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trashytracktales · 2 months ago

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Miami heat | OP⁸¹

🟤 summary ──── Winning the Miami Grand Prix was the second-best thing that happened to Oscar. The first? Saying yes to Logan’s invitation to celebrate.

🟤 pairing ──── Oscar Piastri x she/her reader

🟤 rating ──── explicit

🟤 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, drinking, smut, swearing, public setting, thigh riding, unprotected sex, manhandling, hair pulling, light dominance, mutual masturbation, overstimulation, mirror play, possessiveness and marking, Logan cameo.

🟤 word count ──── 5.6k

🟤 date ──── May 21, 2025

🟤 a/n ──── Hi lovelies! Since it was my birthday today (surprise 🥳🥳) I HAD to treat myself with this one. If you know me, you know I am absolutely obsessed with Oscar’s thighs [exhibit ONE, TWO, THREE...]. I fear it’s not just a phase, mom, this is who I am. I’ll go back to your requests now & we’ll read each other soon ♥︎

“JUST A COUPLE of drinks,” said Logan and, apparently, that’s all it took for Oscar to postpone a date with his hotel bed.

It would’ve been quite lame, he thought, to go to sleep after winning a Grand Prix on American soil.

With that in mind, half an hour after he finished all his duties at the track, the aussie sat nestled into a booth, shoulders relaxed and fingers curled around a chilled glass of something sweet and citrusy.

Logan had gathered a group of friends, already half-tipsy by the time Oscar arrived. As usual, he was quieter than the rest, laughing when he should, content to let the buzz of conversation pass over him.

Until she caught his eye.

He watched her slipping into the booth, sitting next to Logan with such an ease that made it feel like the night had been waiting for her to actually start. His first impression was that she is stunning, and not just physically speaking, though that alone made Oscar forget how to sit properly. There was more to it, something about her presence that made everything else fade. Because from the moment she turned her eyes on him and smiled, everybody else simply blurred into the background.

And now, Oscar can’t stop looking at her.

Not even when someone at the table congratulates him on tonight’s win.

Not even when Logan throws an arm around his shoulders and asks for more drinks.

There’s an undeniable glow to her that has him in complete trance, some effortless kind of beauty wrapped in softness and pure femininity. It hits him all at once, starting with the irrational need to know her, and the urge to keep her attention, to make sure he’s the one she remembers when they’ll part at the end of the night.

When the next round of drinks lands, she slips in beside Oscar to congratulate him in a whisper, which draws his attention to her full lips. But that doesn’t last long. The heat of her thigh presses now flush against his, bare skin to bare skin, and that almost terminates him. The girl doesn’t wait for him to thank her, instead, her palm brushes over his arm, a small touch that lasts no more than a second.

For that one second, Oscar’s lounging casually with his drink in hand, but the next, he’s shifting in his seat like the air’s gone too hot around him. He downs the rest of his drink in order to cool himself from the inside out, then tugs nervously at the hem of his shorts, while trying to adjust himself discreetly under the table. Still, she notices, and it makes her lips twitch, like she’s hiding a secret only they know about.

What is certain is that his pulse blooms in his chest, and without thinking, Oscar drapes his arm over the back of the booth, claiming the space behind her. It makes his heart race, even though he knows how silly it is to get protective over someone he just met.

His fingers lightly brush her shoulder, and though he’s still, in theory, paying attention to the others, the gesture catches her attention, and she understands what it means in no time: mine, for now.

In this new position, they’re close enough to feel each other’s scent, and her perfume coils into his senses. A sweet smell that reminds him of Fantales, some caramel candies Oscar used to sneak from the kitchen cupboard as a kid. The memory makes him smile, taken aback by the unexpected trip to the past.

Her fingers skim the base of her glass.

His leg starts bouncing slightly.

Her laugh curls warm around his ribs when someone makes a joke.

And when his knee bumps hers under the table, they both go still.

Oscar looks at her, happy to find out that she’s already looking at him. Their eyes lock, and everything else falls away.

