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misaerabl · 6 days ago

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love love love!

── 𝓒𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐎𝐔𝐓 ! 𝜗ৎ⋆.˚

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: f1 driver!abby anderson & supermodel!reader

synopsis: you didn't mean for things to end up like this. but one drink turned into two, then two into five. the night faded away, whispers and touches bleeding into each other to form something more. then, you knew — nothing would be the same anymore.

content: MDNI 18+ content, sexual themes, fluff, angst, swearing, friends to lovers, yearning, jealousy, closeted lesbians, out of pocket humour, use of y/n, usage of alcohol, homophobia, femme!reader, reader is described to be tall and skinny, smau + writing (note: this will be updated as i go)

word count: 10.3k

series masterlist | previous chapter

CW: sub!abby anderson x dom!reader, cunnilingus (r!receiving), usage of strap-on, strap sucking (r!receiving), strap fucking (a!receiving), hair pulling, drunk sex, dominance loss,, MEN & MINORS DNI

CHAPTER 2: "𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒚 𝟒 𝒖"

ABBY HATED CLUBS.

Too loud. Too many people. Too many cameras, too many goddamn smells — overpriced cologne, desperation, the unmistakable tang of power on ice.

And yet here she was.

Hidden behind a velvet rope and two walls of camera flashes, the venue pulsed with a kind of seductive electricity — the kind that made you feel drunk on arrival, even if all you’d had was adrenaline and bad decisions.

The air outside was thick with sweat and champagne-soaked street perfume. The paparazzi had formed a semi-circle at the entrance like vultures with cameras, each one snapping relentlessly, lenses twitching for even the smallest flicker of a headline. They weren’t just hunting; they were starving.

And they were starving for her.

The newly crowned Spanish Grand Prix winner.

The woman who overtook five cars like she was dodging ghosts.

The idiot who smiled at a kiss blown from the crowd like she was the main character in a rom-com and not a world-class athlete.

The paparazzi yelled her name with the manic energy of men who hadn’t slept in days and were probably being paid extra to get any angle of her glancing at her phone like she might text you.

For the record — she had. Three times.

No response.

Not even left on read.

Nothing.

And she couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d looked earlier — hair tousled from sprinting through parc fermé, eyes wide with adrenaline, voice soft when you’d said—

“You know I’m proud of you, right?”

She’d replayed it in her head at least fifteen times on the drive over.

Now, she stood at outside the club, silver light flashing off her jawline, hands jammed in the pockets of a loose black blazer. Her shirt was unbuttoned just enough to make a stylist proud. Her hair curled at the ends in a way that felt too soft for someone who drove like war.

The moment the cameras saw her, the crowd erupted.

“ABBY! ABBY—LOOK LEFT!”

“THAT MOVE ON ELLIE—ICONIC!”

“ARE YOU AND Y/N DATING?!”

“WAS THAT MARRIAGE PROPOSAL REAL?!”

“ABBY, SMILE FOR VOGUE—!”

She didn’t smile. She nodded once — cool, unreadable, mildly threatening — and walked through the chaos like Moses parting a sea of tabloid sin.

Inside, the club was an entirely different planet.

Dark, drenched in violet strobe light and sin, the room breathed in sync with the bass-line. The walls shimmered in crushed velvet and metal. Everything smelled like top-shelf liquor and the too-sweet perfume of money. Gold-accented chandeliers hung low over leather booths, casting molten halos over a crowd that looked like they belonged on magazine covers and yacht decks.

The music was low and filthy. The kind that made you want to lie, kiss strangers, and text your ex just to stir something.

Abby exhaled slowly as she stepped inside, shoulders rolling once beneath her blazer. The entire building seemed to lean into her as she entered — like it knew it had someone important in its bloodstream.

Her boots clicked against the glossy black floor.

She didn’t look around. Didn’t check to see who else had arrived. Not yet.

She walked past the bar, ignoring the way heads turned as she did so. Ignoring the way the music dipped for a moment, like even the DJ got distracted. Ignoring the heat prickling at the back of her neck, the familiar tight feeling in her chest she hadn’t shaken since she saw you with that damn sign.

Abby made it to the VIP section — roped off in the corner, half-elevated above the dance floor, half hidden behind a sheer gold curtain.

Ellie had already dragged three Red Bull engineers, plus her girlfriend, into an impromptu drinking contest in the VIP section. Half the McLaren crew were shoulder-dancing on velvet booths. Somewhere in the fog of strobes, she saw Jesse getting cornered by a model in thigh-high boots and a halo of glitter. Someone from Alpine was passed out with sunglasses on inside, like a disco corpse.

“About time, Anderson,” Dina said, grinning like a devil. “You missed two toasts and one impromptu marriage proposal.”

She shot her a look. “Not mine, I hope.”

“Oh no,” Dina said innocently, “yours was already handled this afternoon.”

Abby rolled her eyes and took a glass of something golden off the tray being passed around. She didn’t ask what it was. She barely tasted it.

The bass throbbed through her ribs. Bodies moved below like a single organism — fluid, hot, glittering with sweat and spotlight. She leaned back against the couch and let her gaze sweep across the club floor.

Not looking for you.

Just—assessing.

Just...keeping watch.

She saw the mirrored ceiling, the crystal chandeliers, the god-awful gold mesh bra some influencer was wearing, the stupid neon sign that said “CHAMPAGNE FIRST, APOLOGIES LATER.”

But not you.

Not yet.

Abby wasn’t good at this part — the posing, the parties, the pretending she wasn’t waiting for someone who hadn’t texted her back.

The club lights caught her profile in flashes—purple, gold, a flicker of red. She looked composed. Stoic. Every muscle in her jaw sculpted into unreadability.

But inside?

She was vibrating.

Every part of her was still humming with the aftershock of the race. Of victory. Of that damn sign and what it had done to her. The way her fingers had trembled when she caught that kiss you’d blown from the stands, the way her chest had clenched tight in that split-second before you actually ran to her, like something out of a ridiculous movie neither of you would admit to loving.

The trophy was still at the hotel.

The headline was already online.

But none of it meant anything if you didn’t show up.

God. She was becoming one of those drivers. The ones who stopped racing for the podium and started racing for the person waiting on the other side of it. Pathetic.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She yanked it out fast enough to scare a passing server.

Not you.

Just Greg.

Greg🧍‍♀️— 9:34PM Please don’t let your teammate post anything. And for the love of all things PR, keep your shirt buttoned. Also, thank you for winning. We’re getting so many brand deals I might throw up.

