Sunday, November 11th, 2018- São Paulo, Brazil
Brazil Grand Prix, Autódromo José Carlos Pace- the Interlagos Circuit
"You want this then? Want me?" Max grits out like every letter hurts him to say, like every question takes a toll, "you're not just doing what you think I want you to?"
"God damnit, Max! Stop fucking thinking so much and just take what you want already! Stop torturing us both, for fucks sake-"
You choke mid-thought, your words dying where they are, all but forgotten as Max does just that and sinks one finger into you, slowly dragging the pad of his thumb through your slick folds, working from where he's buried up the knuckle inside of your fluttering pussy up to your clit which aches to be touched, the need having built to a fever pitch, until the rhythmic tattoo of your beating heart seems to echo between your thighs.
"Fastest way to shut you up; noted," under normal circumstances, at about any other time, the cadence of that singular sentence with it's quite conspicuous shift in diction, each word composed by consonant overwrought with condescension and vowels drunk on self-satisfaction, and the note of superiority to Max's knowing tone would have warranted some degree of reproach and a verbal dressing down but at present, you're willing to make an exception– if only, just this once.
"Fuck me, you always like this? Soaking, dripping wet?" Max only just manages the sound that starts in his chest, building and building until it has nowhere to go but up, threatening to spill out of his mouth before he smothers it in the back of his throat for the crime of being unknown, a seemingly instinctive, involuntary response to the needy little noise you'd just made, its fate sealed by the fact that even in its infancy, his moan had been far too close to a whimper for his liking.
"More- I need more-" now you're the one who's begging but you're beyond caring, "please, Max- please, more."
"Look at you, putting that pretty little mouth to work," Max remarks placatingly, his retort smarting slightly as it lands but its sting is immediately forgiven and forgotten when he does as you'd asked. His middle finger joins his forefinger, the latest addition bringing a sudden, welcome stretch with it, as he works the pair back and forth, curling both in a come hither motion every time you clench down around him.
You're desperately trying to keep your thoughts from wandering, wholly uninterested in lingering any longer over all plausible reasons that could explain exactly how just Max's fingers feel so fucking good or the possible rational for why this time, with this man, is so infinitely better than any prior time that he's managed to single handedly change your opinion, of an act that in the past was rarely worthy of even remembering but which is now held in a new, highly revered esteem.
"Max, Max, Max-" you're mindlessly repeating his name, clinging to the familiarity of how it feels in your mouth, how it sounds rolling off the tip of your tongue, something you've said countless times, which in recent months has become a staple in your everyday life, in a way it never had before that first weekend in September, that it's recognizable even as everything else fades away, your whole world narrowing to the heat already beginning to pool in the pit of your stomach, the start of an orgasm already taking shape.
Over and over, again and again until the only sounds you can hear anymore are the ones of your own making, moaning in response to the twin strokes of Max's thumb rubbing rough circles against your clit as he fucks you with two thick fingers
"That's it, good girl, just like that," he murmurs, leaning in as your head tips all the way back, your throat bared to him, finding his lips on your skin before he has any conscious thought to, "keep it up like that, saying it like that, and you'll find out just how fucking far it'll get you."
