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Lando leaned over his plate like a detective poring over a case file, his phone balanced precariously against his glass of water. The screen flickered with each swipe he made down his camera roll. He’d been collecting evidence all morning, and now, at last, he had someone to present his findings to.
“Do you reckon Charles’ tits are fake?”
Across the table, Oscar froze mid-chew. For a moment he looked like he might choke, but he powered through with an admirable display of self-control. After swallowing—an unusually deliberate process for him—he said, “What?”
“Her tits,” Lando repeated. “They’re bigger now, right?”
He flicked to another photo, this one from yesterday’s post-FP2 interviews. Yep, definitely bigger. The Ferrari race suit was unforgiving, and Lando had reviewed enough shots from two months ago to clock the difference.
It wasn’t like he was overly fixated. He was just observant. Observant enough to know this was a topic worth investigating.
Oscar recovered with a frown. “I don’t spend much time staring at her chest, to be honest. Seems rude.” He paused, then added, “Do you?”
“Obviously not,” Lando huffed, feeling heat creep up his neck. “It’s just—hard not to notice, okay? How have you not noticed this?”
Oscar poked at his salad with exaggerated precision, his fork scraping against the plate. “I don’t know, mate. When would she have had time for that? Between races? During a pit stop?”
The next photo was even more damning—a TikTok from earlier in the week where Charles had worn an aggressively tight sports bra while “working out” in a gym. Lando had his doubts about how much exercise was actually done there.
“You’re blind,” he muttered, zooming in. “And I looked it up. It’s not that long of a recovery time.”
“You looked it up?” Oscar’s face twisted like he’d bitten into something sour. It was a look Lando knew well—the same one Oscar reserved for moments when he thought Lando was being particularly thick. Like, weirdly thick.
“Whatever!” Lando shoved his phone aside, properly shamed, the screen clattering face-down against the table. He knew he was right. That’s what mattered. The proof was right there, plain as day. “You’ll notice it from now on, trust me.”
Oscar shrugged, unconvinced. “If you say so.”
Smug little bastard.
Lando didn’t care about Charles like that. Really. All he was doing was pointing out something blatantly obvious that everyone else seemed hell-bent on ignoring. There was nothing wrong with getting a boob job—absolutely nothing. But pretending like you hadn’t? That was just lame.
“You might want to be a little less obvious,” Max drawled beside him.
Lando’s head whipped around so fast his neck cracked. “I was just thinking.”
Max slouched back into her chair like she owned it, arms crossed lazily over her chest. Her mouth was curled into an exasperated grin that made it clear she’d already decided he was full of shit.
She tilted her head in the direction he had been staring. “Thinking while staring directly at Charles’ chest? Sure. Very subtle. What’s the matter, are mine not good enough for you?”
Max’s tits were nice. Full, proportional, and entirely unaltered since before the summer break. Perfectly consistent. They were therefore unable to be the subject of Lando’s current train of thought.
“Fuck off.” His words came out sharper than he’d intended, and he cleared his throat, trying for something less defensive. “I’m not, like—checking her out or anything. I was just thinking.”
“About Charles?”
“Well, yeah,” Lando replied, then faltered as her pointed look sliced through the air between them. “But not like that! Just—” He hesitated before blurting the next part, his words tumbling together. “Her tits are. You know. Kinda big, aren’t they?”
As soon as the sentence left his mouth, he regretted it. Max threw her head back and produced the most over-the-top gagging sound imaginable. The noise earned her at least one side-eye from someone nearby.
“Gross, dude. Seriously.”
“I’m not—fuck.” Lando checked the time on his watch. Nobody was going to come save him from this conversation. “They weren’t always so big. That’s all I’m saying.”
Max lowered her head back down and turned to him with a look of barely restrained delight. His embarrassment was feeding her soul.
“You’re disgusting,” she deadpanned. “That’s called growing up. What are you, twelve?”
“I know what puberty is, you muppet,” Lando grumbled, glaring. “But she’s—what, twenty-six? Boobs don’t just magically get bigger at that age.”
“Sure they do.” Max tilted her head, thoughtful. “Hers have always been pretty big. Maybe you just didn’t notice before.”
Lando was a noticer. He prided himself on noticing things. To imply he’d missed something so obvious was… well, inaccurate at best, insulting at worst.
They’d been on the grid for years together. He would’ve noticed if Charles had massive fucking tits the entire time.
“No way,” he said.
If Max—a woman—was doubling down on the idea that nothing had changed, then this wasn’t just ignorance. It was something bigger. Something insidious.
Clearly, everyone in the paddock had been infected by her—what? Her charm? Her deception? He didn’t know, but the power she held was stronger than he’d realised.
Ridiculous. Just ridiculous.
“Whatever you say,” Max snorted, sounding eerily reminiscent of Oscar. Lando sulked. “By the way, I saw at least two people snap pictures of you staring, so…”
Lando made sure to flip Max off before she left.
The worst part about coming second in the World Drivers’ Championship—beyond the gut-punching disappointment of it—was, without question, the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony.
It was the annual pinnacle of faux celebration, the kind of event that demanded full engagement while offering next to no reward. Lando despised every part of it.
The suit was the first offender: a custom-tailored abomination that somehow still managed to pinch at the shoulders and sag awkwardly around the waist.
Then there was the food—rubbery, lukewarm attempts at haute cuisine, arranged with care and served with all the soul of a cafeteria tray.
Of course, there was the crowd too. An exhausting parade of stuffy executives and sponsors whose grins were too wide and whose conversations reeked of ulterior motives. They stalked the floor with champagne flutes in hand, turning even casual small talk into a subtle competition of status and wealth.
The whole thing reeked of obligation.
And finally, while he didn’t exactly hate Charles, he really wasn’t keen on seeing her either.
Oscar or Max—or both, at this point—had definitely joked about it to her by now. Her expressions whenever they met during the final triple header said enough. A raised eyebrow here. An amused glance there. She didn’t even try to hide it.
It pissed him off endlessly. Not because he cared, but because it was so insanely dumb that no one else did.
When he arrived at the venue, he made the active decision that wasn’t going to give it space in his mind tonight.
The first ninety-nine percent of the ceremony was tolerable only because of how uneventful it was. He navigated it all by sheer force of will. By the time the actual awards rolled around, Lando was already half-tuned out, reacting on autopilot to the stale jokes they made at his expense.
