The door barely clicks shut before he’s on you.

Hands in your hair, mouth on yours — hungry, desperate, wrong.

You gasp into the kiss, backing blindly toward the bed, tugging at his clothes, needing him closer, needing him now.

“We shouldn’t,” Lando breathes against your mouth — voice wrecked, shaking. “This is wrong.”

Your fingers drag his shirt over his head, nails raking down his bare chest.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I don’t care.”

He groans — wrecked — and shoves you onto the bed, climbing over you like he’s starving.

Clothes tear away in frantic movements, breathless, clumsy, urgent.

And then — he’s inside you — slamming into you with a force that steals your breath.

You cry out, clinging to him, legs wrapping tight around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“I should stop,” he gasps against your neck — thrusts deep, hard, relentless. “I should… but I f*cking can’t.”

He drives into you faster, rougher, like he’s punishing himself — hips snapping, hands gripping your wrists above your head.

You arch against him, taking it, loving it, matching him thrust for thrust — moaning his name into the dark like a prayer.

The bed slams against the wall with every hard thrust, your bodies slick, frantic, desperate.

He buries his face against your throat — biting down, losing himself completely.

And when you fall apart around him — shaking, gasping, nails digging into his back — he follows, breaking with a groan that sounds like your name.