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lewisyellowhelmet · 5 months

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freefall (pt 2)

lewis hamilton x mercedes engineer!reader

read part 1 here !!

summary: You and Lewis have let this go on too far, and for too long. (You are an engineer for Mercedes on Lewis’ side of the garage).

content: 18+!!!! general m/f sex acts. coworker relationship. let me know if u want anything else flagged!

You wake cold. The hotel air conditioning has kicked on during the night, a familiar whir in the ceiling, and in your sleep you’ve pulled the covers up around your chin in an attempt to keep your body warmth in. It takes a few circulations of the room for you to find the off switch for the air-con.

After, you stand against the big window until your alarm goes off, warm breath making a condensation cloud against the glass. You’re in Baku. No. Budapest. Budapest. You’ve been in this hotel before, you’ve seen this view. You have to close your eyes when the surge of memories come. The sound of Lewis singing to himself in the shower. His warm arm over your belly while you slept. Leaning over graphs together to try and figure out how to be faster, how to be better. Your iPhone is ringing, vibrating, morning alarm. The room is still cold.

You get to the engineers room before Lewis does. It’s rained overnight, the track wet, the air brisk. Endless emails await you. The cars not right. Nothing is right. A headache is pulsing at your temples. Your coffee is cold before you remember to drink it. Others work around you. Recently, you’ve begun having this urge, strong and gripping, to stand up and be wild, to yell and scream. We were in love. We were in love and no one knew. I sacrificed that to give us another go at a championship and now you can’t even get the fucking car to work?

You have to close your eyes and practice box breathing until it passes. When you lift your head again, Lewis is moving around your desk to go into Toto’s office. He doesn’t look at you.

—

It has been a year. A hard year. You’d left the hotel room, left him, feeling on the verge of insanity. Lewis had let you go without much of a fight. It felt like his confession, his acceptance, had drained all his energy. Somewhere silent and hidden behind your heart, you wish he’d fought harder. Having to pretend nothing had happened in front of your co-workers was gut wrenching. Sleeping alone was worse. The break between seasons had helped, a forced separation, different cities, but now, in the thick of a new calendar, a new year, you were constantly turning corners and bumping into him. You couldn’t go back to the friendship you’d had before. And you couldn’t go forward into a new, adjusted working relationship. There was only a sense of coldness, of formality. No way forward, no way back. Only this compounding sense of dread, anticipating the next interaction.

Toto’s assistant sticks her head out of the office while you’re gazing unseeing at the screens in front of you, calling for you. Your bones feel stiff and unwilling as you unfold yourself, follow her into the small room. Lewis is sitting in front of the desk, one knee pulled up, gives you a polite smile upon your entrance. Toto is leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled, deep thinking. There are no chairs for you. You hover behind Lewis, and refuse to think about reaching out, touching the back of his neck, smoothing your fingers into his hair.

Generic meeting. A summary of free practice, and then qualifying from the day before. Plans for the day. Any new ideas? Any solutions? Your headache is getting stronger. No solutions.

Lewis holds the door open for you when the meeting is over, and you can smell him as you move past. Familiar cologne. He used to laugh when you buried his face in his neck, sniffed over-dramatically, pretending to be a curious dog. He’d wriggled from the sensation, your tickling mouth, pressing nose. Pretended he didn’t like it, but always made sure to wear your favourite smell everyday anyway.

You need paracetamol. Too late you realise he’s following you to hospitality, where the first aid kit is stored. He is a step behind, lagging, despite easily being able to match your pace. You feel the gap keenly, an open wound.

—

The over-ear headphones drown out the noise of the garage. This, at least, you can do. Go through the motions of race day, a familiar rhythm. Positioned on your stool in front of your screens, the microphone against your mouth, the final, tenuous connection between you and Lewis. A direct line between you and him. You go through the regular checks together, safety, engine, ensuring the connection is clear. The cars roar. The adrenaline pounds.

“Ready?” You ask.

“Ready.”

You chew on the inside of your mouth so you don’t say, be safe, be careful. The lights flash down. The engines rev. The job begins.