Receiving the Constructors’ trophy, feeling the weight of it in his hands, brought a sliver of solace. Not much, but enough to take the edge off. He could hold onto that.
But, as it turned out, it wasn’t the ninety-nine percent of the night that mattered. It always had to be the last one percent where things went irredeemably sideways.
Desperate for a moment to himself, Lando needed a bathroom. More specifically, he needed an escape route ro a bathroom that involved as little human interaction as possible—a task far easier said than done when the venue was fucking packed. Every last person in the room seemed armed with either a phone to shove in his face or some garbled anecdote about their niece’s love of racing.
He chose the most empty-looking hallway he could find and rounded the corner briskly, eyes fixed on some distant void where peace—and hopefully a toilet—awaited.
And then—
Impact.
Not literally, but close enough. Lando skidded to a halt, his soles squeaking faintly against the polished marble floor. For half a second, he thought he might recover gracefully. Then he realised who exactly he’d crashed into.
Of course, he thought.
Of course it would be her.
The dress Charles wore was the kind of thing that shimmered even in poor lighting, its fabric hugging her recently elevated chest so precisely it might as well have been sprayed on. The floor-length hem swept the ground elegantly, broken only by a subtle slit up the side that revealed a sliver of her thigh.
All too tacky for Lando, but normal.
What wasn’t normal—what nearly knocked the air clean of him—were the heels. Towering, ridiculous things that added inches to her stature, leaving Lando uncomfortably aware of how close his eye level was to—
“Lando!” Charles greeted, her voice bright with exhaustion and just enough mischief to make his palms itch. It held an unwelcome familiarity to it, as if this were some pleasant coincidence and not Lando’s personal hell. As if they were friends.
Which they weren’t. For the record.
Her face wasn’t exactly in its usual picture-perfect state either; her makeup hadn’t quite survived the marathon evening. Streaks of mascara etched faint shadows beneath her cheekbones, and the highlighter that had once glowed artfully across the bridge of her nose had given way to a faint sheen of sweat.
Lando wanted to make fun of her for it, but he was too fucking tired. His expression stayed flat.
“Charles.” He figured that the irrepressible smile on her lips could carry the weight of both their small talk.
She seemed completely unperturbed by his tone, or his attempt to pass her. He didn’t make it far before her hand shot out, catching hold of his sleeve before he could fully escape.
“Wait,” she said. It wasn’t a request.
Lando twisted his arm slightly, testing the resistance of her grip. He opened his mouth to protest—he wasn’t in the mood for games or whatever this was—but Charles didn’t give him the chance. Before he could get a single word out, she spun on her heel, her hair flying out behind her. It almost slapped him in the face.
“Help me first, will you?” she asked over one shoulder. “It’s stuck.”
The zipper on her dress gleamed traitorously low, the metal a streak of silver running halfway down the exposed curve of her back. Below it, the dress clung neatly to her shoulders and sides. Above it, the fabric gaped, loose and half-open, revealing a glimpse of the dark lace of her bra underneath.
Wasn’t the point of dresses like this not needing a bra? Dresses like these were supposed to have padding or… or built-in structure or something, weren’t they? His ex had gone into an entire tirade about that once.
Lando swallowed hard. The suit he’d been complaining about all night, already unforgiving, now felt intolerably tight.
“Lando?” Charles called. There was a sharpness to her voice now, just the faintest trace of annoyance peering through her polite veneer.
“Fuck,” he muttered, loud enough that she turned her head to frown at him over her shoulder. Great.
Still… not even someone like Charles deserved to walk back into the media-packed chaos outside with her dress falling off. Even at his most irritated, he couldn’t in good conscience let her face the kind of public humiliation that would bring.
“Stay still.” If it came out harsher than necessary, well, it wasn’t like she’d asked nicely.
His hand darted out before he could hesitate further, landing lightly at the base of her spine where the zipper began its upward journey. His fingers brushed against the soft, warm skin there as he pinched the metallic tab, hurrying to pull it up in one swift motion. The fabric pulled together snugly in the wake of his efforts, closing over the glint of lace and securing its hold once more.
“There,” he said curtly, pulling his hand back faster than he would’ve with an open flame. He needed some fresh air. And to piss. “You owe me one.”
Charles turned to face him again, her hair falling in soft waves back over her shoulders. A strand of it landed between her cleavage.
Then she hit him with that smile. The smile that could launch a hundred press kits and still leave some in reserve. Dazzling, effortless, and fake as hell.
“Of course,” she said lightly. “Thank you, Lando.”
That was it. No jab, no cutting remark, no clever little quip waiting to follow. Just a simple acknowledgment and smile before she flicked her wrist in a casual gesture, stepping aside to let him pass.
Lando didn’t trust it as far as he could throw her. And that probably wasn’t very far.
He muttered something that might’ve vaguely resembled “no problem” under his breath before dashing past her. He didn’t spare her another glance, nor did he slow his stride until he’d put some much-needed distance between them.
Lingering any longer would’ve been like painting a giant bullseye on himself. He could just feel it.
Back at his hotel room, the first thing Lando did—after peeling out of his stupid choking suit—was fall face-first onto his bed, letting the exhaustion of the day wash over him.
He would’ve been happy to fall asleep like that, but his phone buzzed on the nightstand that he reluctantly rolled over, squinting at the screen.
@charles_leclerc tagged you in a post.
How was that even possible? He didn’t go anywhere near her tonight until the incident in the hallway, and he was positive there was nobody else there with them.
He clicked the notification, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
At first glance, it looked like just another glamorous selfie against the gala’s red-and-gold backdrop, accompanied with a sweet, if not dull, post congratulating them all on their achievements.
Notably, there were three tags on the image. One hovered over her face (Max), another just above her shoulder (Oscar), and the third?
Her tits. Tagged: Lando Norris.
Lando nearly tossed his phone out the window.
He cursed up a storm under his breath as he went to go shower, fists clenched by his sides. If he didn’t remove himself from the situation, he knew he’d end up commenting something stupid.
Later that night, he found himself scrolling back to her post anyway.
A party hosted by George of all people didn’t exactly scream “night of the century.” But it was winter break, the weekends yawned ahead with no end in sight, and Lando needed something to do before he went crazy.
Max (the nicer one) was off in Portugal playing house with his girlfriend, leaving him to spiral into a bout of boredom. The kind of boredom that had him RSVPing to George’s party.
She said there’d be edibles, so. Apparently, that was what it took these days to pique his interest.
