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Summary
“If you’re kissing all your girls like that,” Oscar starts, his voice is slower, drawn out, “Then its no wonder they aren’t moaning.”
It’s almost goading, the way he says it—the words undercut with a challenge. Oscar knows him too well to assume he’s going to back down.
”Yeah?” Lando tilts his head, eyes narrowing, “Big talk, Piastri. You think you’re a better kisser than me?”
Oscar rolls his eyes at his tone, there really isn’t a reason for them to be doing this. ‘Just because’ isn’t a good enough reason to make out with your best friend, no matter how drunk or high you are, and Oscar knows that. But it sticks in his chest like nicotine tar, aches with every shuddering breath he sucks in.