—

The air conditioning is on again in the hotel room. They’ve been in to change the sheets, the towels, vacuumed. You feel stupid with fatigue, with loneliness, with missing him. The after-race meetings had dragged. Lewis was tired. The atmosphere was tense. You want to sleep for ten years, but there is a plane to catch first thing tomorrow morning. There are spirits in the mini-fridge, ice clear and beckoning. You drink two in the shower, and another in front of BBC World News on the television. Are you dreaming? Is this real life? The gin gives everything a foggy haze. Your steps are unsteady. You sit in bed and scroll through yours and Lewis’ text threads. Room numbers. Memes. Inside jokes texted under the table during long meetings. You manage to convince yourself its a mistake when you tap through to his contact number, watch it dial, ring through. Listen to the connecting sound, hear him say, “hello?” before you realise what’s happened, what you’ve done, what rule you’ve broken. You hang up. Hot panic. The newsreader is talking about weather. Lewis is calling back, already, and you watch it ring out. You feel frozen by horror. The room is so cold, and the fridge is worse as you reach in, tiny bottles clinking together. Vodka this time. Forget, forget, forget.

There’s someone knocking on the door. You manage to get yourself into a hotel issued robe, pull it tight, before you get into the small hallway, fumble with the handle, get the door open. You swear, and Lewis has to reach out to stop you closing the door again.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“Yes,” you insist.

“You called me.”

“Did I? It must have been a mistake.”

Your voice sounds fake, even to you, the laugh reedy and broken.

“Are you drunk?” Lewis asks.

“No,” you lie.

He drops his arm from where it was holding open the door. He’s wearing pyjama pants and a worn grey hoodie. One you used to wear to go make the coffee in the morning. You can tell from the softness of his expression he’s been recently asleep. You should shut the door now. Block him out again. Go to bed. Instead, you feel yourself start to cry, building in your chest, the tightness in your throat, burning in your eyes.

“Babe,” he says, so sad, so concerned, and the sob you emit is embarrassing and loud. You have to let go of the door to cover your face, feeling your back curve over. Lewis is gentle about coming inside, guiding you to the bed, tucking you in. He brings you a glass of water, makes you have three big sips. You’re still crying, childlike, red faced and snotty. He passes you tissues, strokes your hair.

“I’m sorry,” you start to say, even as he shushes you, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “Everything’s okay.”

You feel as if the world is ending. Crying like this in front of him. Drunk and messy. And the room is so fucking cold.

“Can you,” you stumble, wriggling over in the bed, throwing open the covers, “I’m really cold.”

He says your name the way he used to say it, warm and intimate, a nickname. Like a lover. Like a partner.

“Are you sure?” He asks, even as you’re reaching out for him, dragging him in.

“Please,” you say, “I’m cold.”

He tastes salty when you kiss him, your own tears on his mouth. He makes a wounded sound, but then he’s wrapping his arms around you, pulling you to his chest, his leg over yours. You feel held, sheltered. He lets you kiss him again, deeper, better.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, when you need to breathe, and he’s smiling, warm eyes, smoothing you hair off your face.

“It’s okay,” he repeats, “Whatever you need.”

Your hands are fists in his hoodie, “I need you.”

“How do you need me?”

“Like this,” you whisper, lips brushing his, taking his hand to slip into your robe, over your breast. He sighs out a breath as his fingers touch your nipple, swipe over it again so you make a small, wanting noise.

It feels dreamlike, a long awaited thing. A rush, almost, to get out of your robe, Lewis out of his own clothes so you can sling a leg over his waist, face hidden in the crook of his neck as he pushes into you, his big hand tangled in your hair, holding you to him. Rasping breaths, the sudden heat of two bodies working together, the length of him inside you, pushing deep. It feels instinctual, animalistic, breathing him in, trying to remember everything, compartmentalise every second, every touch, every groan. Lewis rolls you onto your back, but stays close, his mouth finding yours, sharing breath as he grinds into you. You come quickly, nothing controlled, grasping at him and panting, shaking through it. Lewis holds himself there, lets you shudder and cry out, pulsing around him. His eyes are dark and liquid, but he keeps watching you, like he’s trying to remember as well, be present for everything. You don’t want this to ever end. When you can breathe again, he returns to his rythym, steady knocks of his hips into yours, the rush of his breath, of his body. His face drops into your neck when he finishes, hands gripping you like he will never let go again. You feel new, hot tears leak down your face as you hold him.