An RSVP. For a bloody party. Would more than ten people show up? But whatever. It was something to do, and he knew George herself would be there, if nothing else.
That said, he wasn’t about to let anyone think he was eager to be there. He arrived thirty minutes late as a statement, tucking his sunglasses into his pocket. George—or whoever actually planned this—could do with that energy.
What Lando hadn’t anticipated was walking into the place to find it already in full swing. The bass hit him before the visuals did, a heavy, chest-thumping thrum that made the metal floor vibrate underneath his feet. Everyone seemed half a drink away from either blacking out or snogging whoever was closest. Some girl he didn’t recognise nearly pushed him into the railing because she couldn’t walk straight.
“You’re late!”
Max’s voice carried over the pounding music, and Lando turned to see her half-sprawled over a nearby booth, drink in hand. Her cheeks were flushed, a sure sign that she’d been drinking. Max was hopeless at hiding it.
She was clad in a fucking polo of all things, the kind of polo you’d wear golfing, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The top few buttons had been undone, showing enough skin to toe the line between casual and suggestive. He hated it and was in awe of it at the same time.
“It’s not a dinner reservation,” Lando yelled back, weaving closer to her booth in an effort to avoid wearing out his throat less than a minute after arriving. He slid into the seat across from her, nose wrinkling. “And—seriously? A polo? To a club?”
“Fuck yeah,” Max replied. Instantly and without a trace of shame. “You drinking tonight?”
“Probably not.” Discussing himself was the quickest way for her to needle him over something, so he redirected that conversation topic before it could take off. “I’m surprised you’re here.”
“Why? Because of Georgie? She’s a bitch, but a party’s a party.” Max raised her plastic cup to emphasise her point, swaying slightly with the movement. “Besides, you know her and Carmen broke up—”
“Stop.” Lando groaned, throwing up a hand to stop her. He knew exactly where she was going with this, and no part of him wanted to hear it play out. “I don’t want to hear about your sex life.”
Max gasped, hand flying to her chest in exaggerated scandal. “Who said anything about sex? You fucking pervert.”
He rolled his eyes, unimpressed, but before he could call her out on her bullshit, Max grinned wildly—a wolf spotting its prey. Oh no. There was mischief in that smile.
“Speaking of perverts,” she said, and couldn’t even finish her sentence without giggling, “guess who else is here?”
Lando didn’t need the exaggerated waggle of her eyebrows for to know. Life had a way of kicking him repeatedly in the same sore spot whenever it got the chance.
“Fuck off.” He glared at her. His stomach twisted despite himself. “Just show me where the weed is. Please.”
Max extended a hand as she stood up. If the bounce in her step was anything to go by, she was thoroughly enjoying this. Lando followed her through the crush of people, working towards what he could only hope was salvation in the form of a blunt.
Lando was well into his second bowl of chips—crunching away with the kind of mindless dedication that could only come from avoiding the rest of the room—when she appeared.
“Lando,” Charles said.
He glanced up cautiously from his post near the snack table. “Charles.”
It was impossible not to notice… them. He tried, God, he tried. Really, really put effort into keeping his eyes anchored somewhere north of her collarbone, but when they were right there, dangling smugly in his peripheral vision, how could he not?
She had to be doing this on purpose. There was no other explanation. Up until tonight, every time he’d seen Charles out at a party, she’d worn the same low-effort uniform: an oversized hoodie, maybe a plain white t-shirt, paired with jeans and sneakers. Crop tops were definitely not in her usual wardrobe.
Maybe George had tipped her off that he’d RSVP’d. Maybe instead of ignoring it or laughing it off like any reasonable person, she’d gone full villain mode. It was the only explanation he could find for why she’d show up dressed like this.
She wasn’t even wearing a bra underneath it. Why would she wear a bra for a padded dress but not for the flimsiest cotton he’d ever seen? Christ.
“You’re really not subtle, you know,” Charles commented, pulling him clean out of his glowering spiral.
Lando groaned, loudly, and looked anywhere but at her. Over near the bar, one of his bloody mechanics was leaning in close to a pretty blonde older woman, hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke. Beyond them, Max appeared to be arguing with George—animating one arm into wild flails while the other somehow managed to keep her drink from spilling.
The whole club was a mess of perfume, sweat, and overlapping voices. It was overstimulating, overwhelming, and somehow still less hellish than talking to Charles was.
Charles laughed—actually laughed—at his visible discomfort, a sound full of lightly veiled delight. Then she reached out, completely uninvited, and patted his shoulder like she was trying to console him.
“There’s no need to look so angry,” she assured him, her delight barely concealed in her voice, if at all. “I’m very… flattered.”
“I’m not—” Lando’s jaw worked overtime, chewing through his rising frustration. He jabbed the bowl of chips for good measure, pulling out another with unnecessary force. God, this was infuriating. “It’s not because I think you’re hot.”
“Of course. You are always staring at me because you think I’m ugly.”
Lando’s hand twitched.
The chip he’d been holding cracked into two brittle shards, spilling salt across his fingertips. For the briefest, most unhinged moment, he stared down at the bowl in his hands and considered just hurling the rest of it at her face. It would be satisfying, watching the crumbs rain down over her stupidly shiny hair.
But there were people here. Witnesses. People with phones. People who would love nothing more than to film Lando Norris pelting chips at poor, sweet, innocent Charles Leclerc and splash it across TikTok.
So no chips. Not unless he wanted to trend on Twitter for all the wrong reasons tomorrow.
Instead, he chewed through what little patience he could muster. “No. It’s because you’re a liar. And I don’t understand what you get out of it. It’s annoying.”
Charles scrutinised him in clear confusion before her face softened. “Ah.” She clapped her hands together. “You are talking about—yes, Oscar told me about this. Your… theory about me.”
Lando covered his face with one hand. “Oh my god.”
He fucking knew it. That traitor. That absolute Judas.
Lando mentally bumped Oscar up to first place on his internal people to abandon during the apocalypse list.
His eyes darted around the club in desperate search of an escape route. The nearest exit. The furthest corner. A hole in the ground that might spontaneously appear to swallow him whole. Anything to physically remove himself from this absolute nightmare of a conversation.
“Honestly,” she continued, relentless, “I’ve been thinking this for a while, but you’re overestimating how cunning I am. Why would I be hiding something like that, really?”
“I don’t know!” Lando snapped. “You tell me!”
