesn’t even count as a fic. i’m useless at writing smut, so i didn’t. but i did wanted to write something for kimi’s fifth victory because, seriously… it’s just delicious.
Down below the podium, you watch Kimi Antonelli take his fifth consecutive victory.
You're clapping, but honestly, the motion is completely absent-minded, because your attention is fixed on the boy who, just hours earlier, had tilted your chin up in the middle of a heated make-out session in the drivers' room and murmured against your lips, "I'm getting that win for you today.” Then he'd left you stranded on the couch, breathless and flushed, desperately in need of the coldest shower of your life.
Kimi was never someone who broke promises to you. Never.
At that moment, he's covered in a mix of sweat and champagne. His hands, your favorite hands, are around the base of the trophy while he looks completely in disbelief that it belongs to him. Yeah, pretty boy, you did it again. And amid all the chaos, his gaze finds yours.
You stop clapping.
He shoots you a wink before dragging his tongue across his lower lip... that damned tongue he seems utterly incapable of keeping inside his mouth.
The crowd around you keeps roaring, and the noise only swells when he raises the trophy high above his head. Deafening — and every second of it is for him.
Your Kimi Antonelli.
From the huge grin stretching from ear to ear across his face, you can tell he loves it. Loves the attention. Loves the feeling. Loves the power that comes with a crowd of people screaming his name because, yeah, he is just that good.
Slowly, people begin to disperse as the podium ceremony comes to an end. The cameras are already turning elsewhere around the paddock, and you make your way toward the podium steps, where Kimi is the last one to climb down after everyone else has left. You don't even have to try to get him to see you. In less than a second, Kimi is right in front of you, so close it should be a crime.
"There you are." He greets you, one hand finding your waist before you can even respond.
“You smell like cheap cocktail” you complain, wrinkling your nose.
He just laughs and slides his free hand to the other side of your waist, pulling you even closer.
“Is that any way to talk to Kimi Antonelli, Grand Slam winner and victor of five consecutive Grands Prix?”
You roll your eyes and rest your arms on his shoulders, lifting a finger to brush a damp strand of hair away from his cheek.
“All this winning is making you arrogant.”
He lets out a soft laugh, his hands tightening slightly around you.
“Oh, you have no idea just how arrogant I can be.”
“Yeah?” you ask, your eyes fluttering shut.
Kimi brushes his lips against your cheek, leaving a soft kiss there before moving higher, his mouth grazing your skin until it reaches your ear.
“I bet I can make you come five times as easily as I can win five races in a row,” he whispers. Your breath catches instantly. A shiver races down your spine, and your knees nearly give out beneath you. “What do you think?”
“I... I...” you stammer, swallowing hard as your gaze drops to the ground.
His grin only grows.
Another kiss lands on your cheek, quick and affectionate, because someone from the team is already calling for him from the other side of the paddock. He lifts his head, arches an eyebrow, and just like that, he transforms back into the victorious driver everyone expects him to be, jogging toward the engineers waiting to celebrate with him. Not before stealing one last kiss, though.
A quick peck that leaves your head spinning — not because of the contact itself, but because of the promise he'd just made. And because you know by the way your thighs press together, it's going to completely ruin the rest of your day…
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Summary: You are Toto’s assistant, which means you manage his calendar, his calls, his guests, and several very private needs your job description politely forgot to mention. During a Mercedes brunch in Monaco, Toto appears in white jeans, a light denim shirt, sunglasses, and a smile that should be illegal. You try to behave. You fail beautifully.
Warnings: 18+, smut, boss/assistant dynamic, secret affair, public event tension, body worship, white jeans kink, blowjob, deep vaginal penetration, table sex, risk of being caught, creampie, dirty talk, soft aftercare, humor.
Words count: 3.2k
a/n: okay, I admit it without a fight — I saw Toto in those white trousers and that denim shirt, and well… my imagination ran wild. Sorry, not sorry 🤭 enjoy!
... and I could write a continuation and make a Part 2 where she sees him on the podium, all wet from champagne 🤭
Monaco brunches are dangerous.
Not because of the champagne. Not because of the sponsors. Not because someone always says, “Let’s make it casual,” and then arrives wearing a watch worth more than your apartment.