—

You wake warm, this time. You’re curled around yourself, a child, with Lewis aligned to your back, his face against your spine, his arm over you, protecting you. You’re facing the window, curtains left open, blinking at an apartment building, holding hundreds of different lives, different bedrooms, different people. Lewis is still asleep, you can tell from the steadiness of his breath, the sleep-weight of his body over yours. You place your hand over his, interlinking knuckles. The more you wake up, the more you feel embarrassed, shame curdling in your belly. He’s done this out of pity. How gross, to call him, drunk, drag him into bed with you, to beg. You feel overheated, suddenly, untangle yourself from him, slip out of the covers and into the bathroom, pulling the sliding door to encase yourself in the marble and glass. Your eyes are swollen from crying. You mouth is bruised pink from him. There are fingertip bruises on your waist from where he’s held you. You have to sit on the lip of the built in tub so you don’t throw up, or start crying again. You haven’t washed your hair in a few days, and it hangs limp around your fingers, head in your hands, again. Hiding. Wanting to disappear. Your hangover makes you tremble. You’ve failed. You failed years ago, when you looped your arms around his neck and kissed him for the first time. You failed again when you turned your back on him. And now, to be so weak, to force him to do this again, to look after you.

The bathroom door slides open. Lewis is in your robe, tight around his shoulders. You try to smile at him, but even without seeing you know it’s more of a grimace.

“I don’t know what to say,” you tell him, raking your hands through your hair, “I’m just so, so sorry.”

“You said that a lot last night.”

Lewis doesn’t move any further into the room. Stays in the doorway. Watches. Witnesses.

“I can’t believe I. I’m so embarrassed.”

He shakes his head, “Don’t be.”

“Lewis,” you’re speechless. What is there to say? How to apologise? To take back?

“Look,” he spreads his hands, surrender, “We don’t have to talk about it. It never happened.”

“Never happened,” you echo. Vomit threatens. Never happened.

“If that’s what you want,” Lewis says.

You’re nodding, looking down at your bare feet on the tiles, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

The silence makes you want to scream. Just to break it. You can hear your heartbeat in your head. A constant pound. You stay there, on the edge of the bathtub, while he gets dressed. He doesn’t look in on his way out. The door shuts with a finality.

—

You fly to Oxford. He flies to Monaco. You don’t speak.

—

It happens in the middle of the night. The off season. When you check your phone for the first time the next morning, waiting for the kettle to boil, you have so many missed calls your phone has stopped counting them. The photos are blurry, but it’s obvious if you know what you’re looking for. Through a small window in the door of your office. In the first one, you’re just laughing together, the second you are reaching for his hand, the final one you are in his lap, your mouth hidden by his, Lewis’ big hands in your hair. You’re still staring at them when he calls. He does’t say anything when you pick you. You just breathe, together, for a long moment.

“So it happened,” you finally say.

“It happened,” he agrees.

“I haven’t spoken to anyone else yet. I just woke up,” you say.

“Don’t,” he says, “I’m going to fly in this afternoon. We’ll have a meeting with the publicists. Toto wants HR there, as well.”

“Fuck.”

You hesitate, and then, “Was Toto mad?”

“He wasn’t happy. He reckons Susie knew and didn’t tell him.”

“Where did the photos come from?”

“Ex-employee, they think. Was waiting for the right time.”

“And now is the right time?” You can hear the edge of hysteria in your voice.

“I’m really sorry,” Lewis says.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry.”

You need to boil the kettle again, tea forgotten. You realise you're gripping the kitchen bench so hard your knuckles have gone white. You let go. You look out over the garden, crisp with morning frost. Christmas soon. You’ll have to explain to your family.

“Did Toto say anything about my job?” You ask, feeling sick at the thought.

“No. I said if he fired you, I would quit.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not.”

There’s quiet again. You flick the kettle on.

“I think it’s good if we come in together. We can plan what we want to say. I can pick you up from your house,” he says.

“Alright.”

“Don’t answer any numbers you don’t know, okay? Media might call.”

“Really? I was just gonna pick up strange numbers all day,” you say, a bite in your tone. Lewis laughs though, an amused huff.

“You’re right, sorry. I’m control-freaking.”

You hum an agreement.

"I’ll see you soon, then,” he says.

You suddenly have a fierce urge not to let him end the call, to let his voice anchor you.

“Alright,” you say, and hang up first.

—

The meeting is awful, of course. People are panicking. Toto scolds. You go silent. Lewis rages. In the end, the core group sits silent around a meeting table. The most promising solution is to paint it as star-crossed lovers, meant to be, soulmates. Refusing to be kept apart by jobs and contracts. This would be perfect, perhaps, if you were still together.

“Could you pretend? Until it died down,” Toto had said.

“No,” you’d snapped, speaking over Lewis’, “It depends what she wants.”

