The latch clicked. A small sound, a bolt sliding home, and the suite went quiet around it — just the low hum of the climate control and the city breathing amber through the glass. Luigi stood two steps inside the door with his green cap still crushed in one hand, the other hanging at his side like he'd forgotten what it was for. The carpet was too soft under his sneakers. Everything in here was too soft.
"You gonna stand there all night?" Daisy kicked her boots off — one, then the other, thumping against the wall — and walked past him into the room like she'd booked it herself. Which, he was starting to understand, she probably had.
"I— no. I mean, I wasn't—" He turned to follow her and bumped his hip on the dresser. "Sorry."
"Did you just apologize to the furniture?"
"...Yeah."
She laughed, loud and unbothered, and it filled the whole suite. Sun-kissed shoulders, crown still perched slightly crooked above her forehead, honey-blonde hair wrecked flat in the back from the helmet. She looked like she'd won something. She looked like she was about to win something else.
Luigi set his cap down on the dresser — carefully, crown-up, the way he always did — and she watched him do it. That was the thing. She watched. The whole night she'd been watching him, at the afterparty, across the bar, through the crowd, and every time he'd caught her she hadn't looked away. He was the one who'd looked away. Every time.
"You know what I like about you?" she said.
"My... kart?"
"No." She stepped in close. Close enough that he could smell sunscreen and sweat and the faint chemical tang of the track still in her hair. "You don't pretend you're not scared of me."
"I'm not scared of you."
"Luigi."
"...I'm a little scared of you."
She put both palms flat on his chest and pushed.
His knees hit the edge of the mattress and he sat, hard, arms flailing back to catch himself, and by the time he'd found his balance she was already shrugging the racing suit off her shoulders. It slid down her arms in one motion — the whole top half of it, peeling away from her skin, and under it she was wearing nothing but the flush of the day and a plain black sports bra that she hooked a thumb under and dragged up and off like it was in her way.
His mouth went dry. His hands stayed planted on the bedspread because he genuinely did not trust them.
"Daisy—"
"Shh." She climbed onto the bed over him, one knee then the other, and settled her weight across his thighs. Her legs were strong — he felt that immediately, the honest muscle of them, thighs that had spent years gripping saddles and karts and whatever else a princess did in Sarasaland. She was warm. She was warm all over and she was sitting on him and the climate control hummed and the city glittered and he could hear his own pulse in his ears.
She took his wrists.
Not gently. She took them the way you take a tool you know how to use, pulled them up off the bedspread, and pressed his palms flat against her breasts.
Calluses and softness. That was the whole world for a second. His mechanic's hands — knuckles scuffed, palms rough from a decade of wrenches and grip tape — flat against skin that had never done a day of work in its life, and the contrast went through him like a current. He felt her heartbeat under his right palm. Fast. Faster than her face let on.
"There," she said. "That's better, isn't it."
He nodded. He couldn't have said a word if the track depended on it.
She rolled her hips.
Slow. Deliberate. A long grind down against the front of his racing suit, and the pressure found him immediately — he was already hard, had been hard since the elevator, since the hallway, since she'd looked back over her shoulder at him with the key card between two fingers — and she felt it, because her mouth curved and she did it again. Slower. Watching his face the whole time.
"Oh," she said. "There he is."
"Daisy—"
"You won the race." She leaned down over him, hair falling loose around both their faces, and her voice dropped into something low and certain. "Now let me win this."
His thumbs moved without being told to. Just a slow press, a circle, and her breath caught at the top of her throat — a small, sharp sound she didn't bother hiding. She liked that. He filed it away. His hands knew things his brain had never been briefed on.
"Yeah," she breathed. "Like that."
She reached between them. Her fingers found the zipper of his suit and pulled it down in one long rip, knuckles dragging over the fabric of his boxers, and then her hand was inside and around him — skin on skin, her palm hot and dry and sure — and Luigi's whole spine arched off the mattress.
" Oh —"
"Look at you." She stroked him once, root to tip, thumb dragging over the head, and he made a sound he'd deny later. "You've been like this all night, haven't you."
"Since—" He swallowed. "Since you sat on the hood of my kart."