She didn’t reply.

She just put her phone face-down on the table and scrubbed a hand over her face.

She wasn’t even sure why she was this anxious. You weren’t a promise. You weren’t her girlfriend. You weren’t—

yet, her brain whispered traitorously.

Abby clenched her jaw and stared into her glass like it held answers. It didn’t.

Instead, it held ice.

Melting slowly.

Like her resolve.

Every second you didn’t walk through those doors was another second where she had to sit here like an idiot — buzzed, sweaty, and still wondering what the hell had happened to her on that podium. Why it had felt like more than just a win.

Why she’d looked for you in the crowd the second it was over.

Why she was still doing it now.

Abby tilted the drink to her lips and took a longer sip this time.

And told herself—she’s probably not coming.

Which was fine.

Great, even.

Less distraction.

Less heart palpitations.

Less chance she’d say something like “I would’ve crashed the whole race just to kiss you on live TV.”

She stared down at her drink, quietly hoping to God you’d walk through those doors anyway.

Abby nursed her drink like it owed her money.

It didn’t taste like anything. Expensive, yes. Aged in barrels probably blessed by monks and billionaires, sure. But all it did was buzz faintly behind her teeth and fuel the slow boil in her chest.

She wasn’t good at parties.

She wasn’t bad at them either — people liked her. People loved her when she won. But this part? The standing around in dim lights with music too loud to talk and energy too fake to feel? She’d take a steering wheel at 300 kph over this any day.

A few other drivers were scattered in the VIP zone, laughing, sipping, being effortlessly magnetic. But Abby?

Abby was pacing herself through a drink like it might answer for its crimes.

She glanced at her phone. No messages.

Which was fine.

She wasn’t waiting.

You were probably busy. You were always busy. Jet-setting. Wearing something ridiculous and breathtaking. Being seen, being photographed, being yourself at a volume so loud it made the air around you shiver. You’d said you were coming, yes, but that didn’t mean on time.

You were fashionably late to everything.

Still.

Abby’s fingers tapped anxiously against her glass, knee bouncing under the table.

A waitress passed by and paused. “Can I get you another?”

Abby hesitated. Then shook her head. “I’m good.”

The waitress smiled, glanced at the empty space beside Abby on the couch, then gave her a look. “You waiting for someone?”

Abby blinked.

Was she that obvious?

She offered a tight smile. “Aren’t we all?”

The waitress laughed and walked off. Abby stared into the crowd again.

Her mind was doing that thing again. The spiral.

The part where it remembered how it felt to see you in that outfit before the race. How you’d leaned against the wall with all the casual power of someone who knew she could ruin lives. The flash of your grin. The heels. That stupid, perfect sign.

She hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

Hadn’t stopped thinking about you, period.

She shifted in her seat, tried to shake the image out of her head, only to have it replaced by another—your voice, teasing in her ear, saying “Try not to think about me in Turn 4.”

She hadn’t just thought about you in Turn 4. She’d thought about you in every gear shift, every chicane, every sector.

And now?

Now you were late.

And Abby Anderson was sitting in the center of a Barcelona nightclub in the aftermath of the best race of her career — dripping in champagne and accolades — and somehow still felt like she was waiting for permission to breathe.

She rolled her shoulders.

Downed the rest of her drink.

And told herself again—it’s fine if she doesn’t show.

It’s fine.

Even though every time someone walked through the doors, her head turned so fast it probably looked rehearsed.

Even though her heart stuttered every time she saw a glint of silver in the crowd.

Even though she was holding herself like a wire pulled too tight.

Abby looked down at her empty glass and sighed.

She was about to call it.

She could feel it happening in real time — the unraveling patience, the empty glass, the creeping ache behind her eyes that always came after too much noise and not enough you. Dina had returned briefly to her with glitter on her collarbone and something suspiciously neon in her drink. She was trying to convince her to join her for round three of club-hopping.

She gave her a half-hearted shrug. “Think I’m gonna head out.”

Dina blinked. “You’re leaving your own celebration?”

“Yeah, well. Turns out it’s mostly just influencers and migraines.”

She frowned. “What about your… you know,” she smirked. “Mystery muse. The one who made you drive like God had a gun to your head?”

Abby exhaled through her nose. “She’s not coming.”

Dina stared at her. “You don’t know that.”

“I’m not gonna sit here waiting like a loser with emotional depth.”

“You are literally sitting here doing exactly that.”

Before Abby could formulate a comeback that didn’t involve flipping a table, a waiter appeared beside her like he’d been summoned by the sheer force of dramatic timing.

He held out a short crystal glass. Something gold shimmered inside.

“For you,” he said, cool and polished.

Abby blinked. “I didn’t order anything.”

The waiter smiled. “It’s from the lady at the bar.”

Abby’s stomach did a full, nauseating flip.

She turned.

And there you were.

Leaning against the bar like you owned the building — like the club had been built for you and everyone else was just on borrowed time. The crowd had shifted around you like planets realigning. The lighting hit your dress like you had a personal spotlight following your every move. And god, that dress—

Silver. Backless. Fitted within an inch of its life. Mercedes' colours, obviously. Slit high enough to offend tradition.

Abby forgot how to breathe.

You met her eyes across the room. Slowly — like you knew what it would do to her — you raised your own glass to your lips and took a sip, eyes never leaving hers. Then you lowered it and tilted your head with the most smug, knowing smirk Abby had ever seen in her life.

She swore under her breath.

“Guess she did show,” Dine muttered, impressed.

“Shut up,” Abby hissed.

“You okay there? You look like you just got hit by a very attractive bus.”

Abby didn’t answer.

She was already standing up, drink forgotten on the table, pulse suddenly so loud in her ears it drowned out the music. She started walking, eyes locked on you, people parting unconsciously as she moved.

And from across the room?

You didn’t move an inch.

You just smiled like you’d planned this whole thing.

Like you’d been letting her spiral on purpose.

And Abby — racer, winner, woman of allegedly unshakeable composure — walked straight into the storm with nothing but your name stuck in her throat.

Every step felt like she was wading through something thicker than air — champagne mist and perfume, heat and the weight of what she might say when she got to you. The music throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Somewhere, someone cheered for another driver. Glass shattered. A girl laughed.

None of it mattered.

You mattered.

You, in that silver dress that clung to you like it had been poured on. You, looking at her like she was late to a date you never scheduled but fully expected her to show up for.

She stopped just short of the bar, a breath of space between you. Close enough to touch. Far enough to not cause a scandal. Yet.