Charles shifted her stance, crossing her arms, and—did she have to do that? The movement pushed her chest up in a way that made it impossible not to notice, which only made his point more evident.
She was trolling him. She was literally trolling him, in real life.
“This is the problem,” she said. “I can’t tell you, because I have not done what you’re thinking I did.”
Lando’s mouth opened, half a rebuttal forming on instinct, but she cut him off with a raised hand before a single syllable could escape.
“If I show you, will you stop with this?”
“Show me what?” he asked, suspicious.
“My breasts,” Charles said, pronouncing the word so deliberately enunciated that it felt more criminal than if she’d shouted it.
Lando’s brain shattered on impact. It splintered into a thousand jagged, irretrievable pieces.
“What—what the hell?” He was certain his ears were burning brighter than the strobing lights overhead.
“You will see there is no scar,” she elaborated, too composed for this unbelievably deranged conversation, “and then you will stop talking to people about me. Yes?”
“You mean here?”
“The bathrooms are pretty clean,” she replied matter-of-factly.
His temples pounded loud enough in his ears to drown out the music. He looked back out to the club, where everyone was too hammered and preoccupied with their own shit to notice the nuclear fallout playing out in the corner.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The last two neurons still firing in Lando’s brain scrambled to come up with something.
“I—okay.”
Charles smiled at him. “Okay.”
The bathrooms, expansive and gleaming under soft golden lights, were probably the classiest thing about this entire night. Lando wasn’t usually one to pay much attention to bathroom décor, but even he had to admit that the marble countertops and wall-to-wall mirrors screamed luxury. Squeaky clean, too. Perfectly maintained. No scratches or smudges to speak of. Not the worst place to… uh.
To… whatever it was that was happening right now.
Charles went in first, her heels clicking softly against the polished tiles. Halfway across the room, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder, one brow arched expectantly.
Right. Privacy.
Lando reached back and pressed the door shut with a faint click, sealing himself to his fate.
And then, without so much as a word, Charles gripped the hem of her crop top and pulled it over her head.
For a single, deeply excruciating moment—the fabric caught in her hair. Lando shifted forward instinctively, meaning to help before she suffocated herself by accident, but she freed herself quickly, tugging the material loose with a huff of impatience.
And then: there they were.
For better or worse, his mind took stock of all the details immediately.
To her credit—and he really hated giving her credit for anything—whoever was responsible for her new tits had done an exceptional job. He’d seen fake ones before. Plenty of them, thanks to his ex and her highly curated social circle. They’d always leaned into some uncanny valley territory: too round, too firm, lacking that natural weight or softness.
But Charles’ balanced close to perfect without tipping over. Plush, but not cartoonish. Round, but still maintaining the subtle imperfections that made things feel real. The slope of her waist only served to exaggerate everything else; the gentle arc of her figure made them appear more extravagant than they were.
If they were attached to literally anyone else, he might’ve even admitted to liking them.
… Okay, fine. He liked them even attached to her.
But that didn’t mean they weren’t fake. He was just acknowledging someone’s objective attractiveness. That was all.
Charles did a quick spin, arms lifted in a half-mocking flourish. Lando inadvertently tracked the soft bounce as she moved, and felt himself swallow thickly.
“See?” she said, coming to a stop. “There is nothing.”
She gestured at herself, at the smooth, unblemished skin above the curve of her breasts, and waited, her expression tinged with the maddening smugness of someone who knew they’d just won an argument.
Lando crossed his arms. His face was already on fire, and at this point, there was no hope for salvaging his dignity.
So, fuck it. Time to double down.
“The scars could be faint,” he countered.
Charles narrowed her eyes. “Then look closer,” she said, and had the audacity to sound annoyed with him, like it was his fault her breasts were so flawless. “They won’t bite.”
Formula One drivers were, by nature, competitive creatures. They’d claw their way to the top, tooth and nail, fueled by a relentless drive to win, to conquer, to prove themselves. Sometimes, that competitive spirit manifested in healthy ways—hard work, dedication, pushing themselves to the absolute limit on the track.
At other times, it manifested in decidedly less healthy ways. Like, for example, reaching for one of your coworkers’ tits in a random club bathroom to prove a point.
He considered his current headache a type of work-related injury.
His palm found the warm underside of her breast, fingers splaying gently over the skin there as he searched for evidence. Maybe he should’ve looked up where these scars were actually supposed to be. The underside had seemed like the most logical place, but the skin there was—perfect. Smooth, unmarked. Fuck.
Charles’ lashes fluttered purposefully, delicate as butterfly wings, and that was all it took to piss him off enough to do something stupid.
He shifted his hand upward, his thumb and forefinger finding her nipple and giving it a quick, firm squeeze. Charles’ eyes widened, and the smile she’d worn slipped clean off her face.
“Focus, please,” she hissed.
But, critically, she didn’t move away.
Lando’s gaze stayed locked on her face as his hand slid to the other side, fingers brushing deliberately across her skin. It was the same story there: smooth, unbroken, flawless.
He trailed the pad of his thumb along the top curve of her waist anyway, chasing some unlikely clue. Maybe they slipped the implants in through the side, somehow. There had to be something.
But no. Nothing. The only anomaly, a small, faint scar tucked near the edge of her armpit, looked far too minor to have been the result of surgery. And far too distant from the… target area.
“Fuck you,” he muttered, his voice dripping with resignation.
Charles giggled, a soft, breathy sound. It sounded dazed.
“You—” she started, then caught herself, straightening her back. “You’ll stop talking about me now, to everyone. You promised.”
He really hated her ability to switch gears at will like that, to go from a small sound to being in charge as quickly as her mood allowed. It was unnerving. She was unnerving.
“I didn’t promise,” Lando pointed out.
Still, he wasn’t about to go around spreading misinformation. He wasn’t that guy. Even if he thought it was ridiculously dumb that Charles’ boobs had nearly doubled in size at the ripe old age of twenty-seven.
But he also wasn’t about to just roll over and take the L. Especially not when she snorted, rolling her eyes at him with a sort of exaggerated disdain, as if she couldn’t help herself from twisting the figurative knife one last time.
Clearly, she thought he was pathetic. He could practically see the thought bubble forming above her head: Oh, Lando. You poor, simple creature.
She went to cross her arms, but Lando’s hands were still on her chest, halting the motion halfway. Her arms hung awkwardly at her sides for a moment before pausing altogether.
“Lando,” she warned.
She squinted at him, and he squinted right back.