She laughed, delighted. "That was four hours ago."
"I know."
"That's sad, Luigi."
"I know."
She let go of him, hooked her thumbs into her own waistband, and shucked the bottom half of the suit off in a scramble of fabric and one hopping knee. No underwear. Of course there wasn't. She was back over him before he'd finished registering it, and this time when she settled, it was bare — the wet heat of her pressed flat against the length of him, sliding, and he felt exactly how ready she was. Slick. Soaking. She'd been like that at the afterparty, he realized with a lurch. Probably since the podium.
"You're gonna want to hold on," she said.
"To what?"
"Whatever you want." She reached down between them, took him in her hand again, and lined him up. "I'm not gonna be gentle."
She sank down.
Slow — slower than he expected, because she wasn't stupid, because he was thicker than her hand had guessed and she took him an inch at a time, jaw tight, breath coming in through her teeth. The stretch of it. He felt every ring of muscle give way around him, one after another, wet and hot and gripping, and by the time she was fully seated her thighs were trembling against his hips and her crown had slid completely sideways.
She stayed there. Just breathed. Filled.
" Fuck," she said, quiet and sincere, like a verdict.
Then she started to move.
First stroke was long and slow, all the way up and all the way back down, and the gasp she let out at the bottom of it landed into the suite's silence like a dropped glass. His hands flew back to her breasts — she caught one wrist and pressed it there, hard, a command without words — and he kneaded them in time with her hips, thumbs rolling over her nipples, and every time he did she clenched around him. Every single time. He learned that fast.
"That's it," she said, picking up speed. "That's — that's it—"
The sound of it filled the room. Skin on skin, wet and rhythmic, her ass slapping down against his thighs, the bedframe starting to creak in a low complaining rhythm under them. The city didn't care. The amber grid outside just kept blinking away, indifferent, and he found that obscurely hilarious — all of Los Angeles down there, and up here, this.
She rode him like she raced. No hesitation, no half-measures, taking the corners hard. Her hands braced on his chest, nails biting in, and she was watching him the whole time — watching his face come apart, watching his mustache twitch, watching him try and fail to keep his eyes open.
"Say my name," she said.
"Daisy—"
"Again."
"Daisy."
" Again."
"Daisy—"
She bore down on him, changed her angle, and found something — her breath punched out of her and her whole body jolted, and after that she chased it, grinding down onto him in tight circles, forehead dropping to his. Sweat on her collarbone. Sweat on his palms. The climate control hummed its indifferent little hum and the glass was warm against the night and she was getting close, he could feel it in the way she tightened, in the way her rhythm started to fray at the edges.
"Luigi—" Her voice cracked off its usual register, high and thin. "Luigi, don't you dare stop touching me—"
"I'm not—" He wasn't. His hands were full of her, thumbs working her nipples, and she cried out and slammed down harder, and the crest came up under her like a wall.
She went over it with her eyes open.
He watched it happen — the exact second, the way her mouth fell open and nothing came out, the way her hips stuttered and locked and her cunt clamped down around him in long rolling waves that squeezed everything he had. Her thighs shook. Her nails dug in. She made a sound at the back of her throat that was almost a growl, and then she was grinding through it, riding it out, refusing to let it end.
When she finally sagged forward onto his chest, panting into his neck, he was still hard inside her. Still right at the edge. Barely holding it.
She felt that.
She lifted her head, hair stuck to her cheek, eyes bright and mean and happy, and she smiled at him — the same smile she'd given the crowd on the podium, except this one was only his.
"Don't," she said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't finish." She pushed herself back upright, planted her hands on his chest, and started to move again — slow this time, deep, deliberate, milking every inch of him. "Not yet. I want to feel you lose."
And Luigi, who had spent his whole life apologizing to furniture and finishing second, looked up at the crooked crown and the wrecked hair and the amber city reflected in her eyes, and understood that he had absolutely no say in what happened next.
The slow strokes were worse than the fast ones.
He learned that in the first thirty seconds of it. When she rode him hard, he could hide inside the noise — the slap of skin, the creak of the frame, the animal rhythm that took the thinking out of his hands. But this. This was her going all the way up until he nearly slipped out of her and then sinking back down with her weight behind it, unhurried, watching his face the entire descent. Every inch of it deliberate. Every inch of it his.
