Sunday, November 11th, 2018- São Paulo, Brazil
Brazil Grand Prix, Autódromo José Carlos Pace- the Interlagos Circuit
"Just let me touch you," Max doesn't afford himself the opportunity with which to overthink things, knowing better than to trust his mind or his traitorous thoughts to not get ahead of itself and properly fuck him over.
He's seen it happen before and he'll be damned if he allows it to happen again at this particular moment, he won't ruin this by overthinking things, he has certainly already more than outdone himself in that particular arena in the course of today, God only fucking knows.
"You're already doing that," you point out unhelpfully, outright and stubbornly refusing to make any of this easy on him, "so, if you want something else, if you want more, want me, then ask for it or make it happen."
"Awfully demanding tonight, aren't you?" Max grumbles, more out of a need to push back if only momentarily, without any real intent to put a stop to things, "I knew you were bossy but this?"
He whistles low, almost fumbling the casual, flirty gesture when your eyes suddenly drop to his mouth, then promptly catches your bottom lip between your teeth as if in some last-ditch effort to follow your own rules and not kiss him again.
"This is-" you're still paying the utmost attention to every detail, tracking every word as it rolls off his tongue and watching with an intensity which tells Max that, against your better judgement, you've found yourself utterly unable to tear your gaze away, "this is in a league of its own."
"Oh, fucking bite me, why don't you?"
"Please," he's having to pace himself, to keep a tight leash on his tongue and speaking sparingly, knowing that if he doesn't keep himself under absolute control, and if he does fail to continue to act with the utmost degree of restraint then he'll lose what little control he still has over the situation just as quickly as it had appeared and that- that is unthinkable.
"Max," it's such a simple word on principal, unadorned and unassuming as it, almost minimalistic in its composition and yet, when it's like this, with you, as it has been so many times before, in countless other instances under vastly different circumstances where its intended effect and the one it actually has on him is wholly unintentional, the sound of his name on your lips holds absolute power over him.
Every single time, without fail, those three little letters, his three letters, from your mouth, is his salvation in the same breath it damns him to lowest circles of hell, somehow saving his soul from eternal damnation with the seven deadly sins in tow, taking him from sainthood to excommunicate in just the time it takes for you to say his name like that, as you always do.
"Again, say it again," Max doesn't have even the slightest clue what you'd intended to say next or where you were going with it but he doesn't bother to try and find out, knowing it hadn't really mattered since you've made it abundantly clear that tonight is his to claim, his to dictate as long as he plays by your rules so he does just that, leaning into what he'd been told to do, at long last letting himself be consumed by the pure, unadulterated, single minded pursuit of satiating the need now building to a fever pitch in the pit of his stomach.
"I need- you- please, say my name-" he says with a disjointed stutter, forcing his way through speech, which in a matter of seconds has gone from feasible to an utterly inconceivable task as Max fights a losing battle on two fronts- internally, desperately trying to collect his thoughts to get a coherent sentence out while externally, one arm now wrapped tightly around your waist, his right hand finds the back of one thigh, he hooks your leg over his hip.
"Anything, Max," you're breathless beneath him, "Max- I mean it, anything- whatever you want," your chest heaving you continue, "whatever you want-" he can feel every inhale, feel the rise and fall, like your respiratory system has suddenly gone on the fritz, your lungs only ever expanding halfway before you're exhaling again, "Max- mine- my Max-"
His brain cuts out then, at the far-reaching implications of what you'd just revealed, at the inherent ease with which you'd turned the corner into laying claiming, going from using his name to a bold, shameless 'mine' only to then take a hard, sharp right into 'my Max'- into calling Max what he knew himself to be, what he had been for just shy of half a decade now, what he'd still yet to actually admit to his being.
Because regardless of the fact that your voice had suddenly cut out-- and in spite of the interruption to the regularly scheduled programming- it is a substantial and leading admission, retaining the integrity of the initial statement, of your impromptu heat of the moment confession on subconscious word choice alone, which, in Max's eyes, makes it well worth its weight in gold.
Max can't help himself, beyond caring that while you're wearing slightly less than him, with just leggings and an oversized white sweater he doesn't need to ask to know is his, as opposed to the clothes he'd thrown on after showering in his trailer at the track, you're both still completely dressed, which serves to only make it feel more obscene when, half carrying you, he hauls you backwards with him, pulling you down to straddle his lap as he lands in the armchair in the corner opposite the bed.
"I'll fucking beg for it, I don't care. I don't fucking care," he's grinding against you in earnest now, not giving a fuck about the impression he might be giving off at the moment because after years and years of wanting this, of aching to have you like this, he's finally found it, and he won't be the fucking dickhead who takes a moment for granted, "please, just like that."
Especially not now, when Max has gotten through being rather unceremoniously launched back into your orbit and then held there by the same gravitational pull that had brought the two of you together in the first place by sheer force of will alone.
And yet, beyond the strength of his character, Max had to make one concession about which, once upon a time, had been topic he'd avoided at all costs but which he now was far less bashful about since shame had, in recent weeks, become a concept which he didn't particularly have the time or space in his life for anymore.
So, even now, Max maintained he'd only survived the day in, day out forced proximity while in such close quarters that the two of you had no choice but to live practically on top of one another because of the privacy afforded to him by a locked bathroom door and a solitary moment in the shower, alone with his thoughts and his fist under the running water.
"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's purposeful with the stress he applies to his sentence, willfully putting precious, fleeting seconds he won't be getting back into driving his point home because if you take nothing else he says to heart, Max wants this to be what sticks, "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."