Until Logan decides to get up like a whirlwind of noise and glittering eyes, drunk enough to grab Oscar by the wrist and her by the hand, dragging both of them after him.

“Come on,” he slurs, “Let’s shake our asses.”

They follow him, laughing, weaving through the crowd, with the bass vibrating beneath their feet and neon lights spinning lazy halos above their heads. The music is loud, atmosphere inviting, making it impossible not to move.

Somewhere between the second and the third song, Logan disappears from their sight into the mass of bodies, and they’re left behind in the middle of the dance floor. They don’t even notice until they start to dance side by side. Separate at first. Just enough space to feel like they aren’t doing anything dangerous.

But the crowd pushes closer, the bass gets heavier, and with each second, the gap between them evaporates. With that, eyes find each other in the dark and smiles linger a second longer than they should.

At this point, it’s only natural to let it happen.

They collide, soft but inevitable, and Oscar’s hands go to her waist like it’s instinct. His grip is firm, and it pulls a gasp from her lips before she can catch it.

The girl doesn’t pull away. She likes the way she fits there, right against him, as if it’s something her body already knew. Her hands drift without conscious thought, her palms pressing flat against his abdomen, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric of his shirt. Then higher, across his chest, up to his shoulders, and finally down his arms.

Oscar’s biceps flex under her touch, strong and taut, and his grip on her tightens in response.

Before they realize, she’s wrapped around him entirely, her body molded to his, moving with him to the music. Her scent is dizzying, driving Oscar straight out of his mind. As if he’s controlled by some external force, he ducks his head without thinking, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in like he needs it to survive.

She shudders, her fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan softly against her skin. It drives her mad that she can’t hear him properly because of the music, but she feels the low vibration, and something inside her snaps.

Or maybe it finally clicks.

Oscar’s hands slide lower, down her sides, around her hips, then firmly palm her ass, pulling her with him in his inviting, heated personal space. The sudden pressure draws another moan from her, right into his ear, and her reaction lights him up from the inside out. It also encourages Oscar to keep his hands on her, shamelessly, their faces so close they’re basically breathing each other in. Her lips are slightly parted and her eyes flick to his mouth, lingering for just a fraction, then dart back up.

She wants to kiss him.

He looks like he wants it, too.

But slowly, the girl ends up shaking her head. It’s not a no per se. It’s rather a we shouldn’t.

Luckily, Oscar couldn’t care less. His eyes are already begging, full of lust and that want she saw in him earlier. He’s not pushing, but he’s insistent, asking a stupid question without words: why not?

As expected, she doesn’t have an answer, yet she’s looking at his lips again like they’re already hers. She could die in order to find out how he kisses. Where his hands go when he’s not holding back. What kind of sounds he makes when he’s diving all in. How long it lasts. How deep. How wet.

It doesn’t take her long to glance around the club, just enough to think. Then, without a word, she laces her fingers through his and tugs him behind her as if she’s on a mission.

Oscar follows like he’s still in a trance, heart pounding in his ears with every step he takes behind her.

The bathrooms are hidden near the back, sleek and modern, far quieter than the rest of the place. The lighting here is cooler, silvery, and the stalls are private, each one with a full mirror and its own sink, separated by thick doors and expensive privacy.

She pulls him into the last one, the lock clicks and, in a blink of an eye, he’s on her.

Oscar presses her back against the door with a firm heat, hands braced on either side of her face as his mouth crashes onto hers. The kiss is hungry, open-mouthed and curious, all tongue and breath and need. She tastes like everything he imagined she would: sweet and impossibly addictive.

Her hands are already under his shirt, palms exploring the planes of his stomach, the rise of muscle, and everything she can reach, really.

His knee wedges between her legs for support, and she arches into him with a quiet whimper, mouth breaking from his for long enough to breathe it out. At that, Oscar groans low in his throat, a delicious sound that will haunt her dreams from now on. His hands slide down to her waist, holding her in place while he’s studying her face, searching for any trace of hesitation. There’s none.

