#rubywillkins

It started with a look.

Lando had been watching you all evening, eyes following you from the bed to the mirror, the mirror to the door, the door back to him — and when you finally crawled up the bed, wearing just one of his oversized T-shirts and nothing underneath, something in him cracked.

He sat up slowly. His curls were messy, his chest rising and falling faster now. The room felt quiet—too quiet—like something big was about to happen. Like a wave building before it crashes.

His voice came low. "Come here."

You blinked, surprised by the sudden intensity, but obeyed. You straddled his lap and cupped his cheeks, leaning in like you were about to kiss him.

But he stopped you.

Held your hips.

Looked up at you like you were a prayer he never dared to say out loud.

"Sit on my face". The words were spoken so softly, like they might break if he said them louder. Then his brows furrowed, and the softness turned into desperation. "Please, baby. Let me have you. Let me taste you. I’ll be so good."

Your breath hitched. "Lando…"

"I need it," he said again, voice cracking on the edges of a whisper. "I need you to use me. Please—just sit. I don’t care how long. I don’t care if you crush me. I want your thighs around my head and your cunt on my mouth. I want to drown in you."

The way he said it — like he was pleading for oxygen — made your heart stutter.

He slid down the bed, flat on his back, curls spilling against the pillow like a crown. He looked utterly ruined already, pupils blown, lips parted, chest rising and falling like he'd just run a mile. "Come on, angel. Please. Don’t make me beg harder."

But you liked how it felt — how this confident, cocky boy was unraveling at the thought of having you above him.

You straddled his chest first, slowly crawling forward. His hands immediately gripped your thighs, his eyes locking with yours. And when you hovered over his face, he whimpered. Whimpered.

"Fuck. Yes. That’s it. Right there." His voice was breathless. "Let me taste you. Please."

You lowered yourself just enough to brush against his lips, and he moaned—a real, broken sound, like he’d been starved for weeks and you were his first meal.

He pressed gentle, reverent kisses to your pussy at first. Slow and careful, as if worshipping.

Tiny kisses. One on each lip. One just under your clit. One directly to the center. Every kiss was a promise.

"You smell like heaven," he whispered, voice husky. "And I missed you—fuck, I missed this."

And then… he was gone. Gone into you like a man starved.

His tongue was messy, frantic, and loud. He groaned into you like the taste alone was enough to make him cum. His grip on your thighs tightened, pulling you down further until you were seated fully on him, and he loved it. Loved the weight of you. Loved the way your thighs clenched around his face. Loved the way you gasped, grinding down like you couldn’t help it.

"Ride my face," he moaned. "Come on, baby. Use me."

You didn’t even realize he was rutting into the mattress below him—his hips grinding desperately, chasing friction. His cock was painfully hard beneath his shorts, leaking and neglected, but he didn’t care. You were all he wanted. The taste of you, the smell of your skin, the sounds you made above him—it had him shaking.

And you—god, you were melting.

One hand flew to the headboard, the other tangled in his hair. Your moans got louder, messier, each one sending vibrations through his mouth that made him moan right back.

"I’m—Lando, I’m—"

He doubled down. Tongue flicking, lips sucking, chin slick. He pulled you impossibly closer, and when you came, he let out a strangled groan, grinding into the bed like he couldn’t help himself, tongue never stopping.

You were shaking above him. Panting. Whimpering.

He only slowed when your grip on his hair eased and your thighs began to tremble with oversensitivity.

When you finally lifted yourself off him, he looked ruined.

Completely, blissfully wrecked.

His mouth was wet, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat. But he was smiling.

The softest, most genuine smile.

You lay beside him and tugged him toward you, and without hesitation, he curled into your side — head resting on your bare stomach, arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

He sighed, long and full, like he was letting go of everything else in the world except you.

"You okay?" you asked softly, brushing curls off his forehead.

He just hummed, eyes closed. "Mhm. Happier than I’ve ever been."

You smiled, fingertips dancing through his hair. He relaxed even more, practically purring as you stroked him, nails softly scratching his scalp.

"I love your thighs," he mumbled, voice heavy with sleep. "And your pussy. And you."

You laughed gently. "In that order?"

He cracked a sleepy grin against your stomach. "Maybe not."

You stayed like that—his body wrapped around yours, your fingers tangled in his hair, the room quiet except for his slowing breath and your steady heartbeat.

And just before he drifted off, he whispered it again. "Love you."