Sunday, November 11th, 2018- São Paulo, Brazil
Brazil Grand Prix, Autódromo José Carlos Pace- the Interlagos Circuit
"It's about fucking time," Max says in the heartbeat before you come crashing together, giving you a savage grin that you return without a second's hesitation.
"Took you long enough," you retort, carrying that same smile over into the first brush of your lips against his, grinning into the kiss as you throw your arms around his neck, one of his hands finding the nape of your neck and the other pressing flush to the curve at the small of your back, molding your body to his with an ease that only serves to further confirm what he'd already known to be the truth.
Whatever this is and whatever you are to each other, regardless of wherever it is that you both end up or how this all works out in the end, there's no undoing the fact that you'd been meant to have the other, you'd been made for this- to belong to one another for at least a time if it's not destined to last forever.
"I don't know what you were waiting for," you whisper, the words filling the almost imperceptible distance that separates his face from yours.
"The same thing I always am," Max confesses on your shared breath, too far gone to bother to try and stop the word before it can do any inevitable damage, beyond caring how it'll sound when it's said aloud, "you."
"We can't-" you start but he can already see where you're going with this, heading you off before you can get ahead of yourself, in spite of the fact that he doesn't have a single clue what had just changed for you.
"We won't," Max isn't even certain what he's agreeing to but it just seems like the best avenue currently available to him.
"Just- just don't kiss me again," you say, sounding slightly out of breath as he maps a path down the line of your neck with his lips, "this-that is fine," you shiver, tipping your head back, baring your throat, giving him free range, "just don't-"
"Don't kiss you," he interjects, finishing your sentence for you, "got it."
He pretends like he doesn't know or particularly care why you'd instigate this new rule but neither could be farther from the truth.
"Anything else?" Max asks offhandedly, then continues when you remain silent, "come on, out with it," he chuckles softly, savoring the moment and the way your body reacts to the rippling echo of his laughter, your skin prickling at the sensation as a shudder sends shockwaves skittering down your spine, shivers lingering at the small of your back.
Your mouth falls open, lips parting just a fraction of an inch which quickly proves to be more than enough to guarantee that Max doesn't miss any of those soft, breathy sounds you're making, the ones that slip out with such delicacy he's certain you're not even aware of them.
The fluttering whimpers build, amplifying into moans that spill uninhibited from you, over and over again until he's wholly certain the cadence of each has been etched into his skin, locked away in his memories, hoarded and packed safely away, until Max is certain he's saved enough to survive the winter that will last the remainder of his days, that he knows will come in all its frost bitten trappings, all it's glacial glory, as sure as he knows that some day, and someday soon, far sooner than he'd like, you will be leaving him behind, taking with you all the warmth you brought with you.
And then, then the first snow will come.
"Beg," the word snags his attention, the cadence of the three little letters registering with Max's mind but while the sound of it rolling off your tongue is evidently worthy of recognition, the meaning of it is deemed to be less so, his thoughts taking longer than is strictly necessary, than would usually be necessary, to process the meaning of it, which only finally reaches him after a rather substantial delay.
"What?" Max asks because the answer that his brain supplies him with feels uncertain, like it's unsteady, as if the translation he's been given is inconclusive at best and entirely unsubstantiated at worst.
All of a sudden, he's less than certain he knows English at all, the language feeling just out of his reach, like all the years he's spent learning and speaking it had never happened at all, making him question if he'd dreamed the whole thing up, if he'd only thought he spoke it fluently and had in fact merely been warbling along in unintelligible gibberish.
"If you want something from me," you put a firm hand on his chest and push, forcing him pause, stopping his thorough exploration down the column of your throat, "if you want it bad enough," preventing him from continuing along the path he'd been on that would have taken him lower, venturing down to trace along the boundary line of your shirt that falls just below your collarbones, cutting into a sharp v neck that comes to a point just shy of the beginning of the swell of your breasts, "then beg. Beg me for it, Max."
"I-" he'd been entirely unprepared for the sharp turn things have just taken, seemingly cutting around a blind corner at a breakneck speed with such veracity that he'd somehow managed to lose both the high ground and his formerly iron grip on the upper hand in the blink of an eye, "you- what?"
"I want you to fucking beg for it," you look at him with heavy, half lidded eyes, through thick lashes still darkened by the makeup he'd watched you put on this morning through the cracked bathroom door without your knowledge, "like a good boy," a smirk at your lips that's not anything he's ever seen on you before, that has a heat to it that tugs at something deep in his chest and thrums through him, his cock twitching in his pants, now painfully and achingly hard, "and don't you dare waste my time- make it worth my while, won't you?"