Your gaze slid over her slowly — blazer, chain, jaw, eyes — and then you raised your glass again and tipped it in her direction.

“About time,” you said, voice silk-dipped sin.

Abby blinked. “You’re two hours late.”

You took a sip. “Fashionably. You’re welcome.”

“You made me think you weren’t coming.”

You leaned in slightly, smile sharp. “You almost left.”

“I was leaving.”

“And yet… here you are.”

Abby narrowed her eyes. “Did you plan that?”

You tilted your head, faux-innocent. “Plan what?”

“That waiter. The drink. The ‘lady at the bar’ line.”

You shrugged, eyes twinkling. “I might have tipped him extra to wait until you looked like you were giving up hope. Adds drama.”

Abby gave you a deadpan stare. “You’re insane.”

“I’m committed to the bit.”

She exhaled a short, exasperated laugh — ran a hand down her face like she couldn’t believe she was doing this again, falling into your orbit like a satellite with no self-preservation.

You turned back toward the bar and casually flagged down the bartender. “Two of whatever’s strongest. But not gin,” you added, glancing at Abby. “She gets weird on gin.”

Abby blinked. “How do you know that?”

“You told me,” you replied, lips quirking. “Last year. Drunk. In Monaco. Then you tried to convince a palm tree to join Mercedes.”

“That wasn’t— I wasn’t that—” She paused. “Okay, maybe I was.”

You didn’t look away. “You look good tonight, Anderson.”

Her brain short-circuited. “I— You— I’m not wearing anything special.”

“Exactly.”

She nearly choked.

You took the new drink the bartender slid your way, handed one to Abby like it was a peace offering laced with threat, and said:

“To race wins, public declarations, and me looking hotter than your entire podium combined.”

Abby clinked your glass, eyes fixed on your mouth. “You stole that sign.”

You grinned. “That kid didn’t need it.”

The bass kicked harder. Someone near the DJ booth screamed. A camera flash popped.

But Abby wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

You were right there, still so smug, still so dangerously beautiful, and suddenly every other sound in the club drowned beneath the blood pounding in her ears.

“I should hate you for making me spiral all night,” she muttered.

You leaned in again, lips nearly brushing the shell of her ear.

“But you don’t.”

And god help her, you were right.

Abby sighed through her nose, shaking her head — but there was the ghost of a smile tugging at the edge of her mouth.

Then you did it.

You stepped in a little closer — just enough to breach the invisible line Abby had been trying so hard to respect. Your heels made you taller, and before she could think to brace for it, you casually propped your elbow on her shoulder like she was a countertop and you owned the kitchen.

Abby blinked.

Then her entire body lit up like the Mercedes pit wall on fire.

You tilted your head, resting your cheek against your knuckles, grinning down at her like a cat admiring its favourite chew toy.

“God, I forgot how short you are without the helmet.”

“I’m five-nine,” Abby muttered, barely functioning.

“And I’m platformed. Do the math, babe.”

Babe.

Abby stared straight ahead, refusing to look directly at your collarbone or how good your perfume smelled or how this entire pose — this dominant, ridiculous, devastating little lean — was making her question every piece of emotional armour she had left.

You were still talking, but she only half-heard it. Something about how hot the venue was and how terrible the lighting was for your complexion and how you might commit a war crime if one more person took a picture of you from a low angle.

“...do I look like I wanna be captured like an off-duty cryptid? No. I’m a concept, Abby. Lighting matters.”

“You’re unwell,” she said, only half joking.

“I’m fun at parties.”

“You’re a walking HR complaint.”

You leaned in close, lips near her ear again. “And yet here you are. Drinking what I sent. Coming when I call. Spiralling when I don’t text back.”

Abby was going to combust.

The bartender slid another glass toward you and you took it like this was a brunch, not psychological warfare. Then you looked her up and down again, openly, annoyingly amused.

“You gonna keep scowling at me all night, or are you gonna ask me to dance?”

Abby raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m going to dance?”

“No. I think you’re going to sit here and try really hard not to think about how good I look in silver.”

Her jaw clenched.

You beamed, victorious.

“Also,” you added, taking a sip of your drink, “You owe me one.”

“For what, exactly?”

“For the win,” you said casually. “My sign carried that whole race. You just happened to be driving the car.”

Abby blinked. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m right, though.”

“You think you manifested a Grand Prix victory.”

“I know I did. You saw my sign. You got horny. You overtook five cars. Simple math.”

Abby laughed before she could stop herself. A real one. Short and sharp and a little disbelieving.

“I can’t believe you crashed the post-race press narrative just to flirt with me in a nightclub.”

“Flirt?” You feigned innocence, sliding your glass toward hers until they clinked. “I’m just showing support. Silver for Mercedes. Heels for height superiority. Elbow for dominance.”

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, smirk deepening as you lifted your glass again, “but what a way to go.”

And Abby?

She was so screwed.

The night had ripened.

The club was full now — sweat-slicked and heaving. The air felt charged, like the inside of a storm. The music had dipped into something lower, bass-heavy and slow enough to make your blood simmer. It wasn't the kind of beat people danced to — it was the kind they moved to like they had something to prove.

And that’s when you decided Abby had avoided the dance floor long enough.

She’d spent the past hour sipping something dark, looking way too smug for someone getting verbally harassed by a supermodel. Her blazer was long gone, her shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, and her jawline had been clenched more times than the brakes on her car in Turn 1.

So you finished your drink, stood up, and said simply:

“Come with me.”

Abby blinked. “I told you—I don’t dance.”

You didn’t even glance back. “Lucky for you, I don’t need you to.”

You could feel her hesitation behind you. You could feel her.

And then, after a breath — so slight you almost didn’t catch it — she followed.

The dance floor opened around you in flashes of violet and gold. The lights pulsed like a heartbeat. The crowd moved like water — too close, too slow, too hot. And you slipped into it like you'd done it a thousand times before.

You didn’t reach for her immediately.

You gave her your back instead.

A challenge.

The music climbed, low and sticky, something foreign and seductive with a rhythm that invited sin. Your hips moved like they had nothing to lose. Confident. Effortless. Like you didn’t care if she watched you — but you knew she was.

You felt her draw closer. Hesitating at first. A breath behind you. And then—

Her hands found your waist.

Careful. Cautious.

You leaned back just enough for your shoulder to brush her chest, and she didn’t move away.

Her breath ghosted against the back of your neck.

“You’re trying to kill me,” she muttered, voice almost lost in the beat.