Because he’s a tall man, she’s forced onto her tiptoes just to stay with him at the same level as they kiss, but the strain catches up quickly, and when she finally lowers herself, her hips settle onto the firm pressure of his thigh.

Oscar freezes for a beat, then leans in close, “You smell so good,” he says dumbly, just as his body presses more into hers in order to make her whimper again, only for him.

As if he’s done this so many times before, his fingers trail down her side, tracing the curve of her waist with so much intent that makes her shiver. When his hands dip lower, ghosting over the hem of her skirt, she catches his arms lightly, but doesn’t stop him.

Oscar pauses, eyes flicking up to meet hers, asking a silent question and thinking already that this became quickly their way of communicating. Her response is equally quiet, but clear: she shifts nervously, spreading her legs just enough for him to access her with ease.

The girl braces herself against the door, knuckles white as she fists the front of his shirt, breath stuttering out of her lungs. And it doesn’t last long. Not when she’s perched on his thigh, the thin fabric of her underwear barely a barrier between them.

She closes her eyes as she moves slightly, testing the limits of what she can do in a position that doesn’t help her height. And without a doubt, the press of muscle beneath her is firm, and the sensation ripples through her, forcing her to continue her seductive dance, without assistance.

“Oscar,” her voice is just a whispered plea.

He gets the memo, his hand traveling instinctively from her waist, brushing down to her hip. His fingers hook into the waistband of her panties and tug them gently down her thighs, making her gasp in anticipation. The cool air against her skin gives her chills and, suddenly, Oscar is all heat.

“You’re okay?” he asks curiously, breathing against her temple.

She nods, pressing in closer. “Yes. Just…” her voice trails off, brain shutting down as her bare skin drags against his thigh, core aching, her fingers curling into his shirt.

She barely manages a desperate roll of her hips, when her hesitation makes Oscar chuckle gently.

“Are you okay?” he repeats the question more demanding.

She nods against his neck this time, but she doesn’t say anything. Her hips twitch in response, like her body wants it more than she’s willing to admit out loud.

“What is it?” Oscar insists, lips curving into a smirk; he knows what it is, just wants to hear her speaking her mind.

She bites her lip, both embarrassed and frustrated, still grinding against him as if she has no willpower to stop. Shaking her head in disbelief at how her own body betrays her, she whispers, “I don’t know.”

“Then show me,” he says softly, his accent dripping like honey from her ears. “Let me help. We can stop if it doesn’t feel right.”

The girl hesitates only for half a second before moving again, the friction sending a rush of heat up her spine. It’s ridiculous how easily her body responds, how quickly she’s sweating, flushed, soaked, and yet it doesn’t matter. Not when his hands are steady on her hips, not when he’s humming in unison with her sharp breathing, shutting down every rational thought in her head.

“That’s it,” Oscar encourages her, “Use me. Take what you need.”

She lets out a soft whimper, eyes closing as the words melt straight into her stomach.

“You’re doing so well,” he adds, continuing to guide her. “Feels food, doesn’t it?”

“So…” she tries to reply, but she has to swallow the moan that threatens to spill out, her whole body trembling with how turned on she is.

The thickness of Oscar’s thigh fits perfectly between her legs, parting her folds with every slow grind, the pressure against her clit maddeningly good and so, so right, like he was made for her to ride it. Every movement lights up the atoms in her body one by one, and it takes everything in her not to fall apart from how deliciously he fills the space between her thighs.

All this time, Oscar watches her face closely, feeding off her expressions. He flexes his thigh beneath her, just to see her reaction, and when she gasps, he starts moving, lifting and shifting to meet her grind.

Soon enough, he can feel the subtle, desperate throb of her clit through the damp heat between them, and his voice drops low. “Ride it harder, sweetheart,” he says, fingers digging into her hips. “Don’t shy away.”