"You're shaking," she said.
"I know."
"Good."
His hands were still on her breasts because she'd left them there, and he didn't know if that was permission or a leash. He kneaded them anyway, slow as her hips, thumbs dragging across her nipples until they went tight under his calluses, and the way her breath hitched told him he was doing something right. She liked the rough. She'd told him that without telling him — the way she'd pressed his palms flat on her the first time, like she wanted the scratch of him.
"Harder," she said.
He did it harder.
Her head tipped back and the crown slid another quarter inch and the whole line of her throat went gold in the window light — city light, amber and endless, running all the way down her neck and over her collarbones and pooling in the hollow at the base of her throat where a pulse was going fast and honest. He'd seen her on a podium tonight with a trophy over her head. He'd seen her in a hundred photos, always the loudest person in the frame. He had never seen her like this. Nobody had. That thought did something to him that he didn't have a name for.
She came back down onto him and stayed there, grinding, and this time when she looked at him he caught it — the amber of the skyline caught in both her eyes, two little burning cities, and under them something that wasn't the race at all. Something quieter. He didn't have the nerve to name it and she'd have bitten his head off if he'd tried, so he just looked back at her, and she let him, and for a second neither of them moved except the slow grind of her hips and the hum of the air against the glass.
Then she blinked and it was gone and she was smirking again.
"What," she said.
"Nothing."
"You were looking at me weird."
"I was looking at you normal."
"Luigi."
"...I was looking at you like I couldn't believe this was happening."
She laughed — not the podium laugh, the real one, low and a little mean and entirely for him — and she rewarded him for the honesty by dropping down onto him hard, all at once, taking him to the root, and his whole body jerked under her like he'd been hit.
" Oh —"
"That's it," she said. "There's the face."
He was going to lose. He could feel it down in his gut, a low coil tightening with every slow grind she gave him, and she could feel it too because she kept doing it — kept milking him with that same deliberate roll of her hips, kept squeezing around him at the bottom of every stroke like her cunt was counting. His balls drew up tight against her and his thighs went rigid under her weight and he grabbed at her waist with both hands, not to move her, just to have something.
"Daisy—"
"No." She caught his wrists again and peeled his hands off her waist and put them back on her breasts, hard, fingers laced over his so he couldn't let go. "You keep those there. That's your job. That's the only job you've got."
"I'm gonna—"
"I know." She said it like she'd been waiting for it. She leaned down over him, braced on his chest, hair falling around both their faces, and picked up the pace — not the hard racing rhythm from before but something in between, deep and fast and relentless, and every stroke dragged a sound out of him he couldn't swallow. "I know exactly what you're gonna do. I've known since the elevator."
"You—"
"I'm not done with you." Her voice had gone breathy at the edges but the command in it was solid as a wall. "You can finish when I say. And I'm not done."
She wasn't. He could feel the second one building in her — the same tightening, the same fraying rhythm, her cunt gripping him in slow pulses that had nothing to do with his hips and everything to do with hers. She was chasing it again, using him for it, riding him like the last lap of a race she'd already decided to win, and Luigi lay there with his hands full of her and his cock buried in her and the city burning gold behind her head and understood, in a way he'd never understood anything before, that he would have let her take it from him all night. That he wanted her to.
Her nails bit into his chest. Her breath came short. Somewhere down on the street a siren was moving through the grid, thin and far away, and neither of them heard it.
She came the second time with her teeth in her own lip and her hips grinding down hard enough to bruise, and Luigi felt every pulse of it — the long, rolling clench that started somewhere deep and worked its way out to the edges of her, gripping him in a rhythm that had nothing to do with the pace of her hips. She rode it out on top of him, refusing to slow, refusing to give him a single stroke of mercy, and when she finally came down she came down panting, hair stuck to her cheeks, crown hanging off the side of her head like it had given up trying.
"Okay," she said, breathless. "Okay. Now."
"Now?"
