The door clicks shut behind you, and the noise of the paddock disappears like it was never there.

No radios. No briefing schedules. No one calling your name.

Just him — Lando — stretched out on the edge of the hotel bed in sweatpants and a hoodie, curls damp from a shower, watching you like you’re the only thing he’s been waiting for all day.

You drop your bag, lock the door, and before you can speak, he’s already crossed the room.

His hands slide around your waist, his mouth brushing your ear. “Forty minutes,” he murmurs. “Think you can behave for that long?”

You scoff, grabbing his hoodie and pulling him into a kiss. “Not a chance.”

The rest happens fast — like it always does when time is borrowed. You’re backed against the wall, lips on lips, hips grinding, the ache of not touching for hours spilling out in every move. Your jacket hits the floor. His hoodie’s pulled over his head. He kisses you like he’s making up for the cameras, the fans, the entire paddock you both pretended around.

Your hands find his skin — familiar now, warm, marked by training and tension. You breathe him in like muscle memory.

When he lifts you, carrying you to the bed, it’s not soft.

You’re already half-naked, your thighs wrapped around him, his mouth trailing fire down your chest.

“You make me insane,” he growls against your skin.

“You’re the one who said keep it quiet,” you breathe, fingers tugging at his waistband.

He stills just long enough to meet your eyes — flushed, wrecked, his voice low and real. “Yeah. But I think about you in that paddock every damn hour.”

And then he’s inside you — fast, hard, and deep, and you’re gone.

Forty minutes isn’t enough. Not for this. Not for the way he fucks you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth. Like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing that fills him.

And just before you leave — makeup fixed, hair brushed, heartbeat still racing — he grabs your hand.

“Same time tomorrow?”