Her senses explode all at once, like someone struck a match inside her. The fabric of his shorts rides up with her, the heat of his skin burning on hers. Her nerves are buzzing, overwhelmed by the drag of her slick folds against the muscle of his thigh. The speed at which she loses herself is embarrassing, her rhythm faltering already, breath catching in her throat; she would be mortified if it didn’t feel this goddamn good.

She can’t protest much, though. Oscar’s thigh itself is a sin: thick and solid beneath her, strong from years of training, and just soft enough in the right places. It might be the euphoria talking, but she wishes that she could use him like this whenever she wants, ride his body until she forgets her own name. And the way he flexes beneath her, patient and ready to take the lead if necesarry, makes it all too easy to imagine just that.

His jaw flexes the moment he feels her losing it. Her slick heat leaves a trail on his thigh with every slow grind, and the sensation shoots straight to his gut. His mind races, wild with thoughts of what it would feel like to sink his fingers into her, to taste her desperation on his tongue, to bury himself deep in that warmth she’s giving so freely now. He squeezes her harder without realizing, fingers digging in, lifting her just slightly off the ground as he rocks her against him.

“See how perfect you are?” he asks, feeling the way her hips stutter. “Come on, baby, soak me. Show me what I do to you.”

“Osc…ar,” she pants, clinging to him, hands fisting into the back of his shirt, face buried in the crook of his neck. His scent envelops her, clean and dizzying, and her breath comes fast and wet against his skin.

The friction, the rhythm, the pressure, it’s all too much.

Oscar watches her, mesmerized. “Right here, beautiful,” he assures her softly, but the tension in his voice betrays how affected he is only from seeing her so lost in pleasure.

“I’m…”

Oscar’s hand goes up her thigh, his thumb finding the sensitive spot at the apex with practiced ease. She jolts when he touches her there, the motion instinctive. He knows exactly what he’s doing, the rhythm steady and precise, and it sends a rush of heat spiraling through her spine. She sees stars behind her eyes, every nerve ending sparking as more pleasure builds too fast for her mind to catch up.

“There you go,” he breathes against her ear. “I feel you.”

He does. The way her hips start to tremble, the small stuttering jerks of movement that speak louder than words. She’s a mess, pulsing under his fingertips, and the way she grips with every wave of pleasure makes him nearly lose it, too. His fingers hover just shy of slipping inside her pussy, and the thought alone, that all it would take is one tiny push to fill her, to ease that aching need, drives him insane.

“Fuck, you’re so desperate,” he points out in awe. “You need more, don’t you?”

She whimpers in response, hips faltering, and he feels her heat start to coat him, warm, all over his thigh. His jaw goes slack for a second, mind spiraling with the image of what it would feel like to actually slide his fingers into her, his tongue, his cock — anything, everything — just to feel that perfect pull around him the exact moment when she comes.

Her hips stutter again, bringing him back to the present moment, and Oscar swears under his breath as he feels the shiver roll through her body. All around him, her body tenses, clings, and the only thing she can do is hold on, lost in the mess of a sensation so superficial, and the sound of his voice, his scent, him. Just him.

“I’ve never…,” she begins, trying her best to catch her breath. “Never did that before,” she ends up saying, a small laugh escaping her lips.

She surges up to kiss him as a thank you, messy and breathless, her lips trembling as the aftershocks roll through her. His hands fly everywhere, until she finally slows, head resting against his chest.

When she looks up again, Oscar is watching her with the same fire in his eyes. Holding his piercing gaze, her hand darts down to the waistband of his shorts, intent yet impulsive.

But he catches her wrist, stopping her.

“You don’t have to,” he says, voice low but conflicted.

She smirks. “Why not? You look like a guy with good reflexes,” the girl purrs, leaning in.

Oscar’s throat bobs as he swallows hard. “I am,” he agrees, smiling politely. “But you don’t have to,” he repeats, thumb brushing over her soft skin.

“No, I know,” she insists. “I mean, it’s fine. Unless you talked to Logan—”

In one smooth motion, Oscar spins her around and bends her over the marble sink, the cool surface biting into her skin. She whimpers at the sudden position change, lifting her gaze to the mirror, only to catch the reflection of them both: her flushed and excited, him looming behind her, all heat and tension.

