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Fernando is already there by the time Lance arrives.
The boardroom is otherwise empty, curtains drawn to cover the floor-to-ceiling glass walls that make the entire room visible from anyone walking through the hallway. Lance closes the equally translucent door and draws the covers.
Fernando is comfortable at the head seat of the table, his back to the door, and he spins around in his own axis like he wants to surprise the person that's just arrived, which is funny, because they've both left this room a bit longer than half an hour ago, and Lance had been expecting to find exactly this.
He isn't using the same seat from before. Lance usually seats next to his dad, with Fernando lounging in his chair to Lance's right, mostly because his dad claims that Lance gets too distracted during meetings when Fernando sits opposite to him, like he used to do at the beginning; it painted a nice picture, with both drivers next to the Aston Martin CEO, guarding the man at the head of the table and of the company.
Fernando sitting next to Lance isn't enough to stop them from sharing knowing looks and touches under the table. If anything, it’s become way easier, but Lance is certainly not sharing that information with his father.
Then again, the change in seat isn't surprising, because of coure Fernando would choose the main seat. The Spaniard is the type of man that always craves more, never satisfied despite any privilege he might possess, after all.
"Hello,” he greets, voice carefully quiet to test the volume he should use when the room is empty. Nothing good will come if they catch someone’s attention.
"Hi there, boss,” the man replies, volume as usual as always. There’s a glint to his eye, a mischievous little spark that Lance knows all too well.
They both know what they’re here for.
"You fantasize about fucking your boss in an office?" Lance approaches the end of the table with deliberate sluggishness, the one he knows makes Fernando desperate. He isn’t referring to his actual boss, clearly, because that's his dad, thanks. It’s more of an abstract idea; a boss in general. An imaginary boss.
"Not fantasy,” Fernando says, a cocky smirk on his lips, “I'm fucking my boss' son."
Lance huffs, stopping his tracks right in front of Fernando’s chair. “I’m just fucking my dad’s employee.”
Fernando takes him by his hips, bringing Lance close without really standing up. He nuzzles against Lance’s clothed body, hands threatening to get under the white shirt he’s wearing.
“Not interested anymore? I waited long time.”
It’s true. Lance took longer than expected to arrive, even though there was no real discussion about meeting here to fuck. It was just kind of implied by how Lance kept chewing on his pen while looking at Fernando as one engineer lectured another over the estimated endurance the car would present next season. His signals were received, it seems.
He parts Fernando’s legs to make enough space for him to sit on the older man’s lap. “Dad called me over to talk.”
“Mn,” Fernando nods, securing Lance by the hips and providing sweet kisses on his neck. “Important stuff?”
“Not really,” he replies, giving more access to his neck while beginning to grind against the hardening cock under him, “The usual,” he finishes, finally kissing Fernando. His father gave Lance the weekly reminder and adjacent scolding about his relationship with his teammate and how they should maintain a low profile. “I stopped at the restroom too.”
Fernando smiles in-between, but doesn’t press on the subject. Instead, he takes Lance’s excitement into his own hands as he begins to roam under his shirt, touching everywhere —nipples, belly button, and ribs alike—, proceeding to unbutton and unzip the denim pants Lance really likes. Bad outfit election on his part, truly, but it’s not like their fucking session had been scheduled.
Suddenly they’re kissing everywhere, like they’re both unable to stay more than ten centimeters apart from the other before returning their lips to the other’s skin. Lance grabs Fernando by the hair that’s in need of a cut but which he actually adores, feeling the stubble against his cheek and depositing a wet kiss on the older’s ear.
He frantically removes his t-shirt so that the sweat doesn’t show on the white fabric —again, wrong outfit choice—, and Fernando uses the opportunity presented when Lance stands up briefly, to remove his own pants and underwear in one swift motion, revealing his hard cock pressed against his abs, then places Lance over his lap once again, like he can’t stand him staying away.
Their cocks meet unintentionally, and the contact is delicious. He moans and Fernando mirrors him soon after as his hand wraps around both, spitting on his own hand when the action becomes too dry, eliciting a new set of moans in the process.
Lance could come like this, but he needs more than that.
Taking Fernando’s hand away from their cocks, he guides it towards his ass and lower than that. Fernando takes the hint, only to stop in surprise.
“You had this all the time?”
Lance smiles with all of his teeth.
Like hell he did. You see, the restroom stop wasn't exactly a lie. He wouldn’t be able to sit had he been wearing the plug the entire meeting, but Fernando is obviously excited at the idea, so he rolls with it. “I like being ready at all times.”