Now, the silence is stale, nothing left to say, but no agreement reached. Your eyes prick with fatigue.

—

Lewis drives you home. When he pulls into the driveway, you’re too tired to get out of the car. There is a light on inside. Your mum must be here, checking in on you. Has heard somehow, which must mean it's on the internet.

“How are you feeling?” Lewis asks, when you make no move to open the door.

“Tired,” you say, “You?”

“Sad.”

It’s unconscious, reaching to to touch his leg, an urge to comfort. He sighs. The muscle of him is warm through his jeans.

“If this had happened a year ago,” he starts, and stops, shaking his head, “Doesn’t matter.”

“If it happened a year ago, what?” You say. He shrugs.

“Everything might have turned out okay.”

You turn your face from him, look out the window into the dark street. It makes your heart throb painfully to see him. You can’t speak through a thick, swollen throat.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it,” you finally manage to whisper. Your hand is still on his thigh.

“Didn’t say what?"

You close your eyes, lean to rest your forehead on the car window with a thunk.

“Didn’t say that I loved you back.”

“Did you?”

You laugh, exhausted from carrying it for so long, “Lewis. Of course. Of course I do. So much.”

“You do?”

Your eyes fly open, realising your mistake. You snatch your hand from his leg, turn to face him, “I did. I did then.”

“You don’t love me anymore,” he clarifies. He’s frowning, forehead creased. The night is pressing in on the car, dark and claustrophobic. You can’t speak.

“Because nothing has changed for me. I feel the same as I did then,” Lewis says, and you can see how he’s working to speak, jaw twitching, forcing the words out. Something private, and hidden, being pushed into the open. You’re pressing your hands together in your lap, painfully tight.

“Alright,” you say, hate yourself for it. He looks away. His eyes are gleaming.

“Alright.”

You get out of the car. Stiff and awkward. You get your key in the front door, hear him turn the engine back on. Fear is clawing at your chest. You turn around anyway, back down the steps, jump in front of the car so he has to slam on the breaks, a screech breaking the night air. He’s opening the drivers door at the same time you’re trying to open it, get to him. He’s half out of the car and you’re half in when you kiss him, cold air, warm mouths. He’s grasping your head, holding you steady.

"I’m sorry,” you’re panting, “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” Lewis says, “What’s done is done.”

You keep kissing him, his face, his nose, his jaw.

“I love you,” you press into his skin, you kiss into his mouth, “I love you.”

Lewis is pulling you into his lap, back into the car, pulling the door shut again, crammed in. Your hands under his shirt, feeling his skin, feeling him breathe.

“Do you?” He asks, holding your face in front of him. You feel your face hurt with how wide you are grinning, a release of something held inside for so long. Your hands mirror his on his face, precious in your fingers.

“I do. I do. I love you.”

Lewis half laughs, half sobs. His eyes are shining. The car horn beeps from a stray elbow. You keep kissing him anyway.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lewis hamilton smut #f1 smut #f1 imagine #*

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lewisyellowhelmet · 5 months

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pursuit of happiness

lewis hamilton x actress!reader

summary: 18+!!!! general m/f s*x acts. reader is a well known actress with a recent scandal, who escapes to lewis for some peace.

read everything else here!

In Singapore, the heat clings to her. Even in the airport, with her sunglasses on, head down, overly focused on the boots of the security guard in front of her who steps a path through the crowd, she can feel the humidity. The flashes of the cameras makes her ears ring, a threatening headache quickly becoming ominously real.

She remembers when this onslaught made her giddy, when she would try and meet everyone's eye, smile, shake hands. Always new places, always new people. The shame of walking with her face lowered, crowded in by looming men, makes her want to be sick. Still, the questions screamed at her have long become too prying, the autograph hunters too needy, the photographers too scary.

The car is waiting for her, sleek and black. She’s hustled from the opening doors of the terminal, into the warm bath of tropical air, and then into the air conditioning, leather seats. The door slams behind her, enclosing her in the cab, and the driver is already pulling away, leaving a throng of people half spilling out into the road after her. She knows what they want. She won’t give it to them.

The hotel room is empty. But there are leftover parts of him. A used towel in the bathroom. A watch next to the beside table, silver and chunky. There’s a yoga mat on the balcony. Her phone is buzzing, maddeningly. She has a sudden urge to throw it off the building. She puts it in the mini fridge instead, on silent. The king bed is expansive, crisp and white. The air in the room is cool and artificial, whirring reliably in the ceiling. When she crawls into bed, the sheets still smell like him. He sleeps on the left, and she tucks his pillow into her body, imagines the feel of his skin on hers, the rustle of his hair, the press of his hand. She falls asleep, bathed in bright sunlight.