Neither of them moved.
His mouth found hers before he’d fully processed the decision.
She made a surprised noise—as much surprise as someone could muster when they were already half-naked in a bathroom with a coworker who had questionable intentions—and stumbled backwards. Her back hit the edge of the sink with a dull thud, and Lando steadied them both, one hand bracing against the wall beside her head.
“Lando—” she tried again, but he cut her off with another kiss, deeper this time. God, he really wished she would just shut the fuck up for once.
Her mouth tasted like whatever sugary cocktail she’d been nursing earlier, and he found that he didn’t completely hate it. Eventually, she relented, one hand reaching up to curl around his shoulder. A low groan rumbled in her chest, and her nails dug into the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
Heat surged through Lando with dizzying speed. His free hand gripped her waist tightly—tight enough to bruise in the morning. An absolutely fucking brutal idea. Fuck.
When he pulled back, his eyes traced the flushed curve of her cheekbones and the slight tremor in her lips. This was it, surely. The moment she’d drop the act. When the controlled, perfectly curated facade cracked, and Charles broke just a little. For him, of all people.
Yeah, right. Wishful thinking.
“You’re a terrible kisser,” she said with a smile, swiping her thumb across his jaw.
“Are you really giving me sass right now?” Lando hissed, tugging at her hair. “Seriously, can’t you do anything other than bitch all the time?”
Charles responded by snapping her teeth shut against his bottom lip, far harder than necessary. A spike of pain lanced through him, and he jerked away reflexively.
“Pussy,” she laughed at him. Lando raised a hand to wipe at the tender, sore flesh. “Why would I ever play fair with you?”
Why indeed.
He could feel his underwear begin to strain under the weight of his growing erection. Frustration towards his own body twisted in his chest, but then Charles’ thigh slipped between his and any lingering apprehension he had vanished.
Fuck, well. If he was going to do this, then Charles was coming with him.
“Stay still,” he said, and pressed forward, caging her between him and the wall. Her knee was still a firm presence against his dick.
Charles tilted her head, and the last thing Lando saw before he leaned over was the confused pinch of her brows.
“Oh—” Her mouth parted into a soft gasp. He went straight for one of her tits, fingers curling around the curve and giving it a squeeze. A proper one this time. His own mouth found one of her nipples, and she groaned, her fingers flying down to tangle in his hair.
It was the kind of high-pitched, embarrassing noise he would’ve normally loved to laugh at her over, but not now. Right now, he just wanted to hear more.
He found them by sucking lightly, then harder when she began to writhe and grind her hips against his leg. There was a sense of power in knowing that she was getting off on this just as much as he was. At least he wasn’t the only one painfully turned on.
“Keep going,” Charles panted. The angle was horrid for her—double chin and all, her hair matted and clinging to her forehead with sweat.
Logically, she should’ve looked awful. But the desperate, urgent flutter of her breath sent more heat crawling up his spine.
“Keep going where?” Lando asked. He released the tender skin with a small pop, watching the flesh slowly regain its shape. A pink circle lingered where his mouth had been, like a bullseye. “Here?”
“Have you ever been with a woman before?” she gritted out. “Lower.”
“Have you ever been with a man before?” Lando stood up straight so their faces were eye-level. “You’re so impatient. It’s called foreplay.”
But he understood, sort of, because the ache between his legs was rapidly approaching unbearable. He should’ve worn looser pants knowing the possibility of meeting someone tonight.
“We are in a bathroom, Lando. We don’t have time to—”
Just to be a bitch, he cut her off with a kiss. Admittedly, it wasn’t one of his better ones, but it did its job.
He fumbled with the button of his jeans while she moaned into his mouth, her fingers doing their best to distract him by fisting into his hair. It took two tries to finally slide the zipper down, but once he had, he slipped a hand into his boxer briefs, shoving them aside just enough to free his dick.
“Shit,” he said, involuntarily, the cool air hitting his cock. Charles made a curious sound in the back of her throat, her thigh shifting upwards in an attempt to nudge at his wrist and get closer. He steadied himself with a hand on the wall, his nails scraping against the cold tile. Fuck. “Fuck.”
“I guess we won’t have to worry about being too long,” she said. “Are you always like this? So sensitive?”
He willed himself not to do something stupid like come on the spot. Or punch her in the face.
To stave off the temptation, Lando busied himself by pulling her skirt up. It was a short thing, a black miniskirt that he swore, again, she’d never worn before in her life. Her legs parted a fraction, one leg braced against the wall and the other on his thigh.
His fingers ghosted over the underside of her panties. They came back sopping wet.
“You want me,” Lando said, unable to keep the delight from his voice. “Holy fuck, Charles, you’re soaked—”
“Okay, yes, I get it,” she snapped. A deep flush stretched across her cheeks, and her eyes stayed firmly fixed on the sliver of space between them. “Can you just…”
He probably should’ve put up more of a fight, but something in him said not to draw this out. Or, more specifically, his dick told him that he physically couldn’t.
“Okay,” he breathed, and shoved her panties aside. They strained against the side of her cunt, and he licked his lips, seeing the hem dig a red line into her skin. “Right.”
With as light a touch as he could muster, he rubbed the tip of his cock along her slit. It caught briefly at her entrance, and they both jumped. A choked-off noise left Charles, and she covered her mouth with her hand. God, that was hot. Emboldened, he gripped himself harder and guided his length to slip between her folds. Just a little more pressure, and he would—
She slapped him on the chest. Not the playful kind of slap. He jumped backwards, covering himself with his hands.
“What the fuck?!”
“I didn’t mean you should put it in!” she shouted back. She looked ridiculous, yelling like that with her skirt hiked up and her whole body tinged pink.
“You’re the one who told me to hurry up!” He was not going to be shamed for wanting to fuck her when she looked like that. “Are you scared?”
She gave an impressively sharp roll of her eyes. “I meant—I don’t know, eat me out or something. We are in a bathroom, this is no place to—”
God, Lando could feel his erection flagging from all her fucking complaining. “So you want me to get on my knees on this dirty ass floor, but you won’t let me fuck you?”
“Well, yes.” Charles’ eyes flitted downwards. “You’re wearing pants. You’ll be fine. It won’t take long.”
For fuck’s sake.
Lando pinched her jaw as he swooped in, angling her face up to meet him. He was beginning to learn that kissing was a remarkably effective way of silencing her. The only noise that remained was the dreamy moan she gave when he scraped his nails down her throat.