“Not kill,” you said, eyes half-lidded. “Just damage.”

Abby’s grip tightened slightly on your waist.

Your hips rolled back against her. Slow. Testing.

She exhaled hard.

The two of you found the rhythm without even trying. Your bodies locked into a flow that didn’t feel learned — it felt inevitable. You danced like gravity didn’t exist. Like there was no space left between you that hadn’t already been crossed.

Her hand slid up, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your side, just under the open back of your dress.

You leaned your head back against her shoulder, neck tilted just enough to let your lips hover near her jaw.

“You’re not so bad at dancing after all,” you murmured.

“You’re doing all the work,” she said hoarsely.

You smiled. “Yeah, but you’re enjoying it.”

And oh, she was.

Abby looked wrecked.

Eyes dark, lips parted, chest rising like she’d just finished a sprint. The lights flashed across her face and painted her in lust and confusion and a tension that felt five years overdue.

You turned around slowly in her arms, face to face now.

Hands resting on her chest, heels still giving you just enough height to keep your eyes slightly above hers.

Her hands dropped to your hips automatically, like her body was making decisions without permission.

And then you were dancing again — closer, slower, so close that breathing didn’t feel necessary anymore.

“You know,” you said, leaning in just slightly, your voice all teeth and heat, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna think you’re in love with me.”

Abby didn’t answer immediately.

Her grip on you tightened.

Her eyes flicked to your mouth.

“I’m gonna need another drink before I answer that,” she said, but her voice cracked halfway through.

You laughed — low and delighted — and leaned in to press your forehead against hers.

“No rush, baby,” you whispered. “We’ve got all night.”

And god help her, Abby didn’t want it to end.

She was standing still, but barely.

Her body pressed to yours in a way that left nothing up for interpretation, hands still gripped tight around your hips like they were the only thing keeping her upright. Her breath was hot and shallow against your cheek. Her lashes were low. Her pupils blown wide.

It was the most rattled you’d ever seen her — this girl who could overtake five drivers without blinking, who could shut down a press room with one glance, who had trained herself into steel and silence for years.

You were unravelling her with a dress and a rhythm and a goddamn smirk.

The music blurred into a thick, syrupy haze — more sensation than sound now.

The kind that buzzed through skin and bone. The kind made for hands sliding over curves, for mouths brushing too close, for confessions disguised as contact.

You barely noticed the bodies around you. Hundreds of people pressed into each other in the dark heat of the club, but none of them existed. It was just you and Abby, breathing the same air like you couldn’t live without it.

And god, had you made a mess of her.

She still hadn’t stepped back.

You hadn’t asked her to.

Instead, you leaned in closer, letting your fingers trail up her arms, over bare forearms and flushed skin, nails dragging just enough to make her inhale through her teeth. You looped your arms around her neck, pulling her tighter, until your bodies were completely flush.

Abby’s hands had found your lower back, fingers splayed wide, like she didn’t trust herself not to fall through you if she let go.

And her eyes—god, her eyes.

Dark and dilated, fixed on your mouth like it was gravity. Like it had answers to questions she hadn't dared ask until now.

“You’re staring,” you murmured again, your lips just brushing hers. Barely touching. Like punishment.

“I told you,” she whispered back, her voice wrecked. “You’re impossible not to.”

You smiled like a sin. “Say that again.”

“Why?” she breathed.

“Because I want to hear it,” you said, head tilting, breath hot against her lips. “Because I like how it sounds coming from you.”

Abby’s jaw clenched — she was fighting it, hard, that last sliver of control she thought she still had.

But you didn’t give her time to keep pretending.

You leaned in and kissed her first.

Soft at first. Teasing. The barest brush of lips—enough to ruin her, not enough to satisfy you.

She chased it.

Her mouth crashed into yours with something deeper, hungrier, all those stolen glances and inside jokes and unsent texts igniting at once.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a detonation.

Her hands slid up, one tangling in your hair, the other gripping your hip like she needed something solid to hold onto. You gasped against her, and she swallowed it like a secret, her lips parting to deepen the kiss, her teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to make your knees buckle.

You kissed her back harder. One hand fisted in her shirt. The other dragged down her chest, her stomach, her side—feeling the tense muscle beneath, the way she trembled slightly under your touch.

It made your head spin.

It made your chest ache.

How long had you both wanted this?

How many late-night calls, lingering touches, dumb jokes and shared glances in rooms too crowded to say what you really meant?

Too long.

And now, there was nothing stopping you.

Not distance. Not timing. Not fear.

Just the thud of music, the heat of her mouth, the quiet desperation in every place her hands landed on your skin.

When you finally broke the kiss — panting, dazed — Abby didn’t let go. She held you like she was afraid you’d vanish.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laughed, breathless. “Then die pretty, Anderson.”

“You don’t get it,” she said, voice hoarse. “I’m—God. I’m so far gone for you.”

That stunned you into stillness.

You pulled back slightly to look at her, really look at her.

And there it was.

No sarcasm. No defenses. No smartass comebacks.

Just Abby, flushed and open and completely stripped of every wall she’d ever built around herself.

Your heart punched your ribs.

“Yeah?” you asked softly.

She nodded.

“I’m not good at this,” she added, like a confession. “I don’t know how to—how to be around you without wanting more.”

“Then want more,” you said, your voice low, steady. “I do.”

Abby swallowed hard.

Her fingers brushed the edge of your jaw, her thumb ghosting across your cheek. Like she couldn’t believe you were real.

Like she couldn’t believe you were hers.

And in that moment, under the pounding bass and broken lights and sweat-stained air, nothing else existed.

Just the space between you, heavy with all the things still unsaid.

You stayed tangled together in the haze of sweat and sound, your bodies still swaying with the music even though you weren’t really dancing anymore. Not the way other people were. Not the messy, chaotic kind. You and Abby were locked in something slower. Tighter. More dangerous.

The crowd pulsed around you, but no one dared intrude.

She was still looking at you like you were unreal.

Like she was drunk off you—off the taste of your lip gloss and the way your skin shivered beneath her hands, off the ridiculous fact that you'd managed to tip the entire axis of her world in one night, in one kiss.

She pressed her forehead against yours again.

“I can’t believe you kissed me in front of all these people,” she muttered, but her voice had no bite. Just breathlessness. Just awe.

You grinned. “You started it.”

“I—”

“You did. I saw the way you looked at me the second I walked in.”

She groaned quietly, head dropping to your shoulder. “You were glowing. Like a disco ball with legs.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t wear the matching cape.”