When she wakes, the room is dark, and there’s someone walking around. She is not unused to strangers in her space, interfering with her things, minders and assistants and stylists. If she snoozes her alarm too many times, someone will always come in, open the blinds, waft a coffee under her nose. But this person is sitting beside her now, covering her hand with their own, warm and solid. She blinks open sticky eyes. Lewis is smiling, reaching to stroke the hair off her face. It’s a new colour, bleached and cut short, for the new part that will start filming next week.

“It’s quarter past seven,” Lewis says. He always wakes her with the time. A way to centre herself, to adjust. It’s fifteen minutes past seven here, in Singapore, where she is, with him. Her mouth feels dry, her tongue thick. Her limbs are lazy.

“How long have you been here?” She says, slurring her words.

“Only a few minutes. I’m about to go to dinner if you want to come.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere.”

Lewis looks disappointed in her, for a moment, but the expression passes off his face like it was never there. Shame curdles in her belly. The headache is still striking against her temples.

“It’s a private place, there won’t be any photographers,” Lewis says.

“But people will know.”

Lewis strokes over her head a final time, his hand solid and welcome, “Yes, probably.”

She groans, and rolls away from him, so he can’t see how her eyes are getting wet and sore. She wants to crawl deeper into the bed and never come out, never be seen by anyone else. The bed shifts as Lewis stands up.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he says.

“Wait,” she says, muffled, but doesn’t remove her head from where it’s stuffed into the pillow. The fabric is getting damp around her mouth. She can’t get enough oxygen. She can feel him watching her.

When she lifts her head up, she’s breathing hard. Her headache throbs.

“Let me get dressed,” she says.

The restaurant is at the bottom of the hotel, easily accessible to the public, but the host guides them to a private room that has windows into an enclosed garden, a water feature trickling. Lewis is handed a completely vegan menu. She doesn’t feel hungry at all, it’s the middle of the night in L.A., and orders a vodka soda.

“He said the marriage was over,” she says, when she can’t hold it in any longer. Lewis is chewing polenta. He looks at her for a long time. He’s ordered an expensive bottle of red wine, which she knows she will drink most of.

“Did you believe him?” He asks, eventually. She stares at the three scallops in front of her, picturesque on their clean pink shells.

“Yes,” she says.

“Why?”

Her voice is sticking in her throat. She has to eat a scallop so she doesn't start to cry.

“I guess he’s a good actor.”

Lewis laughs, and she has to smile. The ice in her vodka soda rattles as she sucks down the last of it.

“How did it start?” Lewis asks.

She thinks about saying she doesn’t want to talk about it, that it’s too hard, but his expression is earnest and his eyes are dark and liquid and she wants to dive into them, curl up around his pupil and rest there.

“We went out in Rome one night. The other actors and crew as well, but everyone started to head back and we went to this bar in the old city. He touched my knee. He was so nice and interested in me and he promised that he didn’t even live with her anyone, they just pretended so the kids would’t have to deal with the media. He even said the kids were fine with it, everyone was happier now. We walked back to the hotel. He invited me to his room for a drink. I wanted to go, you know. I wanted him to ask me.”

She has been telling most of the story to the garden and it’s fountain. It’s hard to look at Lewis. He listens carefully.

“We slept together every night of the shoot after that. We tried not to let it show on set but it was pretty obvious. One weekend we went to Venice, and the photos. I’m sure you saw them. It was fucking everywhere. I was so angry at him for letting it happen but of course he had no control. No one does. His wife called. We couldn’t leave the hotel because there were so many photographers. Somehow people even got in so I couldn’t leave the room. The security from Rome had to come all the way out and get us. Then his wife somehow got my number.”

She hasn’t been able to delete the texts yet. She’d read them on the flight to Singapore even, scrolling through. The marriage, it seemed, was not over.

“Anyway, we finished the shoot. I went back to L.A., he went to London. He called a few times but. It wasn’t the same. I couldn’t stop thinking about his kids. How much they must hate me. Still,” she shrugs, and tries to smile, but imagines it as ugly and painful, “good press for the movie, I guess.”

The waiter has come in, discreet, and pours her a glass of wine, clears their entrees. Her throat feels sore and thick. Lewis is quiet, thanks the man.

