Page 102 of Hot Lap
This is what Graham and all the other people who underestimate his wife don’t understand.
Maiken doesn’t need the machine’s approval. She rewires the whole bloody thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Back at the hotel,I follow Reece into his room. I’m a woman on a mission.
The moment the door’s security latch slides home, I take my phone from my purse, open the music app, and pull up what I need.
A bass line rolls out like a purr. “Glory Box” by Portishead. Classic. Slippery. A little filthy.
Reece turns, eyes narrowing. “Oh?” His watch clatters onto the bedside table, followed by his cufflinks.
I hum, already walking to the windows, hips swaying. I throw a little saucy smirk his way because I want his eyes on me and only me. Reaching for the curtain pulls, I give them a little theatrical snap, and the fabric swishes closed.
Now it’s just the soft glow of that ethereal ceiling.
Perfect.
I turn and beckon him to the couch with a single finger. “Sit.”
He obeys, ’cause he’s a good boy and happy to surrender.
I step to the center of the room, framed by shadows and gold light. The music slinks and coils in the air. I strike a pose and lock his gaze to mine.
Just like that first night, I won’t give him a chance to look away.
And so the show begins.
I reach for the silver cuff first and slide it off with deliberate care. I run my tongue slowly across the inside curve, and he shifts on the couch, eyes fixed on my mouth.
I toss it to him. He catches it midair; god bless those F1 reflexes.
Next comes the silver belt.
I snake it out from the dress loop, slow and even, then snap it against my thigh like a whip. I turn my back to him and hook it under my ass. Two little tugs on each end and the belt lifts my butt cheeks. Sosaucy. I dip and sway my hips with the song, keeping the belt under my ass, because my good boy deserves a little bump and grind. Then I release one end of the belt, swing it around, and toss it away.
I glance over my shoulder, wink, and turn.
Reece’s jaw is tight.
As it should be.
The music swells as I roll my hips and run my hands up my sides to my breasts. I press them together and give him the “Ooo, yes, I know you wanna touch these” face. Gotta remind him why we’re here and that I know exactly what I’m doing.
Then comes the dress. I dive my hands down my stomach, slow, steady, deliberate. Reece’s gaze follows their lead. He’s fucking putty in my hands now. Time for the “Oh, god, I need to touch myself” face, eyes half-closed, lips parted — men love that one — and I grab my crotch Michael Jackson style. I look up at him from beneath my brows, arch one, and slide my hands away while Beth Gibbons croons.
Time to lose the dress. Unlike my stage gowns, this one has a side zipper, which isn’t ideal, but I make it work. I twist, draw it down inch by inch with a sultry grimace — becausehonestly—and let the fabric fall off one shoulder, then the other. I shimmy it down my body with exaggerated effort, pretending to struggle just long enough to make it a bit funny.
I glance up at Reece with a “Can you believe this shit?” look, and he laughs.
Then I turn.
The dress falls over my hips, slow as syrup, and slides to the floor with a whisper.
Reece groans. “Christ.”
Beth tells her man to keep being a man, while I glance at mine again, in nothing but my bra and panties — and heels, of course. Gotta have the heels.