Abby choked on a laugh against your neck, her lips brushing your skin and sending a jolt down your spine.

“Fuck,” she whispered, voice raw, “why are you so—?”

You smirked, threading your fingers into the hair at the back of her neck. “Irresistible? Infuriating? Devastatingly hot?”

“All of the above,” she mumbled, and you could feel the heat in her face.

You let the silence stretch for a moment, your bodies flush, hands roaming more freely now. Your palms dragged along her ribs, thumbs brushing the warm dip of her waist. You felt her inhale when you did it again.

She wasn’t shy anymore.

One hand slid down to your thigh—bare and slick with heat—her fingers grazing the hem of your dress, just barely lifting the fabric. The touch was so light it made your breath catch in your throat.

Her other hand stayed firmly on your lower back, pressing you forward until you could feel every part of her, mapped out like a blueprint of tension and restraint.

“You know,” you said, voice like smoke, “you’ve got a real thing for touching me in public.”

“I don’t,” she said automatically.

You raised an eyebrow. “You do. Podium hugs? Airport paparazzi? Now this?”

Her eyes flicked to your mouth again.

“I’m doomed,” she muttered.

You leaned in until your lips just brushed her ear.

“You really are.”

She shivered.

You pulled back enough to look at her again, your hands sliding up to cradle her face. “How long were you planning on pretending this wasn’t a thing?”

Abby hesitated.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Her thumb traced your cheek again, as if she needed the anchor.

“I don’t know,” she admitted finally, quiet. “I think I thought... if I said it out loud, I’d lose you.”

Your heart softened and broke at the same time.

“Abs,” you whispered, smiling gently, “You’re not getting rid of me.”

“You’re not real,” Abby breathed. “You can’t be real.”

You pulled back to look at her, both of you panting, flushed, pupils blown so wide the color had almost disappeared. Her hair was damp at the temples. Her shirt was rumpled. Her lips were red and kiss-bitten.

And her eyes — those glacier-blue eyes — were completely wrecked.

You leaned in close, nose brushing hers. “Touch me again.”

She didn’t need a second invitation.

Her hand slid lower on your dress, palm pressing flat against your thigh, inching upward with a slowness that felt criminal. Your breath caught. She smirked — barely — and kissed the corner of your mouth like it was a promise.

You bit your lip, arching into her. “You keep this up, and I’m dragging you into a storage closet.”

“Do it,” she said, voice gravel and desperation.

And you almost did.

Right there. Right then.

But instead, you stayed in it — the middle of the dance floor, the music pounding, the lights strobing across your skin, the sweat clinging to your spine — locked in something too dangerous to be public, too holy to hide.

You kissed her again.

Harder. Sloppier. More open.

Her hands were everywhere now — one at your jaw, the other curling around the back of your thigh, pulling you against her like she couldn’t stand the idea of a single inch between you. You grabbed her collar, dragging her mouth back to yours every time she dared to pull away.

Around you, no one cared.

And if they were watching?

Good.

Let them see.

Let the whole world see Abby Anderson completely undone by the one woman she swore she’d never fall for.

Your lips were swollen. Your breath was a disaster. Your thoughts weren’t thoughts anymore — just pulses of want, waves of heat crashing in time with the music. And Abby?

Abby was wrecked.

Still gripping your waist like she didn’t trust herself to let go without combusting. Her thumb was brushing the sliver of skin where your dress had started to ride up. Her pupils were black holes, wide and wild and focused only on you.

The kiss had long since ended.

But the aftermath? That hung between you like something alive.

“I’m losing my mind,” Abby muttered, still way too close, her voice low and frayed like torn thread. “I don’t even know what time it is.”

You smiled lazily, a bit breathless, your hands still resting on her chest. “Time doesn’t exist when I’m involved. I operate on hot girl standard time.”

“Hot girl standard time?”

“Yep,” you said, stepping back just enough to tease. “It’s like GMT, but sluttier.”

Abby let out a stunned, short laugh — the kind that sounded like it had been yanked from her ribcage. “Jesus Christ.”

You looked up at her through your lashes, still smug, still hungry. “What’s wrong, Anderson? Can’t keep up?”

“I’ve been keeping up with you since we first met,” she said, without thinking. Her voice was raw. Honest.

You paused.

The grin slipped — not gone, just softened. Like something gentler had cracked through the heat.

You reached up, fingers dragging along the hem of her shirt collar, tugging slightly. “Then come back with me.”

Her brows drew in slightly. “To your hotel?”

“No, to my underground lair,” you deadpanned. “Yes, to my hotel.”

A pause.

Then: “Are you sure?”

You met her eyes. No waver. No hesitation. “Abby. If I don’t get you alone sometime in the next ten minutes, I’m going to commit a felony.”

She bit down a smile, but it barely held. You saw it — the way her breath hitched. The way she looked down at your mouth, then back to your eyes, and made her decision in silence.

“Alright,” she said, voice low and controlled. “Let’s go.”

You didn’t wait.

You grabbed her hand and pulled her through the dance floor like a woman on a mission. People moved aside without realising they were doing it, caught in your slipstream, your energy. Abby followed close, her grip never loosening, jaw tight like she couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

The bouncer at the entrance nodded at you both as you passed. One flash from the paparazzi caught Abby’s profile — tousled, flushed, looking very much like someone about to make a regrettably hot decision. You laughed, tugged her into the waiting car, and slammed the door behind you like you were trapping lightning inside.

Silence, once you were in.

Silence — but thick. Full. Weighted like breath on the verge of breaking.

You turned your head slowly. Abby was already looking at you.

“You okay?” you asked, teasing but quiet. “Still breathing?”

She looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

“Barely.”

You grinned. “Well, don’t stop now. I haven’t even taken my heels off.”

The keycard beeped, and Abby was already on you like a second skin.

The door had barely clicked open before she kissed you — no finesse, no pause, just need. Her mouth caught yours like she’d been holding back for months. Like she was finally letting go of everything she’d been trying not to feel since the first time you smirked at her and called her “princess” in front of a dozen reporters.

Your back hit the door hard.

Not that you minded.

Not with her hands already on your hips, thumbs digging into the dip of your waist as she pressed you up against the cool wood like she wanted to leave a you-shaped imprint there.

You barely managed to stumble inside. The lights from the hallway spilled in for a heartbeat before the door slammed shut behind you, plunging the room into shadow — just the gold city glow slipping between the curtains, enough to catch the glint in Abby’s eyes.