No.
This particular brunch is dangerous because Toto Wolff walks into the Mercedes hospitality wearing white jeans.
White.
Jeans.
You stop functioning. Completely.
Your tablet stays in your hand. Your face remains neutral. You are technically still standing beside the display of the newest Mercedes models, looking professional in your team shirt and jeans.
Inside, you are gone. Totally ruined and finished.
Toto is moving through the crowd like he owns the air.
White jeans fitted perfectly over his hips and thighs. A very pale denim shirt tucked in, fastened with little metal snaps you immediately want to open with your teeth. Sunglasses on his nose. Hair slightly messy from the sea breeze.
That relaxed Monaco smile on his face. The one that says he knows everyone is looking at him, and he is calm enough to let them.
Bastard.
You stare at his chest. Then his stomach. Then lower... Then back up very quickly when George walks past you with a plate of fruit.
“You okay?” George asks.
“Yes.”
“You look angry.”
“I am professionally focused.”
He looks at Toto. Then back at you.
“Oh.”
You glare at him.
George grins. “White jeans?”
“Leave.”
“Thoughts and prayers.”
“George.”
He walks away laughing.
Kimi appears beside you three seconds later, eating something small and suspiciously chocolate-covered.
“Toto looks like summer boss,” he says.
You nearly choke.
“Kimi.”
“What?”
“Go stand next to the car.”
“Okay.”
He wanders off peacefully, because Kimi is both an angel and a menace.
Toto is speaking with guests near the white car, one hand resting lightly on the open door, sunglasses catching the light. Someone says something funny, and he smiles — that slow, lazy, confident smile — and your thighs press together before you can stop them.
Across the room, Toto turns his head. His gaze finds you. Of course it does. His smile changes. Barely. Enough.
He knows.
Your skin heats under the team shirt.
He says something to the sponsor, finishes the conversation smoothly, then moves on to a set of short videos with George and Kimi for social media. You stand off-camera with the PR schedule, watching him lean against the car, sunglasses on, shirt pulling slightly across his chest every time he laughs.
This is workplace harassment.
By fabric. By buttons. By white jeans.
When the filming ends, Toto walks past you, close enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours.
“Everything on schedule?” he asks.
Professional voice. Public voice.
You look up at him. “Mhm.”
His mouth twitches.
“That bad?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“I am attending a Mercedes event.”
“You are wearing those trousers.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for one second.
Then he leans closer like he is checking the tablet in your hand.
“What would you like me to do about that?” he murmurs.
Your pulse jumps.
A guest laughs nearby. A camera flashes.
You smile politely like your boss has not just destroyed your ability to stand normally.
“I need you for five minutes,” you say.
“For work?”
“No.”
His jaw tightens.
Good. Finally.
You do not wait for permission. You turn and walk down the side corridor toward one of the smaller private rooms used for storage, quick calls, and apparently terrible decisions. Toto follows thirty seconds later because he is many things, but stupid is not one of them.
The second the door closes, you turn on him.
“Toto.”
He removes his sunglasses slowly.
“Yes?”
“You are a menace.”
His mouth curves. “You said that already.”
“And I meant it.”
Your hands go straight to his shirt.
The snaps open beautifully. One. Two. Three.
Then you lose patience and pull.
The shirt opens down his chest in one smooth line, revealing warm skin, hard muscle, that broad chest and firm stomach you have been mentally touching since he arrived.
Your breath catches.
Toto watches your face. His amusement fades into heat.
“You really like the shirt.”
“I like what’s under it.”
You press both palms to his bare chest, sliding them slowly down over warm skin, feeling his muscles tighten beneath your touch. His breath changes.
You love that. Love that you can affect him.
Love that this powerful, controlled man can stand in front of sponsors like nothing touches him, then lose a piece of his mind because your hands are on his body.
“You are staring,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
His hands settle on your waist.
“You like touching me.”
“I love touching you.”
That lands.
You see it in his jaw, in his eyes, in the way his fingers tighten on you.
Then he kisses you. Hard.
Your back hits the door, your hands still on his bare chest, fingers spreading over him like you cannot get enough. You stand on your toes to reach him properly, and he bends to meet you, one hand sliding into your hair, the other dragging you closer.