Fernando most likely sees through his white lie but it's fine, it's all just part of the act.
The plug is green. Like, Aston Martin green. Lance thought it was weird and called out Fernando for choosing that color, before the Spaniard claimed it was to match their race suits, which, fair . Especially so, when half of the time at least one of them is wearing the team's t-shirts or jackets while they fuck; it also really comes at hand when the only thing Lance has to do in order to get disposed of come-stained fabric is make a quick trip to the warehouse for the unlimited t-shirts they keep there.
One time Fernando had to wear one of Lance's shirts in emergency because his own ended completely ruined with cum. Lance isn’t averse to repeating that, so yeah, green is fine.
Replacing the plug with his fingers, Lance is ready to be fucked when Fernando stops once again.
“Wait,” he says, surprisingly serious, “Turn around.”
Lance really likes when Fernando bites and kisses his nipples as he rides him. If he turns around, he won’t get that.
And so, Lance pouts. He doesn’t even have to talk to convey what he wants.
“ Baby ,” Fernando pleads, in what’s almost a pout too, and it’s not fair.. “Can you be a good boy for me?”
Now, that’s cheating.
Lance places some distance, albeit reluctantly. Fernando knows this means he’ll give in to his wishes, though.
Feeling petty, he stands up, turns around and gives his back to Fernando, then drops over the wooden table and holds his ass cheeks open with both hands to give Fernando a view that’ll at least make the man put more effort. There’s probably some hidden point to all of this, Lance suspects, but it won’t take long until he finds out what it is.
“Am I a good boy now?” He asks, looking from behind.
Lance both hears and feels Fernando take a deep breath, and doesn’t have to wait another second before Fernando is slipping inside without further preparation. The first thrust is hard and deep and perfectly how he likes it. The Spaniard doesn’t disappoint as he begins to move, only to bring Lance back to the chair again, making him seat entirely on his cock —it’s even deeper than before, feels like it’s deeper than ever—, and this time he has to stop himself from yelling as he throws his head back, using Fernando’s shoulder as support.
It’s too tempting to let himself loose and pliant as Fernando fucks him from behind, but something makes him raise his head and look to the front.
“You’re the boss now,” Fernando whispers next to his ear, biting it. “Should lead the meeting like this.”
And fuck , Lance gets it now.
He’s seated at the head of the table, in the meeting room, facing empty chairs where only the most important people at the company can sit, seated on his boyfriend’s cock. Fuck . He shouldn’t find the fantasy so attractive. He doesn’t even want to be boss, he just wants to race.
“You can command everyone,” Fernando says as Lance tries to meet his thrusts from behind, “I do everything you say. What do you want?”
What does he want? He doesn’t want anything. Well, he wants Fernando to touch him more —his cock, his chest, his face— just more .
Fernando reads his thoughts, or maybe Lance was talking aloud, because he complies, placing punishing fingers on the tip of Lance’s cock, right by the slit, tantalizingly close to making him come. They travel over his torso, leaving a path of precome all over until the fingers reach his ribs. There are bites on the back of his shoulders too, a tongue licking him clean of the sweat forming at his nape.
“Harder,” he demands, “Like— Yeah, that—”
“You like that?” The man says against the back of Lance’s neck. “Everyone should see you like this.”
Actually, now that Fernando mentions it— “I didn’t lock the door,” he lets out between groans, brain too far gone to recognize why it’s something important to say, but saying it anyway.
Not that Fernando minds at all. If anything, Lance swears he feels the cock inside him grow bigger. He groans at a particularly luscious hit to his prostate, taking the fingers exploring his face inside his mouth.
Lance is supposed to be the voice of reason in this relationship. Fernando doesn't mind, but Lance should. He really should.
He moans instead, Fernando’s thrusts unrelenting.
"I want you to fuck me on this table next time,” Fernando says with a moan out of fucking nowhere.
He clenches around Fernando without meaning to.
Lance might love getting fucked by Fernando, but fuck if he doesn’t love fucking him too.
"Oh, you like that idea?" He asks, excitement coating his words, "You excited to fuck an old man in your daddy's office?"
Good Lord, that statement sounds way filthier than it should be. He can always count on Fernando saying the dirtiest things at any given time —which also happen to be the hottest. Plus, it's not really his dad's office, but this is his favorite meeting room, so there's that.
