Victory hangs thick in the air. Lando’s win is the talk of the night, music blaring in the club, lights flashing. His shirt’s half unbuttoned, curls messy, eyes scanning the crowd like he’s wired on adrenaline and something more primal.

That’s when he sees you.

Leaning against the bar, drink in hand, skin glowing under the strobe lights. Your dress barely clings to you, hugging all the right places, legs crossed, lips wrapped around the straw like you know exactly what you’re doing. You don’t know him—but you know who he is. He doesn’t know you—but right now, he doesn’t care.

He moves closer, electric.

“You celebrating me, or just here for the music?” he asks, that smug smirk tugging at his lips.

You raise a brow, eyes roaming slowly over him. “I haven’t decided yet.”

And that’s all it takes.

A few drinks, a few stolen glances. His hand finds your waist as he whispers something cocky against your ear. You laugh, leaning in. The tension’s ridiculous—like the whole club could catch fire from it.

Next thing you know, the two of you are stumbling into his hotel room.

He kicks the door shut with his foot, mouths crashing before a word is spoken. His hands are on your thighs, lifting you onto the dresser, your fingers buried in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs against your neck, lips dragging along your jaw.

“And you’re desperate,” you tease, breathless.

Clothes are halfway gone. His hands are everywhere. Yours too. The room is a mess of tangled limbs, gasps, and barely-restrained hunger.