“Why did you come here?” He asks, after the door has shut with a muffled sound, and it is just them, the wine, and the trickling water.

She laughs, but it sounds wet.

“I have no idea. You offered. I needed to get away from L.A.”

He sips his wine, and she forgets to look away when his tongue darts out to smooth over his bottom lip as he puts the glass down.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he says, calm and steady. The sympathy makes her stomach turn over.

“Don’t say that, it’s my own fault.”

Lewis shakes his head, and looks so sad she has to pick up her own glass, take two big mouthfuls, let it stain her mouth.

“How’s the season going?” She asks, to change the subject. He sighs. The waiter comes back in with their mains. Somehow they begin talking about something else, careful guided away from both her affair and F1. She almost manages to forget whats happened.

She stands in the elevator facing so she can watch the numbers climb up as they soar into the sky. The food has pushed the headache momentarily away, and the alcohol is making her loose limbed. Lewis touches her waist gently as they leave the elevator and begin the short walk down the corridor to his suite. Only when he unlocks the door and steps aside for her to go in first does she remember to say, “Did you want me to get my own room?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he says, “Old friends, right?”

She laughs as she follows him in, “Sure, old friends.”

They finish the bottle of wine on the balcony, the heat still thick and clinging. The city moves around them, engines revving, lights changing. She throws her bare legs over his lap, and he strokes her shin, the callouses on his palm soothing. They talk aimlessly, small jokes, old gossip. She wonders if her phone has frozen in the minifridge yet. Which agent or manager has boarded a plane to come and collect her. Lewis starts to yawn when the moon is high, and they go back inside to the air-con.

She showers first, the water and citrus body wash sluicing the days sweat off her, remaking her, clean and new. Lewis’s toiletries are spilled over the counter. She lifts his bottle of cologne to her nose while she brushes her teeth.

When he takes his turn in the bathroom, she flips through the channels on the big television, tucked into the crisp sheets, propped up against too many pillows. The TV is the only light in the room, flickering and constantly changing. She feels exhausted, and like sleep has never been further away. She has not retrieved her phone from the fridge. They’ll find her somehow. They always do.

Lewis wears soft pyjama pants to bed, low on his hips. She's wearing one of his t-shirts. They’re wet hair tangles as she slouches into his shoulder, tucked into the crook of his armpit while they watch Singaporean news. During the entertainment portion, an image of her in her huge sunglasses at the arrival terminal pops up. She looks pale and sickly in the video. Lewis turns the television off.

“It’s okay,” she says, interrupting him saying, “I’m tired, anyway.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?” She asks, still leaning against him. His arm is around her, heavy and solid. She feel his chin against her skull.

“It’s the race. I’ll be out all day.”

“Alright.”

“When do you have to leave?”

“Whenever they come and fetch me.”

“Maybe if you stayed for the race. Came to the grid. We could make sure you get interviewed, it might distract everyone from. What’s just happened.”

She turns her face into his chest, wanting to become one of his tattoos, imprinted on his skin.

“Or not,” he says, quietly.

“I can’t think about it right now,” she says.

“Okay,” he soothes. He’s touching her hair, the wrong colour, the wrong length. She feels outside of her own body, even as she tries to cram into his. She touches his stomach, just her fingertips, scratching lower to the line of his waist, his hips bones. He says her name against her forehead, his lips brushing over her skin.

“We don’t have to,” Lewis says.

“Do you want to?”

“Of course,” he breathes.

“I want to,” she says.

She lets her head fall lower over his chest, down his abdomen so she can drag her mouth over the muscle there, kiss over his navel, the brush of hair under her mouth as she finds the waistband of his pyjamas. Lewis is sighing and twitching, his hand in her hair. The pressure is familiar, no push, just a warmth. She can feel him against her chin as she laves her tongue over his hip, already hard and wanting. His skin is goose bumped, anticipating. She never wants it to end, wants to keep him dangling on the edge, waiting and waiting.

He lifts his hips for her to wriggle his pants off him, down the muscle of his thighs, the curve of his knees. Lewis grabs at her (his) t-shirt, pulling it over her head and off so he can sweep his hands over her shoulders, cup her breasts in his hands, smiling dopely at her as his thumbs swipe over her nipples, make her gasp. His cock stands red against his belly, leaking wet. She lowers her head to lick up the length of it, suck him into her mouth, salty and hot. He groans, and his hands tangle in her hair, guiding her rhythm. It’s so easy to fall back into it, remembering him, one hand around the base of him, the other against his hip, bracing herself. He keeps her hair out of her face, mumbles nonsense to her, about how good she is, how amazing it feels. She pulls off to drool over him, let him see the mess he’s made, lick kitten like at the swollen tip. Lewis moans, instinctual from his chest.