You moan into his mouth. He groans back.
Your hands move lower. Over his stomach. To the waistband of those white jeans.
Toto’s breath catches when your palm presses against him.
He is already getting hard.
You feel it. He knows you feel it.
Both of you make a sound at the same time, and he laughs breathlessly into your mouth.
“Liebling.”
“Your fault.”
“The trousers?”
“The trousers. The shirt. The sunglasses. The whole rich Monaco menace thing.”
His mouth curves against yours.
“Rich Monaco menace?”
“Yes.”
Your fingers open the button of his jeans.
No belt. Thank God.
The zipper follows, slow and loud in the small room.
Toto’s hand tightens in your hair.
You look up at him as you reach inside and wrap your hand around his cock.
His eyes darken instantly.
“There,” you whisper.
His jaw flexes.
“You are very pleased with yourself.”
“You’re hard in the white jeans.”
“Because you dragged me into a storage room and opened my shirt.”
“You followed.”
“I did.”
You stroke him slowly, your other hand still moving over his open shirt, his chest, his stomach, like you cannot decide which part of him to worship first.
The answer is all of him.
You drop to your knees.
Toto exhales sharply.
His cock is heavy in your hand, already fully hard now, flushed and beautiful against the clean white of his open trousers. His shirt hangs open around his torso, sunglasses tucked in one hand, hair slightly messy, eyes locked on you.
The sight almost makes you come untouched.
You look up at him.
“My God,” you whisper. “You look unreal.”
His face changes. The praise affects him more than he wants to admit.
“You are supposed to be working.”
“I am.”
You kiss the tip of his cock.
His hand slams softly against the wall beside him.
You smile. “Private assistance.”
“Fuck.”
You take your time at first. Because he deserves it. Because you have been thinking about this since he walked in.
Because his body in those clothes has turned you into something shameless and needy and completely focused.
You kiss him slowly. The tip. The underside. The base.
You let your tongue trace him, soft and wet, while your hands move over his thighs, his stomach, his open shirt. Toto watches you from above, breathing unevenly, his usual control already cracking at the edges.
“You like looking at me from there,” he says, voice rough.
You lick him again. “Yes.”
“You look very sweet on your knees.”
You moan softly and take him into your mouth.
Toto’s head falls back. “Mein Gott.”
You take him deeper slowly, lips stretching around him, one hand working what your mouth cannot reach, the other still pressed to his bare stomach. He is big enough to make your jaw ache quickly, and that only makes your body hotter.
Size. Weight. Heat.
The effort of taking him. The sight of him losing control above you.
You love all of it.
Toto looks down at you, hand sliding into your hair.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Taking me so well.”
You hum around him. His hips twitch.
The sound he makes is low and almost broken.
You pull back just enough to breathe, licking your lips.
“I want you.”
His eyes darken. “You have me.”
“No.” You kiss him once more, then look up. “I want you to fuck me. Here. Like this.”
Toto’s jaw tightens. “In the shirt and the white jeans?”
“Yes.”
His mouth curves slowly. “Oh, Schatz.”
You rise quickly, already pulling your team shirt over your head. Your bra follows. Then your jeans. Your underwear. You are naked in seconds, standing in front of him while he is still half-dressed, shirt open, jeans undone, cock hard and exposed.
Toto looks at you like he is about to forget where he is.
Good.
There is a small table in the room. Sturdy. High enough. Perfect.
He lifts you onto it in one smooth motion.
You gasp as the cool surface meets your skin.
His hands spread your thighs.
He looks down. Feels you with his fingers.
His jaw tightens. “You are soaked.”
You laugh breathlessly.
“Yes, Toto. Because of you. Because of this shirt, these trousers, and the fact that you walked in looking so fucking good I almost forgot my own name.”
His eyes flash. “Careful.”
“No.”
He steps between your legs, rubbing the head of his cock through your wetness.
Your hips jerk. “Toto—”
“You wanted this.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted me in these clothes.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted me to fuck you while I still look like your boss at a Mercedes event.”
Your body clenches.
He sees it. His smile turns dark.
“There it is.”
He pushes into you. Deep. Strong. All at once.
