The door hadn’t even finished closing when Lewis’s mouth was on yours—rough, unspoken things pouring out in the way his hands gripped your hips, the way he pushed you back until your spine met the wall.

You kissed him back like you needed it to breathe, fingers in his hair, heart thudding too fast. His touch burned hot, urgent, like he’d been holding back all weekend. Like every stolen glance in the paddock had built to this.

Clothes fell fast. His jacket. Your dress. Buttons pulled open with shaking hands and too much tension. And when your skin met his, it felt like something sacred and shameful all at once.

You gasped when he lifted you, arms tightening around his shoulders, legs around his waist. He carried you to the bed like a man possessed—but underneath it, there was something quiet. Heavy.

His mouth slowed against your throat.

Your breath caught.

Because even now—especially now—you remembered the truth.

You had someone waiting. Someone who trusted you. Someone who didn’t know you were here, in Lewis Hamilton’s hotel suite, about to let yourself fall again into something you couldn’t name, let alone justify.

But then he looked at you—eyes dark, jaw tight, his hand sliding between your thighs with a touch that made everything else blur.

“I know,” he said, barely a whisper. “I know you shouldn’t be here.”

You closed your eyes. Didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“But I’m not asking you to leave.”

His lips grazed yours. “Just… don’t ask me to stop.”

And you didn’t.

Because even with the guilt sinking sharp into your chest, even with your husband’s voice echoing somewhere in your conscience, you still opened yourself to Lewis like he was the only thing real in the world.

The way he moved over you—slow at first, deep, hands trembling at your waist—felt like something meant to be wrong. It was wrong.

But you moaned his name anyway.

You gripped his back, let your head fall back into the pillows, and met him thrust for thrust with a need that left no room for righteousness.

And when it was over—when sweat cooled on flushed skin and the silence came back—neither of you moved.

He lay beside you, breathing heavy, eyes on the ceiling. One hand still touching your waist, but not holding you anymore.

You turned your head toward him, but he didn’t look back.

You didn’t speak.

Because this—whatever it was—had no language. Only heat. And guilt.

And the terrifying truth that neither of you were ready to walk away.