Oscar’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, unreadable for a moment, but his voice is calm. “Did anything ever happen? With you and Logan, I mean.”

She shakes her head, not trusting her voice.

Oscar watches everything from the way her lashes flutter to how her body reacts to his question. Pleased with her answer, his palm skims slowly down the curve of her back, then to her hips, where his touch grows firmer.

“Good,” he nods, his knee pressing between hers, nudging her legs apart.

Moments later, her hands grip the edge of the sink, her skirt hiked up. She arches her back slightly, giving him a clear invitation with the way she rolls her hips, a playful gleam in her eyes. Behind her, Oscar moves like a man possessed, pushing down his shorts, enough to pull himself out. Calculated, he fits himself against her, one hand braced on her lower back, the other guiding himself. And when he’s inside, they both breathe out in relief: her at the fullness, him at the slick heat that welcomes him like she was meant for this.

She starts meeting him thrust for thrust once he begins to move, her moans echoing against the cold tile, the mirror fogging up as the air thickens with heat and desire.

“Good, you have his permission to fuck me,” she breathes heavily, “Or good, you’ll fuck me without even telling him?”

Oscar chuckles, pace deepening. “Good, I only need your permission,” he clarifies. “And I’m pretty sure I got it the second you dragged me in here.”

At that, her head dips forward, between her shoulders, overwhelmed by the stretch, the sound of their bodies moving together, and the raw heat that surrounds them. But Oscar isn’t letting her disappear into sensation. Not this fast.

His fingers wind gently through her hair, a firm but tender hold as he pulls her head up. “Up,” he orders in a gentle voice. “Let me see you, yeah?”

Their eyes meet again in the mirror as she tries to nod, but she can’t, thanks to his strong grip.

“Yes,” she says instead, without looking away.

She can see the flex of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches with restraint, the way his eyes lock on hers like he has something to prove to her.

With that thought in mind, Oscar lets go of her hair only to grip her hips with renewed purpose, fingers digging in with hunger. She feels his desire and need for control in every part of her body, and she likes it. It makes her push back into him, begging for more, meeting him with equal intensity.

Oscar’s chest rises with every breath, sweat beading at his temple, muscles flexing as he moves inside her. He looks like he is restraint personified, where every ounce of him is burning, yet held just barely in check for her.

It becomes messier in no time, the rhythm unraveling as control gives way to need. He spreads her wider with a low groan, and the sound alone sends another pulse of fire through her. But instead of protesting, she moans his name again, her body pushing against the pressure. Again and again.

“Fuck, Oscar,” she whimpers, closing her eyes just to focus on the way he fucks into her from behind. “That’s so good, please. Please, don’t stop.”

Exhaling in spasms, Oscar is able to find that spot inside her again — the one that makes everything tilt sideways. The one that breaks her piece by piece, and puts it together the same exact way. He’s not just ruthless in his movements. He’s precise, and every snap of his hips is a calculated promise.

“Yes,” she keeps echoing, her voice going higher, only to crack at the intensity.

“Keep going, you sound unreal,” he leans in, brushing his lips to the shell of her ear.

She pushes back into him, needing much more. “Harder,” she breathes.

“Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, the word punched out of him like her command knocked the air from his lungs. “Since you asked so fucking nicely,” he adds sarcastically, but he gives it to her almost instinctively.

After that, Oscar’s movements grow more unrelenting, until every thrust seems to echo with the tension built up all night. His hands smooth up her back, then down again, gripping her like he’s terrified she’ll break under his force.

“You feel…” he groans, watching the way he sinks into her, “Ah, heavenly,” Oscar continues. “Wanna see what you do to me?”

She gasps, and he presses in deeper, then slows while dragging his cock out, letting her feel every inch of him before snapping his hips forward again.

“Oscar—” she chokes out.

“Yeah, baby. Tell me,” he whispers, “Tell me what you need.”