“Fine,” he mumbled, and pressed forward again. She squirmed incessantly; he pinned her to the wall by his hips, his cock rubbing along the curve of her inner thigh. That was good. That was enough to take the edge off, at least. “No fucking. We can just… like this.”
Charles scowled at him, but all he had to do was keep up that same motion—letting his cock rub along her slit, and she caved. A few more strokes and she was panting openly, her forehead thudding against his chest while she gripped his shoulders to steady herself.
“Fine,” she repeated back to him, strained. “Get on with it, then.”
Somehow, she still managed come off as unimpressed, even as desperate as she clearly was.
A surge of indignation flared in his chest. So did the urge to fuck her absolutely senseless.
He used two fingers to part the seam of her cunt, and with some careful angling managed to press his cockhead at her entrance. Not inside, just. There. Right on the edge. Enough to feel her warmth without breaching the surface. Angling upwards left him nudging her clit before he slipped back down, her pussy lips kissing the head of his cock, the slick pooling there.
“Fuck,” Charles said ineloquently, and reached a hand down.
Lando knew it’d be good for her. It was just the right angle. She must have been sensitive, equally as sensitive as he was. That was his only excuse for why he nearly doubled over the moment her hand wrapped around him. She had a tight grip, and the callouses on her fingers made him shiver.
A thick bead of pre-cum pooled at his slit. She swirled the pad of her thumb against him, and he felt it drip down the shaft.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—
“That’s—” Lando stuttered out, his hips jumping forward. His cock nudged closer to her entrance, and she shuddered, clamping her hand down harder on his length to stop him. His knees nearly buckled. It was a terrifying chain reaction. “Charles. Shit.”
“Yeah.” Her pupils were blown so wide he could hardly see the green anymore.
They stayed like that, Charles’ hand around him, his cock still notched at her entrance, his face buried into her neck, until, eventually, inevitably, he came. A hot spurt of liquid against her pussy. He lifted his head just in time to see her gasp, and without thinking, he pressed his thumb against her clit.
After a few circles she was coming too—soaking his fingers as her legs gave out.
It was all rather… anticlimactic, really.
He stood there panting until she seemed to come to her senses and pushed him away. They had a silent standoff before Lando reached for a roll of paper towels and began mopping up the mess between her legs. Because he was such a gentleman. Obviously.
“Thanks,” she said, sounding rather unhappy about it.
After tossing the last of the paper towels into the rubbish bin, he zipped himself back up. His hands felt uncomfortably clammy as he did so. He was almost entirely positive the moment he stepped out of this bathroom, a massive neon sign would appear over his head that said I ALMOST FUCKED CHARLES.
“Lando.”
Charles had slipped her top back on, the offensively small piece of fabric stretching across her chest. Even now, even after seeing the evidence, he still couldn’t believe they were natural.
“What?” he asked. She didn’t respond, only narrowed her eyes at him, and something about the expression triggered his flight or fight response. If she was going to start bitching even now… “I’m not going to tell anyone. Trust me, I want people knowing about this even less than—”
“My apartment is two blocks away,” she interrupted. “Let’s go.”
“—than you… wait,” he said, and replayed her words. “You want to go to yours?”
“You’re not intending to leave me like this, surely?” Charles frowned. “I knew you were not very good, but—”
“Hey, wait a second. Don’t give me that crap. You literally came, I—”
Charles put her hands on her hips. “That was not an orgasm, Lando.”
He sputtered. “You literally—all over my hand!”
She plucked her bag out of the sink and slung it over her shoulder, ignoring his protests. “Let’s go,” she said. And then, when he didn’t move, added, “I have condoms in my apartment.”
The most difficult part of the night so far was ignoring Max’s pointed stare from across the room as they left.
Something tickled his nose, dragging Lando halfway out of sleep with a groggy groan. For a blissful moment, he thought it might be an annoying fly or a stray bit of lint caught on his pillow.
Reaching up, he brushed a hand over his face—only to hit something solid, warm, and distinctly not a pillow.
He blinked awake. A blur of dark brown hair greeted him, and then—fuck.
The blur of dark brown resolved itself into Charles. She was fast asleep, her chest rising and falling steadily. She stirred when his aimless swat clipped her in the back of the head, but the movement was minor, and within moments, she’d resettled against him.
One of her legs was curled upward, angled into her chest, leaving her hips tilted just enough that the round outline of her ass sat squarely in his line of sight. If he moved even slightly—just the smallest shift forward—his cock, already bare and waking up far faster than he was, would glide against the curve of her lower back.
He debated on it. It would be proportional response to everything from last night. But he didn’t quite feel awake enough to commit to a proper fight, and what remaining judgement he had told him he should get the fuck out of here. The fact she was a Ferrari driver was humiliating enough already,
He was going to need so much therapy to untangle this one. Was this his lowest point in life so far? How was he going to explain this anybody? What was he supposed to say? That he’d accidentally stumbled into Charles Leclerc’s vagina?
Honestly, that made more sense than what had actually happened.
The mattress creaked faintly as propped himself up on an elbow before cautiously sitting up fully. For a the noise that felt monumental in his head, it barely registered in the quiet of the room, and Charles remained undisturbed.
Everything about her room looked much less inviting in the cold, sober light of morning. Just as expensive, but far less worth it. He almost tripped over a pile of old laundry on his way to the bathroom.
Splashing warm water on his face didn’t help his headache, but at least he could use the alcohol as an excuse for that.
He found a pack of spare disposable toothbrushes in the cupboard, along with a host of unopened makeup products and beauty supplies. Clearly, her favourite brands had decided they needed to be associated with her, no matter how little she was interested in the product itself.
Lando grabbed one of the toothbrushes and uncapped it. Pressing the bristles against his tongue reminded him of her fingers slipping into his mouth. He could still taste the salt from her cunt.
He spit the minty toothpaste into the sink and took a deep breath.
All this because her stupid tits had decided to randomly grow. God.
“Hurry up. I need to piss.”
Lando groaned and flung open the door with his foot. “Piss, then. I don’t give a shit.”
Charles levelled him with a glare. “I’m not pissing with you right there.”
He gave her a once-over, and was pleased to find that even Charles looked like shit when waking up. Her hair flew in every direction, and the hunch of her shoulders was far from flattering.
What wasn’t as pleasing to find was that even in this state, his brain could still supply a series of images reminding him of what it was like to be inside her.
