THE END | Oscar Piastri

61. dress

This chapter contains smut.
There will be a warning when it starts, then skip to the time skip (-★-) if you are uncomfortable reading.

Third person pov

Oscar isn't a fan of patience when he doesn't have to be.

That much is evident in the way he tugs savannah's dress over her head as soon as she closes the hotel room's door. "Looked so good in that." He mumbles, his lips closing in on hers. She gasps at the harshness of his kiss. A needy hunger-driven kiss.

She knows she looked good in the dress, that he loved how she looked in it. That's why she wore it.

He sucks all the oxygen from her brain, making her go dizzy. She fucking loves it. "You look even better without it, though." He's just as breathless as her when he whispers against her lips.

His hand is tangled in her hair, keeping her lips on his, and his other hand is gripping onto her ass. Both hands press her body flush against his. He wants her as close as possible.

Her hands fumble around until they find the hem of his shirt, traveling underneath the material. Her blinding white nails just skim over his chest, but it elicits a moan from him anyway.

"Fuck, I need you." Oscar pleads when he pulls away. He's still so out of breath, his chest heaving up and down as he tears his shirt off. Savannah giggles. "I can tell."

In his effort to keep her close, he didn't consider that meant she could feel everything.

He smirks at her, a look she loves on him. She doesn't get to enjoy it for long, because he throws her over his shoulder a second later. She lets out a shriek of surprise, and it morphs into more laughter.

Oscar tosses her onto the bed. She lands right in the middle, bounces again, and lands another few centimeters up the bed. Mid-air, she'd leaned back too far, and hit her head on the backboard when she landed.

He hears the loud thump her head makes on impact, and instantly feels bad. She rolls over in silent agony, holding the spot on her head that made the contact.

Oscar rushes to the side of the bed she's facing, crouching down so that he's eye level. Her eyes are twisted shut, and she's taking periodic breaths to keep her from crying.

He rubs a hand over hers. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. Sweetheart, look at me." She opens her eyes, revealing the sheen of tears that hid beneath her eyelids.

Her pupils looked fine to him. "Is your vision clear?" He asks her. Concern and panic are the only things in his voice. "What?" She asks back.

"Answer me, please." He literally begs her."Yeah, it's fine." She answers him despite her confusion. He turns on the lamp. "Does that hurt your head? Or your eyes?" She shakes her head.

"Follow my finger." She wants to laugh at how stupid his requests are, but she only listens to him. He places his hand on her arm, rubbing it comfortingly.

The throb of Savannah's head has significantly decreased. "What was that for?" She asks him, removing a hand from her head, and twirling a finger around a strand of his hair. "Checking for a concussion."

She can't help but laugh. He looks at her like she's insane. "Imagine telling that to the doctor. 'How'd you do it?' 'Oh well, we were trying to get down and dirty.'" He joins her laughs. "Down and dirty?"

"Don't laugh at me! It would've been your fault." She tries to push him in the chest, but he catches her wrist. "I know, I'm sorry." He places a delicate kiss on her knuckles. "Does it still hurt?" He asks softly, running a gentle thumb over the back of her hand.