Truth is, she doesn’t even know anymore. She just knows it’s him. All of him. Everywhere. All the time.

She looks at him through the mirror, eyes glassy, lips trembling, and thinks she’s never seen anything as heartbreakingly hot as Oscar in this exact moment.

His hands trail up her spine again as if it’s already muscle memory, wanting to feel the way she shivers underneath him. Then he brings them beneath her shirt, palms gliding along her stomach before cupping her breasts through the lace of her bra, his thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks that make her gasp and arch into his touch with her entire body.

The slip takes both of them by surprise, his cock sliding free of her slick heat, making them groan in disagreement at the sudden emptiness.

“Hold on,” Oscar instructs, already grabbing her.

She barely has time to blink before he’s spun her around, back hitting the cool tile wall, his hands under her thighs. He lifted her so effortlessly, and now her legs lock around his waist just as he thrusts back into her. The new angle’s different, way deeper, and her head falls back with a loud moan.

“God, Oscar,” she gasps, fingers digging into his shoulders, then burying into the hair at the back of his head. “I feel you in my fucking throat.”

He lets a small laugh against her neck, lips brushing her jaw as he speaks, “‘Cause you’re so fucking tight,” he fires back proudly. “Can’t believe you’re letting me fuck you like this.”

In her defense, she can’t either. Can’t even come up with a lie, let alone a good excuse. But her body does it for her anyway: convulsing in pleasure, fluttering around his thickness as her climax crashes over her. She clutches at him, lips parted in a silent cry, lost to everything but the sound of his voice praising her, and the way he fills her completely. Her entire body is clenching as the orgasm rips through her, hot and blinding, hips rolling without rhythm, unable to stop herself from grinding into every inch of him as she comes.

Oscar is so close, and he has to still deep inside her, a strained moan escaping his throat as he feels her grip his length repeatedly. She’s swollen, sensitive in all the right places, and he swears he can feel her pulse around him, velvet heat dragging him to the edge.

“You feel so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking. “This is fucking torture.”

She feels him throb against her walls, hard, the tension in his body barely restrained. And just as her legs begin to tremble and the aftershocks ripple through her, Oscar pulls out in a desperate motion. He doesn’t trust himself to stay inside longer than that. Not when she feels that good. Not when she just coated him in the pleasure that he gave her and made it nearly impossible to think.

Dizzy, the girl slides down his body to her feet, barely steady, but her hand finds him easily. He’s hot, slick, straining. Without even thinking, she wraps her fingers around his cock, firm but tender, her thumb pressing to his tip and circling through the wetness gathered there.

His breath shudders out of him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he swears, forehead dropping on hers, hips twitching against her palm.

Somehow, she’s stroking him with just the right pressure, enough to make Oscar whimper as if he’s in pain.

Their mouths find their way back to each other, parted but not kissing, breath blending in that hazy space they’ve built. He thrusts into her palm, muscles pulled taut, chasing the edge she’s holding him on with such frustrating, perfect control.

In no time, his body goes rigid and then Oscar exhales a delicious sound that’s barely audible, but full of release, white heat spilling over her fingers and dripping down her hand. His own moves to gently push hers away, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she kisses him, her lips finally catching his with a lazy kind of gesture.

“Let me,” she whispers, brushing her thumb along his skin. “That’s so hot.”

“You’re hot,” Oscar shoots back, as if it’s just a silly game for kids.

Looking for some support, he leans in, bracing one palm against the wall beside her head, while his other hand slides down her stomach with purpose. She’s taken aback when his fingers find her hole again, still aching, still swollen with need.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. Two fingers sink into her, curling in just the right way that makes her eyes roll back and her knees nearly buckle.

“I like odd numbers,” he explains, breathing hoarsely into her skin. “Come on, one more.”

“Oh, shi—” she whimpers, clutching at his shoulders for balance.