Your cry breaks out of you, and he catches it with his mouth, kissing you hard as he fills you to the core. Your hands fly to his open shirt, fingers gripping fabric and bare skin, your legs spreading wider to take him.
He stills when he is fully inside.
Your forehead rests against his.
The room feels too small. Too hot. Too close to the party outside.
“You feel incredible,” he breathes.
“Move.”
His mouth curves. “Demanding.”
“Desperate.”
That makes his control snap.
He starts moving slowly at first, each thrust deep, deliberate, almost cruel. The table creaks faintly beneath you. Your thighs wrap around his hips, pulling him closer, trying to take more.
Toto grips under your knees and lifts your legs higher.
The angle changes.
You see stars.
“Oh God— Toto—”
“There?”
You nod, frantic.
His eyes darken. He thrusts again. Deeper.
“There.”
Your nails dig into his bare chest, one hand sliding down over his stomach, feeling every muscle move as he drives into you. His shirt hangs open around your hands, his jeans still on his hips, open and obscene, white fabric framing the way he fucks you.
You cannot look away.
“You like seeing me like this,” he says, voice rough.
“Yes.”
“Half dressed. Inside you.”
“Yes.”
“While everyone outside thinks I am talking to sponsors.”
You moan loudly.
He kisses you immediately, swallowing the sound.
“Quiet,” he murmurs against your mouth.
“You try being quiet.”
His laugh is low and filthy.
Then he pulls your hips closer to the edge of the table. His hands grip your ass, dragging you down onto him with every thrust.
The new angle breaks you.
Your head falls back.
He takes the chance to lower his mouth to your breast. His tongue circles your nipple. Then he sucks. Hard.
Your whole body arches.
“Toto—”
His mouth moves to the other breast, licking and sucking with no shame, like he has forgotten there is a brunch outside, like he has forgotten George and Kimi and guests and cameras and the Mercedes cars glittering in the sun.
You love it. Love being the thing that makes him forget.
His hips move faster now. Harder.
The table shifts with the force of him. Your legs lock around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans against your breast.
“You are going to make me lose my mind.”
“You started this.”
“I wore jeans.”
“Exactly.”
He laughs into your skin, then thrusts so deep your laughter becomes a moan.
His hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit.
Your body jerks. “Fuck—”
“There she is,” he murmurs. “Already?”
“Yes.”
He rubs slow, firm circles while his cock drives deep inside you, and everything becomes too much at once — his open shirt under your hands, his warm chest against yours, the risk of being heard, the taste of his mouth still on your tongue, the memory of his cock in your mouth, the current reality of him buried inside you.
You come hard.
Your body locks around him, nails scraping over his chest as the orgasm rips through you. He kisses you through it, groaning into your mouth when you clench around him.
“That’s it,” he says roughly. “Good girl. So fucking beautiful.”
You tremble, still gripping him.
He does not stop.
His rhythm turns less controlled, deeper and more desperate. He pulls you even closer to the edge of the table, his hands firm under your ass now, changing the angle again until every thrust hits exactly where you need.
Your mouth opens soundlessly.
Toto smiles like he knows. Because he does.
“You wanted deep,” he murmurs. “You wanted to feel me.”
You nod, unable to answer.
His hips snap forward. You gasp.
“There. Take it.”
Your second peak begins too fast, a hot pressure building through the aftershocks. You are too sensitive, too full, too turned on by the sight of him still half-dressed and losing control because of you.
“Toto, I—”
“I know.”
His hand returns to your clit.
Your whole body jolts.
“One more.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.”
His voice is low, steady, completely certain.
That certainty ruins you.
You come again, smaller but sharper, your thighs shaking around him, face buried against his neck to muffle the cry. Toto groans, holding you tight, his own control breaking fully now.
“Inside,” you whisper.
His eyes darken.
He thrusts deep, once, twice, then stills, coming hard inside you with a low, rough groan against your mouth. You feel him fill you, hot and deep, his hands gripping your ass as he pulses inside you.
For a long moment, you stay like that. Locked together. Your naked chest pressed to his bare chest. Your nipples rubbing against warm skin.
His shirt open around you. His cock still inside you. His breathing rough against your cheek.