Lando turned away to face the mirror again. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” He reached for the nearest comb, of which there were many. “Unless you’re going to shit, do whatever.”
He could practically hear Charles’ eye roll. A moment later, the comb was pulled out of his grasp. He was half-expecting to be smacked in the head with it, but she only set it aside and then slid a different comb into his hand.
“This one will be better for your hair,” she said, and then shuffled over to the toilet.
Lando wrestled with the comb for a minute before deciding it would not, in fact, be better for his hair.
While he attempted to pull the edge of the comb out of his curls without it snapping, Charles elbowed him aside, squeezing in between him and the sink. Wordlessly, she washed her hands, lathering the soap until the scent of oranges was inescapable.
She also did something ridiculous with her ass while reaching for the towel to dry them. Lando jumped backwards as a rogue elbow made contact with his hip.
“Before you speak, it’s not my fault you are taking up so much room,” Charles said. She sidestepped him, giving him some room to breathe without his dick rubbing up against her. “I’m going to shower.”
She didn’t demand for him to leave.
Twenty minutes later, he came with his face buried between her tits, which felt like a rather fitting end to it all.
Charles nearly tripped over her own feet when she realised how long they’d taken in the shower, and the impending Pirelli meeting she had to attend at the end of the hour. She yelled over her shoulder before slamming the door to her office, verbatim: “Do whatever you want, I don’t care. Just don’t mess up my shit.”
After weighing his options, Lando came to the conclusion that staying and eating through her fridge was the funnier choice than just leaving. Besides, he was nosy and wanted to see her apartment. He doubted he’d ever get a chance after this.
There wasn’t much in her kitchen, but he managed to scrounge up an apple and half a loaf of bread. With nothing else to do, he flipped through the TV while eating, landing on some generic English language talk show.
Zak probably would’ve joked about him eavesdropping on Charles’ meeting, but he wasn’t that desperate. And it was with fucking Pirelli—there was nothing juicy about tyres that Ferrari had and they didn’t.
The talk show almost bored him back to sleep, and while Charles had said the meeting would only be half an hour, the credits rolled on without sign of her. Lando’s phone was at three percent and not likely to hold a charge much longer.
He scrubbed the dish he’d used with no real care, rinsed it, and shoved it in the drying rack before heading back towards her bedroom.
It wasn’t outright snooping. His socks were still in here somewhere, and he had to retrieve them. Entering her room was perfectly reasonable in his situation.
The daylight spilling through the curtains did nothing to help the state of her room. A half-kicked duvet trailed onto the floor, an assortment of random clothing was tossed carelessly over furniture, and a bunch of seemingly mismatched shoes lay abandoned wherever they’d been kicked off.
It was less revealing than he’d hoped, other than a polaroid stuck haphazardly to the edge of her bedside table showing her and Max making out in some grainy blur.
Which, ew. Lando did not need to know about that.
He’d wanted to wrangle one last blowjob out of her, but he was beginning to think leaving was the better option. Before he uncovered anything else that made him gag.
Lando uncovered his socks from underneath her bed, along with something else. It was flimsy and scratchy in his palm, and it crinkled when he closed his fist around it. Paper?
He quickly rolled on his socks and then straightened out the paper with his fist, only to be met with a giant pair of tits.
Not real ones, obviously. These were glossy, perfectly airbrushed, and printed clean onto the pamphlet he’d apparently just fished out.
What the fuck.
Turning it over, he found a phone number and an email address listed across the back, paired with the logo of what looked like a private hospital. On the front, right below the obnoxiously perky cleavage of the model, was a small text box detailing a particular surgeon’s specialization: breast augmentation.
There was even a personal signature scrawled across it in looping pen strokes. A referral, maybe? Or a recommendation?
Whatever it was, Lando wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what it meant.
Charles had lied to his face. She’d stood there all smug and self-satisfied in that godforsaken club bathroom, literally gaslighting him into thinking otherwise. She’d gone on about her flawless skin and chest with an unshakable confidence that almost had him convinced.
But now he had proof. Finally. He knew he wasn’t crazy.
Oh, he couldn’t wait to see her face when she realised he’d figured it out. Now he definitely had to stick around until her dumb tyre meeting ended.
Lando didn’t need to wait long. Around half past two, just as he was in the middle of a particularly adorable TikTok video featuring a golden retriever who refused to let go of its leash, the door to her office cracked open.
“Oh,” Charles said, and leaned against the doorframe. “You’re still here.”
Lando sprang to his feet, shoving his phone aside. “Yeah, I’m still here, and look what I found.” Fishing into his pocket, he pulled out the crumpled pamphlet and smoothed it out before waving it around for emphasis. He wished there was a jury here to see his triumph. “What is this, huh? This explains a lot, doesn’t it?”
Charles didn’t react immediately. For a long, slow moment, she just stood there, gaze skimming the glossy piece of paper in his hand with an inscrutable expression. Finally, she sighed, pushing herself off the doorframe.
“It’s not mine,” she said.
Lando’s jaw dropped.
“You cannot be giving me this shit!” He vividly imagined slapping her with the pamphlet. “It was in your room, under your bed. You’re such a chronic fucking liar.”
Charles’ eye twitched, but that was all he got out of her.
“It’s not mine,” she repeated.
Lando shoved the stupid thing in her direction. “Then why was it in your room?”
“Does it matter?” She sighed, raising her hands to rub at her temples. “What is with you? Are you just bored, and you are thinking it’ll be fun to anger me? Is your car for next season not fast enough?”
“Now you’re just deflecting.” Lando crossed his arms.
Charles pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling through her teeth like she was seconds away from smashing her head into the nearest wall. Lando felt very wronged by her whole demeanour. She wasn’t the one allowed to be frustrated here.
“Okay,” she said, her voice clipped. “If you want the truth—you can tell George you pressured me into telling you. I’m sure she will be very happy to hear all about it.”
Lando froze. The smug certainty he’d been wearing seconds ago cracked and fell clean off his face.
“George,” Lando echoed. “George is getting a boob job?”
Out of all the things he expected Charles to say, something with George’s name in it hadn’t even been in the top twenty. Or thirty. Or hundred.
“She isn’t getting one. She was... thinking about it, I guess.” Charles shrugged. “We talked a few months ago about it. I know a person from this clinic, and I offered to get her in touch with him. I have no interest in it, personally.”