She cries out, the sensitivity making her jolt, but she doesn’t pull away — wouldn’t ever dream of it. Not when Oscar holds her steady with one arm around her waist, the other working between her thighs, patient but purposeful. She buries her face in his neck, breathing fast, tasting salt and skin and something that feels dangerously close to a tenderness she won’t be introduced to.

Not tonight, at least.

In the mirror across from them, she catches a glimpse of their reflection, and she likes what she sees, maybe too much: the broad muscles of his back shifting beneath his shirt, arms braced to keep her upright, his body completely encompassing hers. The sight of it and how small she looks in his hold, how thoroughly he’s taken over every inch of her, sends a fresh wave of heat rolling through her.

His shirt is damp against his chest, biceps flexing with every motion of his hand. He’s methodical, and the control in Oscar is intoxicating, all steady strength and relentless focus on her.

“Is there something you can’t do?” she jokes.

His eyes close for a moment, playful yet annoyed, in a way. “Yeah,” he replies. “I can’t take you home and fuck you properly.”

Her back arches against the wall, mouth open in a silent cry as she comes for the third time. Her pussy clenches around his fingers, thighs trembling, heart pounding. And he holds her there, breathing calmly while he helps her riding it out.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her temple.

When her breathing steadies too, he gently withdraws his fingers, keeping his arm wrapped around her waist. She’s still reeling when he brushes a strand of hair off her face, and then lowers to a crouch.

Without breaking eye contact, Oscar picks up her panties from the floor, the damp lace curled in his palm. Initially, she reaches for them, but he pulls back at the last moment, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“Oscar,” she warns.

He smirks and tucks them into his pocket, pulling his shorts up from where they were hanging around his thighs. “Mine.”

She frowns. “Not fair. I have nothing to keep from you.”

“Nonsense,” he leans in, presses his lips just below her jaw, and sucks gently, until her skin blooms under his mouth. “That count?”

She sighes, eyes bright. “Maybe a—”

But before she can finish, a toilet flushes in a nearby stall, and the sound freezes them both. Their eyes meet instantly, making them laugh at the timing, the kind of laughter that shakes their shoulders.

Closing his eyes, Oscar lets his head fall against hers, grinning like a fool. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Thank you for… this.”

“Team effort,” she says, placing a tiny kiss in the corner of his mouth, sweet like a promise. “When do you leave?”

Oscar lifts a brow. “Why? Miss me already?”

The girl rolls her eyes with a small snort. “Just curious.”

He looks in her direction suspiciously as they try to fix their clothes in silence, still buzzing with the weight of everything that just happened inside the small space. Her fingers tremble slightly as she smooths her skirt, and Oscar’s watching her in the mirror, eyes soft but studying.

Maybe she does. Maybe it’s stupid, but the thought of waking up tomorrow and not having this gnaws at her more than she wants to admit. Because suddenly, the night feels like it’s slipping away too fast, and she doesn’t know how to ask for more without sounding like she’s asking for too much.

Oscar can feel the switch in her behavior, and before she can reach for the door handle, he steps closer, stopping her.

“Hey,” he says in a gentle voice, almost like he’s trying not to scare the thought from her mind.

She looks up, and before she can say anything, he kisses her. Soft and lazy and sweet and with no rush. Nothing like before. His lips move slowly over hers, and he exhales into her mouth like he’s been holding his breath. His tongue brushes hers with such delicate care that makes her knees weak all over again.

When they finally part, she’s breathless in a whole new way.

“If, God forbid, you do end up missing me,” he teases lightly, but he sounds so honest, “I’d like to see you again.” He hesitates, eyes flicking away for a second before coming back to hers. “Not just for… you know,” he says, heat creeping up his neck. “I mean, that was woah! But, you know.”

She smiles, nodding. “Yeah, I know. I’d like that, too,” she agrees. “Now let’s go back. Logan probably thinks we’re fucking in here.”

Oscar looks at her, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Probably?” he repeats.

“Well,” she shrugs, eyes flicking up to meet his, “He’s a smart cookie, and Miami heat does tend to enhance the senses.”

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