“Take it off,” you breathed between kisses, already clawing at her shirt. “Take this off.”

She chuckled, low and wrecked, but obeyed—peeling it over her head, exposing the muscle, the freckles, the heat rising over her chest. You dragged your hands down her stomach, greedy, possessive, already burning with the need to map every inch of her.

“You’re unbelievable,” she muttered, breath hitching as you stepped out of your heels, still maintaining eye contact like a challenge.

Your dress slipped down your shoulders in a fluid motion. She caught it halfway — tugging it the rest of the way off with a groan, like the sight of you unraveled every last thread of control she had left.

Her hands weren’t gentle. They were desperate.

They dragged across your back, your ribs, your thighs — gathering, gripping, memorising. You gasped when her mouth latched onto the curve of your neck, when her teeth grazed the spot that made your hips jerk forward.

“God, you’re—” she started, but cut herself off with a moan when your fingers found her belt buckle.

You pulled it open in one sharp tug and palmed her through her pants, smirking when her breath hitched so hard she actually staggered.

“You okay there, Anderson?” you asked sweetly, voice dripping with smugness.

Her eyes snapped to yours — half-lidded, ruined, hungry. “Not for long.”

She scooped you up like it was nothing — arms locked under your thighs, strong and sure — and you laughed into her neck as she carried you the few steps toward the bed, dropping you onto it like a dare.

The laugh caught in your throat when she climbed over you.

Her body hovered above yours for one long, burning moment. Muscles tense, lips parted, her eyes searching yours.

She wasn’t just looking at you. She was seeing you. Every version. Every version you tried to hide under sarcasm and heels and chaos.

And she wanted all of it.

You reached up, cupped her jaw, pulled her down into another kiss.

This one was slower.

Deeper.

Less fire, more gravity.

Less friction, more surrender.

Her hand slid behind your knee, pushing your leg up around her waist. You arched into her, every nerve ending alive, every inch of skin hypersensitive. Her mouth dragged down your neck, over your collarbone, her breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“You’ve got no idea,” she whispered between kisses, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Try me,” you whispered back, nails sinking into her back.

Her hands moved like she couldn’t pick a favorite place to touch. Like she wanted to be everywhere at once. Her name tumbled out of your mouth in a gasp when her palm cupped the side of your thigh, dragging it higher, slotting herself tighter against you.

You kissed her again — open-mouthed, desperate, the kind of kiss that said don’t stop now, not when we’re finally here.

And when she pushed you back into the mattress, grounding her body against yours with a weight that felt right, you knew there was no turning back from this.

You didn’t want to.

You’d waited too long. Teased too much. Denied too hard.

And now she was in your bed. On your skin. Between your legs.

Everything else could wait.

Her lips brushed softly against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in her wake, like tiny ripples on a still pond. She moved slowly, savouring each kiss as she traveled downward, her breath warm and teasing against your flesh. Her journey paused just above your most sensitive spot, a deliberate halt that heightened the anticipation. With a playful glint in her eyes, she gently slid your panties to the side, the fabric whispering against your skin as it moved.

Abby didn’t move fast. She moved like she wanted to burn every millimetre of her, mouth working lower, tongue trailing — barely, then up again, deliberate, like she wanted to savour each part of you before she actually dove into what you both knew she was hungry for.

Her mouth hovered.

Paused.

You could almost feel her nerves.

You could definitely feel your own.

And then Abby’s tongue drew a line — light, then harder, then light again — up the inside of your thigh, the heat of her breath trembling against skin so hyper-sensitised every air current was a shiver. She didn’t move directly, not at first, that would have been a mercy; she circled, skirted, kissed over, under, beside, everywhere except precisely where she was needed. The anticipation built in a savage, deliberate crescendo until the first slow flick of tongue landed exactly where it was supposed to, and every nerve lit up at once.

You didn’t mean to, but a strangled sound clawed up your throat — half moan, half desperate plea. You bit down on your own knuckle to keep quiet, worrying the skin as if it could absorb the shock of sensation, as if your body might otherwise burst from the pressure. Abby’s hands, those calloused, gorgeous hands, pinned your hips to the mattress, holding you steady, not to restrain but to cradle, to keep you from flying apart.

With Abby’s strength bracketing you and that impossible tongue working in slow, controlled sweeps, the world narrowed to the dark, the city-light gold, the sound of your own heartbeat and the wet, rhythmic wonder of Abby’s mouth.

You wanted to look. You fought it, at first, the urge to see — to prove this was real and happening, that the girl you’d wanted for what felt like geological epochs was really here, between your legs, hands and mouth and heart all focused on you.

But you had to.

You peeled your eyes open and looked down the length of yourself, catching a glimpse of Abby’s head bowed between your thighs, face framed in the deep shadows of night, hair falling over her brow in a mess you doubted she even knew was there.

The sight alone almost undid you.

Abby, for her part, seemed to thrive on the effect she was having: the way her mouth curved into a wicked smile, how she increased the pressure, the pace, then suddenly slowed, forcing you to writhe and buck and plead with your body for more.

Abby’s tongue was relentless but never careless, every movement considered and mapped like she was on the track again. She would tease with a feather touch — just the tip, just barely — and then flatten her tongue, slow and deep, leaving you gasping into the darkness.

The idea of it — Abby, wild, mouth wet and open, hands so careful and so strong — sent a brand of electricity through you that felt dangerous. You gripped at the sheets, reached for anything to anchor yourself, but found your hands instead tangling in Abby’s hair, pulling her closer, greedy, desperate, beyond caring if you gasped loud enough for the entire hotel to hear.

You arched up and Abby met you, matched you motion for motion, unflinching, even as the shudders started to build, faster and harder with every pass of tongue and every flex of those impossible hands. You felt yourself unraveling, felt it as a gathering pressure just behind your ribs, and for a terrifying, beautiful moment all you could do was hold on and hope the room could survive what was about to happen.

But the thing was, you were never one to give up control too easily.

Abby’s tongue still pulsed inside you when you hooked both hands into her hair and yanked her up, hard. You collided in a mess of breath and sweat and sound. For a split-second Abby registered surprise, then hunger, then something else — something like awe — before you spun her, quick and rough, and forced her flat on her back. She let out a noise, a startled yelp, then blinked up at the ceiling, the world spinning, your taste still smeared across her mouth.

You climbed into her lap, legs splayed wide on either side of her hips, pinning her to the mattress with a force that was almost cruel, if not for the electric need vibrating through every muscle in Abby’s body. She could see it — see her own desire reflected in the way your jaw flexed, the way your pupils blew wide, the way your hands trembled as you leaned in, close enough that she could still taste your lip gloss on her tongue.