"Now you finish." She lifted herself off him — slow, deliberate, and the wet sound of it pulled a groan out of his chest he couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to — and knelt back on her heels, looking down at his cock where it lay against his stomach, slick and shining and twitching with every beat of his heart. She watched it the way she watched a kart she was about to pass. "Inside me. I want it inside me."
She didn't climb back on top.
She rolled off him and turned over, pushed her ass back toward him, and reached behind with one hand to grab his wrist and drag him up onto his knees behind her. His brain had stopped taking notes. His body followed anyway. He knelt up, and she reached back between her own thighs, spread herself open with two fingers, and guided him in — no ceremony, no hesitation, just the blunt head of him pressed against her cunt and then inside, wet and hot and impossibly tight at this angle, and she pushed back onto him until her ass was flush against his hips.
"There," she said, muffled into the pillow. "Hard."
He fucked her.
Not slow. She hadn't asked for slow. His hands found her hips and his hips found a rhythm and the suite filled with the sound of it — the slap of his thighs against her ass, the wet suck of her cunt taking him, the low creak of the bedframe complaining under both their weight. She arched her back and pushed her face into the pillow and made a sound that wasn't quite a word, and he drove into her harder because she'd told him to and because he couldn't have stopped if he'd tried.
His balls drew up tight against her. The coil in his gut that had been tightening for the last twenty minutes finally reached the end of its rope.
"Daisy—"
"In me." Her voice came out wrecked and certain. "Don't you dare pull out. Give it to me."
He gave it to her.
It hit him like the finish line — the whole thing at once, no warning, his hips slamming flush against her and staying there, his cock emptying into her in long pulses he could feel from the base all the way out to the head. He made a sound he'd never made before, something between a groan and a whimper, and his hands clamped down on her hips hard enough to leave marks, and he just stayed buried in her while it poured out of him, pulse after pulse, until his thighs were shaking and his breath was coming in ragged pieces.
She stayed on her knees under him and took all of it. When he finally went still, she pushed back one more time — slow, deliberate, milking the last of it out of him — and then let herself collapse forward onto her stomach, pulling off him with a wet sound that made him wince.
He knelt there behind her for a second, empty and stupid and shaking, and watched his own cum start to leak out of her — a slow white trickle down the inside of her thigh, catching the amber light from the window.
"Don't just sit there," she said into the pillow. "Get the towel."
He got the towel. He was halfway to the bathroom before he remembered he was still wearing his racing suit open at the front, and he stopped and looked down at himself and laughed — a short, disbelieving sound that came out of him before he could catch it.
"What?" she said.
"Nothing. Just —" He came back with the towel and handed it to her. "I won the race tonight. That was supposed to be the thing."
She rolled onto her back, took the towel, and cleaned herself up with the same unbothered efficiency she did everything — no shyness, no looking away, just a princess on a hotel bed wiping his cum off her thigh like she'd done it a hundred times. Which, he realized, she probably had. Just not with him.
"It was," she said. "That's why you're here."
She tossed the towel on the floor and sat up. The crown was completely sideways now, hanging off the edge of her hair, and she didn't bother fixing it. She looked at him standing there in his open suit with his cock still half-hard and shiny, and something in her face shifted — the smirk softened into something with more teeth behind it.
"Come here," she said.
He came.
She patted the bed next to her, then changed her mind and pointed at the space directly in front of her instead. "No. Kneel. Straddle me."
"Straddle—"
"My chest." She lay back down flat, arms folded behind her head, and looked up at him with that same podium smile. "You heard me."
He climbed onto the bed and swung one leg over her, then the other, and settled his knees on either side of her ribs with his cock hanging down between them — still wet from her, still slick, still twitching with the aftershocks. It bobbed against her sternum and she watched it with open appreciation, the way she'd watched him win the race.
"There he is," she said. "My favorite racer."
She reached up and took him in one hand, and he hissed through his teeth — too soon, too sensitive, every nerve still raw from the finish line he'd just crossed. She didn't care. She stroked him slow, root to tip, spreading what was left of her own slickness along the length of him, and then she pushed her tits together with her free hand and laid his cock down into the channel between them.
He understood what she wanted without being told.
He fucked her tits.