“But—”
“Lando, you have seen my breasts already. Either you’re calling yourself blind, or you already know deep down that it’s not mine.” Charles pursed her lips. “Is this your way of asking me to see them again? Just say that, if it’s what you want.”
“What? No!” Lando’s voice cracked at the end. “I—ugh, never mind.” Heat flushed to his cheeks, spreading fast and sure like wildfire.
Her brows rose even higher, but she didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to.
“It was an honest mistake,” he said. Forcing the words out felt like trying to swallow gravel. “Anyone would’ve made it. Fuck you.”
“Hmm,” Charles hummed.
“You know what, I’m just going to leave.”
“Right.” She tilted her head in the direction of the front door. “See you in February, Lando.”
Lando tossed the pamphlet into the bin on his way out.
He kept the incident locked away in the vault of Things That Never Happened. No part of him wanted to discuss what had happened with anyone else, and he knew nobody believe him anyway. He could already picture the reactions: skepticism from most, outright dismissal from others, maybe a particularly deranged laugh from Max. No thanks.
So he let it die there. Buried under layers of denial, sarcasm, and his generally selective memory.
They didn’t talk for the remainder of the break. No post-hookup awkwardness, no vaguely flirty remarks tossed around in group chats. Pure silence. It was fine by him.
Life moved on. He hooked up with someone else a few weeks later—an enthusiastic blonde he’d met while out with Max, who was finally back from gallivanting in Portugal. She was nice, in a no-strings-attached kind of way. Sweet, too. Kept telling him how great he was with his mouth in between breathy little sighs.
He did allow himself a puff of pride at that particular review.
Though if he was being honest, her tits weren’t as good.
As January passed and February rolled in, the buzz of the upcoming season began to settle in his bones. The anticipation was familiar this time of year. Restless, electric, impossible to ignore. Lando’s schedule was finally filling up again, meaning he had less time to aimlessly scroll TikTok or overthink past fuck-ups. Thank god.
He’d spent the last few weeks fine-tuning his workouts, sweating out the excess carbs he’d eaten over the holidays, and recalibrating his focus.
Their focus on the imminent season made days like today—ones where they had to set all that aside to do some dumb promo shit for sponsors—even more ridiculous in comparison.
“You’re not even looking,” George complained, pulling him abruptly from his game of Candy Crush.
Lando thumbs hovered momentarily over his phone. “I am looking,” he replied, sparing her half a second. She held up one chunky silver earring in a hand and a much smaller gold hoop in the other.
“Pick,” she demanded.
“Definitely gold,” he said automatically, flicking his attention back to Candy Crush. A streak of gleaming yellow candies had just lined up perfectly on the screen, and he only needed to drop a striped one into place to trigger the bomb.
George scoffed. “You didn’t even look!”
“I did! You’re the one not paying attention.”
“You’re full of it.” She plucked the phone out of his hands before he could protest. He whined, disoriented from his sudden separation from his precious screen. “What about this one?”
She’d swapped out the gold hoop for something dangling and intricately delicate—little stars cascading down towards her jawline.
“I mean… it’s fine? Is it for something specific?”
“It’s for me,” George said dryly. “To wear. You’ve heard of self-expression, right?”
“They look fine,” he repeated, slumping back into the couch. It earned him nothing but George’s withering glare. “I don’t know why you’re asking me. You look fine in everything.”
“Hm.” George quickly switched out the dangling stars for something smaller—a set of pearls so understated they almost disappeared against her skin. She turned back to the mirror, studying them with a tilted head and a slight purse to her lips.
The loop of trial and error was starting to catch Lando’s attention, enough that his focus on the doomed Candy Crush level began to waver.
“Why’re you fussing so much?” he asked, stroking his chin. He watched as she pulled the pearls free and swapped them for a thicker silver hoop.
“What?” George shot him a side eye. “I’m not fussing.”
“You’ve changed them like, six times in the last two minutes.”
“I’m just trying to figure out which one works best,” she replied, her voice edging into defensiveness.
Lando frowned, sitting up straighter. That tone—he recognized it immediately. “Georgie,” he said slowly, dragging her name out deliberately, “are you getting self-conscious?”
George paused mid-swap. “What? No! I care about how I present myself. Unlike some people.”
“You totally are.” Lando grinned. “Look at you, all fidgety and indecisive. Who’s this for, huh? Is it someone I know?”
“No one,” she said firmly, though the tips of her ears betrayed her by burning pink. “I just want to look decent. Is that a crime?”
“George,” Lando sung, sliding halfway off the couch until his chin rested on its arm, staring her down with exaggerated sincerity as she tried to avoid his gaze. “You’re perfect just the way you are, Georgie. You don’t need fancy earrings. Or bigger boobs.”
“Okay, Lando.”
“I’m just saying,” Lando continued, undeterred, though his voice dipped slightly into playful dramatics. “Everyone’s self-conscious about something, right? But whoever you’re trying to impress—it’ll be fine. All of you looks good. Well, most of the time, anyway.”
George’s face pinched in irritation, and she threw the loose earring onto the table with a quiet clatter. “Why the hell do you think I want—why are you even thinking about my chest? You weirdo.”
“I don’t go around thinking about your tits, don’t worry.” Lando snorted. “Charles told me.”
“What? You… ugh.” George scowled and crossed her arms tightly across her chest. “That wasn’t for me. It was for a friend. Did she tell you it was for me?”
“Your friend. Sure,” Lando said, raising both hands in mock surrender. “She just said you asked her about it.”
George squinted at him. It made Lando feel a bit like a bug under a microscope. “Yes, because she was the first person I thought of to ask. That’s all.”
“Right,” Lando said, snorting. “I reckon Max deserves the title of boob expert more than Charles, though.”
George’s head snapped in his direction, her brows furrowing into the kind of scowl that could melt steel if she aimed it long enough. “It’s not because of… it’s because she—you know,” George huffed, lifting her hands and mimicking a cupping motion that made Lando choke on his laugh. “She has experience with that specifically.”
“She doesn’t, though.”
“What?”
“I’m serious,” Lando insisted. “I thought the same thing, but I saw her tits and there was nothing.”
George rolled her eyes. “We both know that’s not true.”
“There were no scars around there,” Lando said with a small shrug.
“First of all, there are breast augmentation surgeries that don’t leave scars ‘around there,’ and—”
George stopped abruptly, her eyes going wide. Her hands dropped to her sides.
“Wait, did you just say you saw her tits?”
Oh.
Shit.