For a moment, you just hovered there, your body heavy and hot on top of her, her arms trapped at her sides. Then, with a flourish, you leaned past her, dug into the nightstand, and came up with a translucent pink strap-on, the colour so ridiculous that Abby almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, all sound caught in the back of her throat, watching as you let the toy dangle from one finger, taunting, eyes never leaving her face.

“You really thought,” you smirked, “that you’d be the only one having fun?”

Abby tried to swallow. Her mouth was dry, tongue thick, all the clever words and cutting comebacks she’d perfected in a thousand cockpits and conference rooms suddenly evaporated on contact. She tried to play it cool, to arch an eyebrow, to say something cocky and dismissive, but all she managed was a weak, “That’s…not regulation.”

You laughed outright, throaty and mean and delighted. “Baby, nothing about this is regulation,” you purred, and threw one leg off to the side, giving yourself space to fasten the harness around your hips.

You made a show of it — slow, deliberate, tongue caught between your teeth as you adjusted the straps, the pink shaft bobbing obscenely once you locked it into place.

Abby couldn’t look away, her nerves firing off in a way that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the knot of anticipation working its way up from her core.

“You look nervous, Abs,” you teased, running a hand down the length of the toy, then up your own bare thigh. “Something you wanna say for yourself?”

Abby considered it — she really did. But somehow, her whole body had gone offline, short-circuited by the sight of you, gorgeous and powerful, legs spread wide and face set in a look of absolute mischief.

So, she just shook her head, biting her lip, and watched as you straddled her chest, slipping the toy up so that the tip hovered right above her chin.

“Nothing at all?” you asked, voice soft now, deadly. You cupped Abby’s jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge just hard enough to hurt. “That’s a first.”

Abby tried to roll her eyes, but your grip held her steady. The toy nudged her lips, cold and slick, and Abby knew what was expected — she’d seen it a thousand times, on screens and in the sideways glances of her own imagination, but the reality was so much more. You were waiting, patient and merciless, the tip of the strap-on teasing at Abby’s bottom lip.

"Open up."

Abby hesitated, pride battling need, then opened her mouth, slow and deliberate, taking the head of the toy onto her tongue.

Immediately, your hand tightened in her hair, forcing her deeper, until her lips stretched wide around the shaft. Abby gagged, just a little, but you only shushed her, stroking a thumb along Abby’s cheekbone, cooing, “There you go, princess. Knew you’d be good for me.”

Abby wanted to spit some clever retort, but her jaw was full, her dignity gone. You fucked her mouth with the toy, at first slow and shallow, then deeper, more insistent, until Abby’s eyes watered and her throat burned. Every time she tried to pull back, your hand anchored her in place, guiding her with a mixture of tenderness and brute force.

“Look at you,” you crooned, “taking it like a champ.” You laughed again, softer this time, almost affectionate. “You’re so much cuter when you don’t have anything mean to say.”

Abby glared, but it was useless. She was powerless, body pinned and mouth filled, senses overwhelmed by the smell of sweat and sex and your skin. She could feel the slick of her own arousal dripping down her thigh, could feel her hands shaking with the need to touch, to do something, anything, but you had her in checkmate and weren’t letting go.

The rhythm changed. You slowed, then withdrew entirely, leaving Abby gasping, lips swollen and jaw sore. She barely had time to catch her breath before you leaned in and kissed her, messy and obscene, tongue plunging into Abby’s mouth as if to claim every inch of territory you’d just conquered.

“Tastes good, right?” you whispered, mouth pressed to Abby’s ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you more.”

You didn’t wait for permission.

Didn't need to.

You slid down Abby’s body, planting kisses along her collarbone, down the centre of her chest, over the scar on her ribs that she usually tried to hide. You paused there, lips lingering, then traced the strap-on along the valley between her breasts, dragging it lower, over her stomach, until it rested against the damp heat between her legs.

Abby sucked in a breath, the anticipation buzzing in her teeth. You paused, savouring the moment, then eased the toy forward, nestling it against Abby’s slick folds. You circled there, gentle, making Abby writhe and buck, but wouldn’t give her what she wanted, not yet.

“You want it?” you taunted, voice almost sing-song.

Abby nodded, too far gone for pride, legs spreading wider on instinct.

“Say it,” you demanded, voice suddenly sharp.

“Please,” Abby gasped, voice roughened at the edges. “Just—please.”

You smirked.

"Then get on all fours."

15 MINUTES LATER…

“GOD! Fuck— oh my God, yes,” Abby cried into a pillow, her body jolting forward each time your hips met hers.

You steadied yourself, palms braced hard against the long, lean muscle of Abby’s lower back, feeling every twitch and shudder through your own arms. The harness pressed flush, the ridiculous pink shaft gleaming with every pump, and you drove forward, slow at first, carefully judging the give of Abby’s hips, the tension and resistance and then, when you saw it — the way Abby’s back bowed, head pressed low into the mattress, mouth open and gasping — you let the rhythm build, each thrust deeper, harder, more insistent.

You’d seen Abby in every state before: calm and clipped in the briefing room, loose and wild at the bar, even trembling and weepy at the awards dinner when the wrong racer’s name was called. But this? This was a surrender of a kind you hadn’t dared fantasise about.

Well, not out loud, at least.

Abby’s noises started out soft, barely a whimper at the first inch, but quickly escalated into something animal. The sounds were so unlike the measured, uptight woman you knew, so raw and needy that a wicked pride bloomed in your chest.

You grabbed a fistful of Abby’s hair, winding it around your knuckles and giving a sharp pull, just to see what would happen. The effect was instantaneous: Abby bucked backwards, moaning, her body clenching so hard around the intrusion that you nearly lost your grip on the harness.

“Holy shit, Abs,” you laughed, the words warm and reverent, “you really are full of surprises.”

You’d never been so grateful for hotel walls thick enough to muffle war crimes.

The slick, obscene sound of penetration filled the space, punctuated by the slap of skin against skin and the shuddering sobs Abby couldn’t seem to stifle. For every move you made, Abby met you in kind, pushing back, greedy for more, like she’d been starved for this exact sensation.

You had spent weeks, months, maybe years wondering what it would be like to have Abby at your mercy, and now that it was happening, the reality was almost too good to believe. Abby, all muscle and will, reduced to a mess of pleading and sweat, the sheets twisted around her fists, body arching up and up in a desperate, involuntary arc.

