Sunday, November 11th, 2018- São Paulo, Brazil
Brazil Grand Prix, Autódromo José Carlos Pace- the Interlagos Circuit
In the beginning, at the start of all this, you'd fully intended to do two things- to hear Max out and then, to walk away.
It was supposed to have been that easy, that simple, that fool proof of a plan.
Listen, peppering in a few sympathetic sounds here and there while nodding understandingly, then make your excuses and leave before things get out of hand.
From the outset, you'd only let yourself scan into your empty room to wait for Max on the grounds you'd follow the rules as they'd been predetermined to be, you'd reminded yourself time and time again of what the parameters were, repeating them over and over inside your mind and yet... you'd still found yourself in this predicament, with absolutely no intention whatsoever of bailing out.
Not even in the face of the latest development, of Max's last declaration, which still echoes in your ears even now, the words only growing louder in the lull that falls following their pronouncement, in the absence of a response, seemingly amplified by the time it takes for you to find your voice again.
"Look, we're acting like we have time, talking like we do but we don't, we don't have long, we don't have the time I'd like to take- that I will take on you," he'd said.
"It might not be tonight or tomorrow, might not be this week or this month, or hell, this year but it will come and it will be good, it'll ruin you, it'll ruin me, and we'll be fucking better off for it," he'd continued.
"Yeah?" You breathe out, lips parting against the curve of Max's neck, giving in to the urge to taste him, letting your tongue dart out, dragging the tip of it across the swell of his Adam's apple, "will we? Be better for it?"
An unintelligible jumble of noises comes out of Max, none of it clear enough to take the shape of any proper words but the meaning is clear none the less.
Yes, we will.
"All this talk, of ruin and taking time, of if, then, when," you don't let up, refusing to take mercy on the man beneath you, who's been reduced to incoherent mumbling and mindless movement, "you'd think there wasn't now."
"I know there's a now," Max retorts, rolling his hips up to meet yours, bringing with it a wave of white hot, consuming pleasure, washing through you with unadulterated, unrestrained ecstasy that seems unthinkable for something so simple, so base as this, momentarily quenching the thirst for him, for more, as he rocks against you.
"So, what is it that you're trying to say?" he demands, one hand releasing its bruising hold on your hip to settle, solid and warm and unyielding, on your throat.
Your jaw now held between his thumb and forefinger, Max takes full control of your body, first pulling you away from where you'd been nipping at the tender skin below his ear, then pushes your chin firmly in at an angle until nearly grazes your neck, dragging your face down, forcing you to look at him, to meet his eyes and hold his gaze, "speak plainly."
"I've never known you to talk this much, when you could just as easily show instead of tell," you say succinctly, watching in silent delight how, when your words land, Max's reaction is instantaneous, his expression darkening immediately, his already domineering grip on your face escalating, his hold tightening to the point of very nearly being disquieting, his fingertips digging in uncomfortably, as between your legs, he stills, suddenly going rigid and stiff as a board under you.