“Baby,” he says, hips knocking up unconsciously, “Baby, please.”

“What do you want?” She asks, her hand slicking up and down the length of him, the sounds lewd.

“I want you. I just want you. So badly, please.”

“Where do you want me?”

“Anywhere,” he’s grinning, mouth wet, cheeks flushed, “Anywhere.”

She sits herself up on her knees, and he whines as she lets go of him, takes his face in her hands. He kisses her messy and desperate, his tongue between her teeth. He drags at her hair, and the tingling pain of it makes her groan into him.

His hand between her legs, stroking, spreading her wetness. She has to stop kissing him to breathe, their noses knocking together, dropping her head into the crook of his shoulder to pant as he slips a finger into her, another, crooks them just right and fucks her with his hand.

“I know,” he croons, as she shudders against his chest, “I know, feels good, huh?”

“Yes,” she gasps, meeting his hand with her hips as an orgasm curls in her belly, “It’s s’good.”

“Come for me, baby,” he whispers against her ear, his mouth hot. She keens and falls limp against him, sat half in his lap as she comes, his hand trapped between her legs. Her body keeps rocking unconsciously against him as she settles, breathing in the smell of him, feeling the pulse of his jugular against her mouth.

Lewis soothes her, kissing the side of her face, the line of her bare shoulder, his fingers still tucked inside her. She can feel the way their skin is sticking together with sweat already. She doesn’t mind it.

She reaches between them, where he’s resting against the inside of her thigh, hot and stiff, flinching when she rubs her thumb over the tip.

“You want me?” She asks, can’t look him in the eye, her head under his chin.

“Yes,” Lewis breathes, fucking into her hand, “Always.”

She shifts, gets her leg over his hip so she’s hovering above him, nudging the head of his cock against herself, teasing. Lewis is breathing hard, his chest shiny, his shoulders big. He’s watching her with big, dark eyes. When she lets him inside, he curses. Fists curling into the bedsheets.

It feels otherworldly, having him slip into her, thick and long and good. Fills her up in a way she can never explain. It knocks the breath out of her. Her knees press into his hips, her head drooping down to press her forehead against his. His mouth is open, pink and bitten.

“Oh my god,” she rasps, pulling herself up and down again. He slides deeper the second time. Lewis groans, and screws his eyes shut. His big hands find her waist, grabbing at her bum, helps her lift herself and drop down, finding a rhythm.

“Oh, fuck,” he pants, “Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck.”

She loses the strength to speak, lets him fuck up into her, her arms around his shoulders. She cries out when he moves, stays inside her as he lays her out on her back, pulls her legs out and wide so he has the space to drive into her, keep her there, half crying and writhing. It’s so good it blinds her.

“Is that what you wanted? Is this what you needed?” Lewis is asking her, he’s slowing down so she feels every thrust, right to the core of her. She struggles to prop herself up on her elbows, watching where their bodies meet, a perfect coupling, his hips knocking into hers.

“Yes,” she tells him, grabbing at the muscle of his bicep, yanking him down so she can kiss him, still telling him yes, yes, yes.

She comes again, flat on her back, her knees over his shoulders, adrift in the ocean of him, trusting him to fuck her through it, go easy on her when she starts to shake.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, bent low over her, his mouth by her jawline, “You’re okay, you’re so good, you feel so good.”

She holds onto him, anchored by him in the swathe of bedsheets, in the mess of her life.

“Please,” she asks, wrapping her legs around his waist, urging him in closer, deeper. She does’t know what she’s asking for. To keep going? To save her? To take her far away?

Lewis’ movements hasten, an urgency to him as he lets go, his thumb holding her mouth open so he can pant the same air. She twists her hand into his braids, holds him there, gazes up at him as he pushes into her, again and again. His face goes euphoric, and she holds him tight against her as he comes, not looking away from her, his eyes dark and endless.

She doesn’t sleep. Lewis breathes slow and deep, his arm over her stomach. She watches the city, curtains left open, and tries not to think about her phone in the fridge. The effect of the wine is ebbing, and everything feels starkly real and horrible again. Her legs are sore from the weight of Lewis bending her, having her, but it’s a good pain, a reminder that she has used her body. She finds herself touching his hand, his fingers, the metal of his rings. She could stay in the hotel room forever, if she wanted. Pass the time rotting away until he returned for next years race, and the next, and the next. Never take her phone out. Swim in the infinity pool. Order room service. She turns her face from the skyline, away from the daydream.