If you had to name the feeling, you would have called it rapture.

“You okay, baby?” you managed, voice a little shaky with effort and awe.

Abby’s answer was a frantic nod, her words slurring together, “Yeah—god, yes, just—harder.” The request sent a jolt through you, who obliged, increasing the tempo, driving in with a force that left both of them gasping.

The sweat pooled in the small of Abby’s back, slicking your palms, and you slid your hands around Abby’s waist, fingers splaying over the ridged terrain of her abs. You loved the way Abby’s body moved: the flex and shiver of her thighs, the way her knees dug into the mattress for better leverage, the certainty of her desire in every clench and release. You reached down, your fingers searching, and found the tiny, diamond-hard nub at the apex of Abby’s sex. You pressed your thumb there and made slow, tight circles, feeling the pulse of blood beneath the skin.

Abby’s whole body seized, her voice faltering into a strangled, “Fuck—fuck, Y/N—”

You leaned over her, the toy still driving relentlessly, and pressed your mouth to the back of her neck, sucking a mark into the skin just below her hairline. Abby shuddered, her hips stuttering in the rhythm, and you felt the thrill of control, the way you could bend Abby’s strength, her certainty, into a trembling wreck.

“Is this what you wanted?” you murmured, her teeth grazing the shell of Abby’s ear. “You wanted me to ruin you?”

Abby tried to speak, but her mouth couldn’t form words, just a string of vowels and the desperate, rhythmic sound of her own breathing.

You smiled.

God, you’d never been more turned on in your life.

You sat up, bracing yourself with one hand on the headboard and the other wrapped tight around Abby’s hip, leveraging your entire weight into the next thrust. Abby’s body met yours with a feverish, reckless energy, the two of you moving in a loop of friction and need.

Then you slowed, just a fraction, dragging the moment out, making Abby writhe. “Tell me what you want,” you ordered, voice low and commanding.

Abby’s head snapped up, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. “Don’t stop,” she choked, “don’t—don’t ever stop—”

That's what did it.

You tightened your grip, feeling the harness bite into your own skin, and pounded harder, each movement more determined than the last. Abby clawed at the bedsheets, her whole body coiling like a spring, and you could feel the tremors start, small at first, then building with every thrust, every pass of your thumb over that hypersensitive spot.

“Fuck, yes, right there, don’t stop, don’t—” Abby’s voice cracked, rising in pitch until it was nearly a scream, her legs snapped straight, heels digging trenches into the mattress, toes curled and calves bunched, the entire length of Abby’s body strung tight. She made a sound halfway between a scream and a sob, mouth wide, eyes squeezed shut against a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony.

For a second, her fists lost their grip on the sheets, fingers splaying open in an involuntary gesture of surrender before clenching shut again, this time almost violently, as if she could tear the bedding in two. The effort of holding on, of not splintering apart entirely, was visible in the violent tremor that started in her thighs and traveled up her core, rippling through her ribcage and finally breaking at her throat.

Abby swore again, but it wasn’t really language, just a jagged exhale, her tongue too numb, her brain too scattered to shape words. She tried to arch away, to scramble from the relentless pressure, but her own strength failed her. You had her — literally, hands locked tight on her waist, thighs bracketing her hips, the full weight of your body pinning her in place.

There was no escape, not from the way you held her open, not from the merciless rhythm that shattered the last of her composure.

Abby came hard, not once but in a series of cresting spasms, her body shaking so violently it was as if she’d been struck by some beautiful, monstrous current.

She collapsed, but the pleasure kept coming, rolling over her in waves so intense Abby wasn’t sure whether she was laughing or weeping. She flailed for a pillow and buried her face in it, muffling the raw, animal sounds that ripped out of her. You could feel every ripple of it, the way Abby’s body kept clutching desperately at the silicone, clamping down with a hunger that bordered on unreal.

It was wet, hot, uncontrolled — so much more than you’d dared hope for. Her skin shone with sweat, her back slick beneath your palms, the line of her spine trembling with aftershocks. Even as you slowed, drawing out, you kept your hands gentle but insistent, not letting go, keeping her anchored as she shook apart.

Abby’s voice was gone, reduced to a ragged, rhythmic pant, and you felt a surge of something dangerously close to reverence. You bent over her, pressing a kiss to her shoulder blade, lips lingering on the taste of salt and skin. She made a helpless noise, high-pitched, and shoved her hips back into your hand as if she couldn’t stand to lose the contact, even for a second. The toy was still nestled inside her, and you held it there, a reminder of what you’d done, a promise that you weren’t finished yet.

“That’s it,” you murmured, voice barely audible above the frantic thud of both your hearts. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

She did. Abby let herself be held, let herself be ruined, let herself be known. All the defences, the bulletproof composure, the razor wit — it was all stripped away, replaced by a stark, naked ache. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so vulnerable, or so fucking alive.

You eased the rhythm, slow and careful, coaxing every last tremor from Abby’s body. With one hand, you stroked her hair, pushing the damp mess off her face; with the other, you pressed slow, steady circles against her pulse point, grounding her, reminding her that she was here, that you were real. The moment stretched, suspended between you, heavy with the kind of intimacy that didn’t need words.

When Abby finally lifted her head from the pillow, her eyes were glassy, her cheeks streaked with tears she wouldn’t acknowledge. She glared over her shoulder, not with anger but awe, like she was seeing you for the first time. You grinned back, not at all smug — just proud, and maybe a little bit in love.

“Jesus,” Abby rasped, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laughed, low and easy. “Not until I’m done with you.”

The words sent a fresh shiver down Abby’s spine, but this time she welcomed it, sinking back into the cradle of your arms. You slid the toy out, slow and gentle, and she whimpered at the loss, but let you guide her down onto her side, spooning behind her, wrapping her up in a tangle of limbs and sweat and messy hair.

You stayed like that, holding Abby through the aftershocks, both of you breathing hard, both of you changed in some irrevocable way. You pressed your lips to the curve of her ear, kissed her jaw, her neck, the soft hollow where her pulse hammered wild. Abby curled into you, trembling, but not from fear — not anymore. She’d given you everything, and in return, you’d wrecked her so thoroughly that nothing would be the same again.

You felt a laugh bubble up, giddy and disbelieving. “Holy shit, Abs.”

She snorted, half a groan, half a sigh, and twisted to nuzzle her face into your shoulder. “Don’t get cocky,” Abby managed, but the words were more gratitude than warning.

You grinned, arms tight around her. “Too late.”

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