You close your eyes and smile. This is your favorite part. The immediate quiet after. The messy softness.
The way his body goes from powerful and demanding to warm and protective without needing a single word.
His hands slide gently over your ass now. No urgency. No pressure. Just touch.
His mouth moves to your neck, kissing slowly. “You are crazy,” he murmurs.
You smile against his shoulder. “No.”
“No?”
You press a lazy kiss to his neck.
“Horny.”
He laughs. A real laugh. Low and warm and beautiful.
“You dragged me into a storage room during a Mercedes event.”
“You wore white jeans.”
“That is your defense?”
“Yes.”
His chest shakes with another laugh.
“You are impossible.”
“You like impossible.”
“I love impossible.”
That softens you immediately. You pull back and look at him.
His shirt is still open. His sunglasses are somewhere on the table. His hair is messy. His white jeans are open, and he still looks like the most gorgeous problem you have ever had.
You touch his face.
“I love touching you.”
His expression changes. His hand covers yours.
“I know.”
“I love when you look like this.”
His mouth curves.
“Half undressed after being ambushed by my assistant?”
“Yes.”
“My very professional assistant.”
“Extremely professional.”
“You gave me a blowjob next to cleaning supplies.”
“Private client service.”
He laughs again, then kisses you softly.
Aftercare is quick but careful. It has to be. There is an event outside. Guests. Cameras. George being nosy. Kimi probably eating something he found on a tray.
Toto cleans you gently with tissues first, then a damp cloth from the small bathroom. His hands are warm and careful between your thighs, his expression soft when you twitch from sensitivity.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He kisses your forehead. Then helps you dress. Mostly.
You have to redo your jeans twice because your hands are not entirely steady, and Toto looks far too pleased about that.
You snap his shirt closed for him, one button at a time. Slowly.
He watches you. “You are doing that on purpose.”
“Yes.”
“You are dangerous.”
You smooth your palm down his chest over the fabric, mourning the loss of bare skin.
“You look good.”
“Still?”
“Worse now.”
His brows lift. “Worse?”
“Now I know what you look like freshly fucked in it.”
His jaw tightens. For a second, you think you may not make it back outside.
Then someone knocks faintly down the corridor.
Both of you freeze. A voice calls, “Toto? They need you for the group photo.”
George.
Toto closes his eyes. You bite your lip to stop laughing.
“I will be there in one minute,” Toto calls, perfectly calm.
Silence.
Then George says, “Brilliant. Take your time. Or don’t. Actually, don’t.”
You snort. Toto gives you a look.
You whisper, “He knows.”
“George suspects everything.”
“Because George has eyes.”
Toto kisses you once, quick and deep.
“Behave.”
You smile. “Always.”
He opens the door first, stepping out with all the composure of a man who absolutely did not just fuck his assistant on a table. You follow a minute later, hair fixed, shirt tucked, cheeks only slightly flushed.
The event is still sparkling. Guests are still talking. Mercedes cars are still shining in the Monaco sun.
Kimi looks at you. Then Toto. Then the corridor behind you.
He says nothing. Smart boy.
George, on the other hand, looks at Toto’s shirt, then at your face, then at Toto’s sunglasses now hanging slightly crooked from his pocket.
His eyebrows rise. “Productive meeting?” he asks.
You take a glass of sparkling water from a passing tray.
“Very.”
Toto stands beside you, face calm, mouth relaxed, eyes hidden again behind sunglasses.
But you can feel it. His satisfaction. The smugness rolling off him in waves.
George looks between you both and mutters, “I hate knowing things.”
Kimi eats another sandwich.
“I do not know things,” he says peacefully.
You take a sip of water, still feeling Toto between your thighs, still tasting him faintly on your tongue, still remembering his bare chest under your hands and the way he filled you against that table.
Your cheeks warm. Toto’s hand brushes your lower back for one second. Professional. Polite. Devastating.
You glance up at him. He does not look at you. He only smiles at a guest. Very calm. Very composed. Very proud of himself.
Bastard.
You smile into your glass.
White jeans were officially a problem.
And judging by the way Toto’s thumb brushes your back again, briefly, privately... they will be a problem again.