Lewis is angled towards her, young and ethereal in sleep. His lips are parted, jaw relaxed. She wants to kiss the very tip of his nose. It used to be like this all the time. When the television show had summer breaks, and she could just go wherever he was. Follow him around like a dog, panting at his heels. But then the breaks were filled with other projects, and then she was so busy there wasn’t even time for the show. Standing for the applause at Cannes with an empty seat beside her. Not being able to reach him for hours after because the race was delayed. Holding that heavy award in her hand, looking out over a sea of cameras and her peers, trying to call him as soon as she was off stage and it ringing through ten times before she gave up.

The man she’d had an affair with had asked her about Lewis. If he had to be half mad to drive the car around and around in circles that fast. Only a quarter mad, she’d said, and changed the subject. It felt wrong to hear Lewis’ name in his mouth. They accessed two different parts of her. Even in the middle of it, she knew the man was only activating something primal and childish in her, a lavishing of attention that made her feel special. Lewis, rather, made her see the worst sides of herself, encouraged her to turn and face them. He would dig under her skin, lift scabs, push her forward even when she wanted to go back.

It’s difficult to wake in the morning. The sky is grey and low, rain patterning the window. Lewis is naked, digging through his jeans to find his phone that’s ringing an endless alarm. She rolls over onto the side of the bed he’s vacated. When he returns, the phone silenced, he slides into what little space she’s left, arranging her limp body half on top of him. He’s soft and close and warm. She tucks her face into his shoulder, breathes him, thinks about baring her teeth and biting.

“I have to be out in fifteen minutes,” he tells her, his voice rumbling through his chest. She whines and clings like a child.

“You can’t distract me today,” Lewis says, but his voice is soft and concerned, “I have the race.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“I might be gone by then.”

She feels him sigh, her head rising and falling with his chest.

“Well, try not to be,” he says.

Maybe she can get one more day. If she hides, if she doesn’t answer her phone.

“Should I come?” She asks, half hidden by his neck. He goes still, but his voice is calm and measured.

“If you want to. I’d like that.”

“If people see you and me together. You know what they’ll say.”

He laughs, and she lifts her head up to see the way his eyes shine and crinkle, “Let them say it.”

She kisses the corner of his mouth, and then the other side. He’s smiling.

“I have nothing to wear,” she says. Lewis rolls his eyes.

“You have all day to find something.”

“I can’t go out.”

“Why not?”

She frowns at him, “They’ll see me.”

“Who? The paparazzi? The crowd? Who cares. It’s done now. The only thing you can do now is keep going.”

She sits up, and off him. The sheets fall from her chest and she watches Lewis try not to stare at her tits.

“That’s a bit harsh,” she says.

“It’s the truth.”

The alarm starts going again, vibrating across the carpet, forgotten next to his jeans. Lewis throws the covers off, and makes for the shower, snatching the phone off the floor on his way. She sits back against the pillows, turns to watch the rain. The only thing you can do now is keep going.

She tells only who needs to know that she’s going to the race. The heat is heavy and palpable. Her feet hurt in the heels, but the dress is cool where it swishes around her ankles. Someone knew someone who knew a stylist in the city, and a hair and make up artist was quick to be summoned to the room.

“Just make me look good,” she’d told them, and then sat quietly, let them prod and poke at her until when she looked in the mirror again, she saw no-one. A facade. An actress. The Rubik’s cube of herself she could present to the world. She smiles. She retrieves her phone from the mini fridge.

She likes the beat in time when people realise it’s her, and before they lift their phones to take a photo. A swell in time, like the lip of a wave about to crash. Then there’s screaming, camera flashes, people calling her name. She lifts her chin and keeps moving, guided by a man in a Mercedes shirt. She refuses to think about how much the pictures will sell for to the magazines, or about twitter threads, or even what the pit crew lean to whisper to each other. Lewis is waiting for her in the garage. She has pride of place. There are more cameras on them then the track. His suit is pushed to his hips, and she can see the thrill gleam in his eyes. She smiles. She does not look at the cameras. She lets him take her into his chest. She is the one who looks up at him, and kisses him.

Let them see. Let them all see.

#lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton smut #f1 smut #lewis hamilton imagine #*

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