"You know you can fuck me anytime you want. Anywhere, too,” Fernando continues, clearly enjoying himself too much. "Perhaps the terrace? Nice view."
“Yes—!” The picture reaches Lance’s mind: the terrace overviews the entire city, and it’s mostly empty. It could be plausible, if only they could convince everyone not to look at the top of the building, or at the sky. “Just like that—!”
"It can be in the paddock. I don't mind,” Lance interrupts him with a particularly loud moan, and Fernando seems keen on Lance paying attention to what he’s saying, “But before or after race, not in the middle." That makes Fernando laugh at his own words, making him continue short of breath, “Can you imagine? Stopping the race to fuck me.” He seems to find the thought hilarious, while Lance is struggling with every fibre of his being not to come.
"I could drive with your cum in me." Fernando says like it's nothing.
That really shouldn't be as exciting as Lance's dick thinks it is.
"Next—” he tries, “Next time," he manages to let out.
"I could win a podium with your cum in me."
And then Lance comes.
His orgasm hits him with unnerving strength, making every muscle unable to work any longer as he rests his entire weight onto Fernando, who holds him throughout it all, fucking him with renovated thrusts that begin to lose rhythm a few seconds later. “You’re so beautiful, baby—!”
It takes a while —like, a long while— for either of them to regain consciousness.
By the time Lance is able to open his eyes, he’s welcomed by the view of his cum all over the table, dripping over the floor. It’s all over his abdomen and falling over Fernando’s legs. That might be Fernando’s, on second thought, leaking from his ass.
Well.
He had expected to make a mess in the process, but not quite like this.
“I’m really fucking you on this table,” Lance says, once he regains his breath.
"Next time," Fernando promises, still struggling with his words, "You free next Wednesday?"
"I'm free tomorrow,” Lance answers with a giggle, body shaking with laughter against Fernando’s messy torso. When did the man even remove his shirt?
Fernando places a kiss on Lance’s head, his arm draping comfortably over Lance. They could stay like this. Lance really wants to stay like this.
“The door is really open?” Fernando asks conversationally, not an ounce of intention of standing up, even if Lance is sure his body must feel heavy over him.
“Yeah. I actually forgot.”
“Sure?” He asks, like he’s not convinced, “I know you like the idea.”
Lance looks at him over his eyelashes, and finds Fernando’s gaze, daring him to say something after the shit he’s just pulled up. “You’re one to talk. Who has just fantasized about getting fucked on the paddock?”
“Hey, I have no problem for me,” the other man shakes his shoulders, “And I guess there are cameras around, yes? So of course I like it too.”
He shakes his head at that with a smile, “Do you really think I’d let anyone see us? There are no cameras in any meeting room.” Secret topics being discussed at these places and whatnot, the typical. Lance isn’t letting anyone watch them like this. The idea that this is something which can only belong to them contrasts with the fact that this is very much a public place, yet Lance can’t stand thinking about anyone seeing this side of Fernando. That’s only reserved for Lance, and no one else.
"So no sex tape?" Fernando asks, acting like he’s disappointed.
They both erupt in laughter at that. God, Lance really loves this man.
He wishes they could stay like this, entangled in each other's arms forever.
"Think they'll make me pay for the table if it breaks? I hope I don’t get less pay if it breaks—" He's rambling at this point, but Lance continues to follow the entire monologue Fernando is reciting all throughout. “I think I’m heavier than you, so we have to care next time—”
At some point they realize they’ve spent longer than would be appropriate —as appropriate as staying at an office to fuck is—, and begin to clean themselves. Fernando always has a set of disposable towels around, and he uses them to clean Lance’s ass as thoroughly as he can in this setting, which is good. Lance is thankful for throwing his shirt away before it was too late, picking it up from the floor to put it on.
He’s busy getting dressed while Fernando is fighting a stain of cum that reached the leather chair’s seat, trying to get it off and failing miserably. Lance laughs at the display of a half-naked Fernando groaning and cursing at a chair with a bunch of papers thrown around. He somehow did a good job at cleaning the table with a combination of spit, antibacterial gel found at one of the cabinets, and perseverance. It would be a lie to say it looks shining clean, but at least it’s not covered in cum anymore.
He waits for Fernando to put on his pants, and helps him with the zipper. “Dinner at your place?” He asks, hand not parting away from the denim, eyes locked with the Spaniard. It’s not really a question.
Fernando smiles contentedly, “Of course, boss.”
Lance kisses him. Fernando drives him crazy. He knows it goes the other way around, too.