Slow at first — the soft weight of them pressing in on either side of him, the heat of her skin, the friction of it slick and wrong and perfect. She held them together for him with both hands, thumbs pressing into her own flesh, and every time he thrust forward the head of his cock pushed up out of the top of the channel and she tilted her chin down to watch it appear, over and over, like she was keeping score.
"Look at you," she said. "You're gonna come on my face if you're not careful."
"I—"
"I didn't say stop."
He didn't stop. He fucked her tits harder, and she let him, and the wet sound of it filled the room along with his breathing, and then she did something that stopped his heart for a second — she lifted her head off the pillow, opened her mouth, and took the head of his cock between her lips on the next thrust.
He nearly came right there.
"Daisy—"
She pulled off him with a wet click and a grin. "What."
"I'm gonna—"
"You already did that once tonight." She licked the head of him, slow, deliberate, her tongue flat and warm against the underside. "Now I want to see how long you can last the second time."
And then she took him deep.
Not the shallow teasing thing he'd expected — she opened her throat and swallowed him down, past her lips, past her tongue, until his cock was buried in her mouth and she was looking up at him with those blue eyes watering at the corners and not a single ounce of give in her. He felt the back of her throat against the head of him and his whole body locked up, hands frozen in the air, terrified to move.
She reached up and grabbed his hips and pulled him in.
The message was clear. He moved.
He fucked her mouth.
Slow, at first, because he was still afraid of hurting her, and she made an impatient sound around him and dug her nails into his ass and pulled him deeper, and after that he stopped being afraid. He braced one hand on the headboard and one hand in her hair and he thrust into her throat in long, deliberate strokes, and she took every single one of them — jaw wide, eyes streaming, throat working around him, and every time he pulled back she sucked him harder on the way out, tongue dragging along the vein on the underside of him like she was trying to pull the second one out of him with her mouth alone.
"Fuck—" His voice cracked. "Daisy, I can't—"
She pulled off him just far enough to speak, one hand still wrapped around the base of him. "You can."
"I—"
"You can." She took him back in before he could argue, deeper this time, nose pressed into the hair at the base of him, and stayed there — throat working, swallowing around him, holding him down — and Luigi saw white at the edges of his vision and had to grip the headboard to keep from folding over onto her.
She let him go. He pulled back gasping, cock slick with her spit, and she licked her lips and looked up at him with her hair spread out on the pillow and her crown finally fallen off entirely, lying somewhere in the sheets.
"Good," she said. "Now do it again."
He did it again.
This time she didn't hold him back. She pulled him in by the hips and let him set the pace, and he set it hard — no more caution, no more checking, just the animal rhythm of it, his hips slapping against her face, her throat taking him over and over, spit running down her chin and onto her own tits and his balls. The sounds she made around him were wet and wrecked and not quite human, and they drove him faster, and the whole suite narrowed down to the hot wet grip of her mouth and the sight of her under him, gold and ruined and entirely his for the night.
He felt it build again. The same coil, tighter this time, faster, and he tried to pull back to warn her and she grabbed his ass and held him in.
"Daisy—"
She hummed around him. A yes.
He came down her throat.
Harder than he expected — the second one always hit different, and this one wrenched out of him with a sound he didn't recognize, his whole body curling forward over her, one hand fisted in the sheets and the other still tangled in her hair. She swallowed around him, over and over, throat working, and didn't let go until he'd stopped twitching and his knees had gone weak and he was sagging forward onto his hands, gasping, forehead nearly touching the pillow beside her head.
She finally let him slip out of her mouth. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand and looked up at him, and her eyes were red-rimmed and her mascara was a mess and her hair was a disaster and she was grinning like she'd just taken first place.
"There," she said, voice hoarse. "Now we're even."
Luigi rolled off her and collapsed onto his back beside her, staring up at the ceiling, chest heaving, suit still open, cap somewhere on the dresser and crown somewhere in the sheets and the amber city still burning away outside the glass like none of it had happened.
"Daisy," he said, when he could talk.
"Mm."
"I think I'm gonna need a minute."
She laughed — that real laugh, low and mean and entirely for him — and rolled onto her side to look at him, chin propped on her hand.
"Take two," she said. "I'm not done with you yet."